Chapter 9
The phone pressed to Aisling’s ear began to ring. ‘Leave Daddy be, Aoife, Connor. He’s not feeling well.’ She had one foot in the kitchen and one foot out as though she were doing the Hokey-Cokey.
Quinn hadn’t moved from where he was lying on the sofa while the twins had positioned themselves on their hands and knees on the living room floor a short distance away. They were eyeing their prone father curiously and gabbling about, ‘Da-da.’
What a bombsite, Aisling thought, eyeing the kitchen floor.
Pots and pans and Tupperware—lots and lots of brown, yellow and orange Tupperware—were scattered all over it.
Why there were more Tupperware containers than lids was a mystery akin to the Bermuda Triangle, the Loch Ness Monster and, glancing down at her mismatched sock-clad feet, the most mysterious question of all…
What happened to socks? Why did they always enter the washing machine as a pair and exit the clothes dryer as a sad singleton?
Aisling pondered. Her eyes remained riveted on the Tupperware, counting twenty containers and twelve lids.
How had that happened, and why did they have so many containers in the first place?
Aisling already knew the answer. Mammy. She was responsible for the glut of Tupperware.
Once upon a time, back in the late seventies to be precise, she’d sworn life was not livable without the stuff. Then years later she’d gone and moved to Howth without so much as a backward glance at her many shades of poo-coloured kitchenware.
Mammy had passed on her love of airtight containers to Aisling because nothing kept Tayto crisps as fresh once the bag had been opened as the big yellow Tupperware container.
Mind, it was rare indeed there were any Taytos left to store once the bag was open.
The secret lay in lifting the lid once you’d put it on and hearing that little hiss of air being released before you sealed in the freshness. Ssssss. It was very satisfying.
Still, they’d no need for so many of them stacked away in the cupboards.
Perhaps she’d take those missing their lids to the charity shop if they’d have them.
Then again, they did provide the twins with a few seconds of entertainment.
That was how long it took them to pull them all from the cupboard. Aisling had timed them.
The phone continued to ring out. Should she hang up? No. Mammy could be indisposed. She’d give it a while longer.
In the seventies, Thin Lizzy and The Boomtown Rats were big Irish bands, but Aisling recalled that for her mammy it was Mrs Tierney, the Tupperware consultant, who’d been given rock star status.
She’d treated the woman with such reverence that Daddy had once been heard to comment, ‘Your woman might be able to sell Tupperware, Maureen, but she can’t walk on water, nor can she turn water into wine.
Although it would be grand if she could because I’ve noticed she’s got a penchant for helping herself to the best sherry whenever she calls by.
She’s costing us a fortune appearing every other day like so with the latest catalogue or delivery.
How much Tupperware does any one woman need? ’
What a silly question. Aisling remembered thinking the answer was obvious even to her young mind. A woman could never have enough Tupperware. Sure, the stuff was the kitchen equivalent of handbags and shoes.
Where Mrs Tierney was concerned, however, Daddy did have a valid point. Their mammy was what Moira—had she been more than a twinkle in their daddy’s eye at the time—would have called ‘a fecky brown-noser’ when it came to the D2 Dublin district Tupperware lady.
Aisling was lost in thought as the rings continued, wondering what had happened to Mrs Tierney.
The last they’d heard, she’d moved to Cork to spread the good word about airtight storage containers.
Had she had that large mole tucked into the crease of her nose seen to?
Aisling hoped so. As children, it had been an unsettling time, with Mammy warning them, before they were trotted out to greet Mrs Tierney and then banished to their rooms, to look her in the eye and never stare at her nose.
Unfortunately, this had the adverse effect on Patrick, who worked himself into a nervous state of agitation whenever Mrs Tierney was expected to call.
So it was that one day she’d knocked on the door to drop off Mammy’s latest delivery of brown, orange and yellow goods, and it happened that Pat had been the one to answer.
He’d greeted the woman politely with, ‘And how’re you today, Mrs Mole?
’ Needless to say, he’d not been allowed to sit up and watch Dallas with Mammy and Daddy that evening, a privilege he’d earned as the eldest child.
Ring, ring, ring. Come on, Mammy. Aisling held on, not wanting to ring her on her mobile unless she absolutely had to.
It didn’t pay to discuss medical emergencies with Mammy while she was out and about.
Moira and her athlete’s foot being a prime example.
Sure, every time her sister showed her face in Howth these days, someone asked her how her toes were. Where are you, Mammy?
Aisling counted her blessings when it came to the pots strewn about the kitchen, however.
At least her son and daughter weren’t showing an interest in drums or cymbals like their cousin Kiera.
Kiera got that dazed look on her face like those hippies at Woodstock when she banged on the upturned pots and clashed the lids together.
Moira was convinced her daughter was gifted and planned on enrolling her in drum lessons as soon as she was of an age.
Mammy, for her part, was adamant Kiera got her musical talent from her, while Aisling and Roisin secretly agreed between them that their niece did indeed show signs of taking after her nana.
She’d definitely inherited her nana’s love of making noise.
Oh yes, Kiera with a K was a chip off the old block.
‘Hello?’
Aisling heaved a sigh of relief hearing her mammy’s voice down the line. She would know the best course of treatment for Quinn’s back. ‘Mammy! Oh, thank goodness, you are home. I was just about to phone you on your mobile.’
‘I only just got in the door, Aisling, and I had to spend a penny. I’m gasping for a cup of tea too. What is it you’re after?’
‘Tea will have to wait, Mammy. I’ve a medical emergency on my hands here.’