Chapter 47
47
“Who’s still missing?” Outside the Broderick, Claire corralled those of us going to the parade.
“Helen, Rachel and Luke,” Francesca said. “They’ve all gone back to bed.”
Claire cast her eye over me, Mum, Margaret, Francesca, Regan and Joey. “Okay. Let’s go. We want a good spot.”
“If you have to make fun,” I begged, “please do it quietly.”
“What, us ?” Their indignation was shrill. “We’d never do that! We’re nice people.”
Well, they weren’t bad people but they couldn’t seem to help themselves.
The crowds were already out in force but Claire commanded a path, leading us to the bandstand by the memorial, from where the parade would set off. Metal barriers separated us, the great unwashed, from the paraders. On the far side of the divide, about thirty children, dressed as snakes, moved in an unruly throng.
Claire squealed, as if she’d just spotted Harry Styles. “It’s St Patrick!”
So it was. Or at least, a local in a long beard, wig and green floor-length caftan, an embroidered miter perched on his head. In one hand was a heavy wooden staff, in the other a reusable coffee mug. Doing plenty of pointing, Ferne and Rionna were issuing him with detailed instructions.
“He’ll have to smite those snakes.” Francesca nodded at the pack of cacophonous kids. “Not gonna lie, I’m excited for it.”
“St Patrick didn’t smite the snakes,” Margaret corrected. “He banished them.”
“What’s the difference?”
“None,” Claire threw in. “Because none of it happened. Opium of the people, PEOPLE!”
“?‘To smite.’?” Margaret had her phone out. “?‘Strike with a firm blow.’ ‘To banish: Get rid of.’?”
“Yeah, but you could banish them by smiting,” Joey said.
“I’ll smite the lot of ye if ye don’t shut up,” Mum said.
“And a happy St Patrick’s Day to you too,” Joey said.
Mum twisted her neck at an unnatural angle to stare at him. She was so startled she began to laugh.
“I think I fancy St Patrick.” Claire’s voice was low.
“You fancy everyone,” Mum said.
“The way he’s holding that thick, hard stick of his…”
“Waaaidaminute!” Francesca asked. “Why’s St Patrick staring at Anna?”
What on earth?…St Patrick was looking in my direction, but only those with a filthy mind could say that the way his hand was wrapped around his rigid staff was suggestive.
Who was he? I tried to see past the long wig and beard…oh my God, it was Ike!
“You know him?” Claire demanded.
“Is it the goon?” Joey asked.
“Uh-uh.” My face was annoyingly hot. “Yes.”
“He spent the whole week trying to put the moves on Anna,” Joey informed everyone.
“Oh Christ,” Claire raged. “I wish I was single.”
“So does your husband,” Mum said. Both she and Claire dissolved into convulsions.
“Something’s happening!”
With surprising speed, the little snakes had organized themselves into four rows of seven. Behind them, a band of drummers began to clatter. St Patrick strode to the very front, handed his coffee cup to Rionna as if he were Mariah Carey, gave me a smile-free stare and the parade began.
It was short but charming. A troupe of Irish dancers skipped along followed by the M’town Hurlers, looking frozen in their shorts. At least it wasn’t raining. After them, a flatbed truck, peopled with clowns and blasting BTS, trundled past slowly.
Next came a thirty-strong group of Ukrainians in what must be their national dress—Claire studied their embroidered smocks with keen interest. “They’ve them on Matches for eight hundred euro. Or very similar anyway.”
“Have a word with Lyudmila,” I said.
A second flatbed truck appeared, hosting a quartet of traditional musicians, followed by a van of old people singing “Lily the Pink.” The Living Well with Dementia group, I guessed. Mrs Skerett could very well be on board.
A cavalcade of tractors, if five could be considered a cavalcade, rolled by. Two of the drivers waved to me. “Anna?” Joey was at my shoulder. “What have you been up to?”
“Seriously. I haven’t a clue who either of them are.”
A few more vans and trucks, advertising Gannon’s Pharmacy, Mike’s Bikes and Kavanagh’s Farm Supplies drove past. I might suggest that Brigit do one next year. Bringing the event to a close was a scattering of young kids, aged six according to Joey. Dressed in karate outfits, they threw enthusiastic kicks and punches. Very cute.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“Looks like it,” Joey said.
It had been nice but cold. “Let’s go somewhere warm,” I said. “For rainbow doughnuts. Or soup—”
“Whose phone is ringing?” Joey asked. “Anna. It’s you.”
I took a look. “Oh, that’d just be Ben Mendoza, Oscar-winning director, calling me.” Then, stepping away, “Hey, Ben.”
“Hey! So. Last-minute hang at mine tonight. Just drinks. Very relaxed. Any time from seven. Bring your mom and sisters, the whole gang.”
We were meant to be going to the ceili but I was making an executive decision here. “Are you sure? There’s a lot of us.”
“Everyone’s welcome,” Ben said. “It’ll be fun.”
“Everyone’s welcome?” I repeated.
“Everyone.”
Oh-kay. He’d said the word “Everyone.” Immediately I rang the hotel. Courtney answered.
“I don’t know how you’re going to swing it”—I was urgent—“maybe fake a burst appendix, but you need to take tonight off.”
“I need to take tonight off anyway. I’ve worked sixty-three hours this week, I’m blind with exhaustion.”
“You’re coming to a relaxed hang at Ben Mendoza’s.”
“Anna! I can see again! It’s a miracle. Wait, though. I’d better run out and buy a new bra. Bye.”
My phone beeped: a text from Ike. You going to Ben’s tonight?
Quickly, I typed, Indeed I am.
And then come back to mine?
I considered how to reply. The answer was obviously yes, but should I be coy? Ah, what the hell! I hit twelve smiley faces in quick succession, then slid my phone back into my pocket.
“Your attention, please, for a moment?” I got our group in a cluster and told them about the invitation. The response was—mostly—jubilant. Muttering stuff about, “Some old guy…” Francesca was out.
“?‘Everyone Loves Anna.’?” Joey’s smile went right to his eyes. “They’ll be talking about it for decades, the Year Sweet-face Walsh Came to Town. Like something from a Márquez novel.” He caught my look. “Yeah, Joey Armstrong reads Márquez novels.” Then he corrected himself, “Well, Márquez nov el . Just the one. Love in the Time of Cholera . ‘Fifty-one years, nine months and four days.’ That poor man.”
—
For the first time in a week, my lunch didn’t consist of stuff stolen from the buffet. We found a pub where the man in charge let us all squash in. He brought us soup and soda bread.
Claire took a cautious nibble from the bread—she almost never ate carbs—then raved about it to the man.
“Lidl’s finest,” he said. “Or was it Aldi? One of them anyway.”
Helen, who had joined us by then, said to Claire, “You thought he got up at four a.m. to bake it himself with his humble, culchie paws.”
And all credit to Claire, she said, “I did, ya.”
“So what’s the plan for the afternoon?” Margaret asked.
“At leisure, according to Claire’s itinerary.” I planned to return to bed. I needed to be in tip-top condition for my shenanigans with Ike. This would be, at best, a two-night thing; there was no room for “Just not feeling it right now, sorry, babes.”
“In that case…” Margaret lobbied hard for a walk on the beach. “The Atlantic waves,” she said. “The ozone! The clean white sand.”
She was met with a great deal of resistance: we were not an outdoorsy family.
“I need a run,” Joey said. “Then Rachel, Luke and I are going out to see Colm.”
“ Darby O’Gill and the Little People is starting at the parish hall in half an hour,” Claire announced. “Fiver in. For charity. It’ll be a laugh!”
“?‘It’ll be a laugh’ will be the inscription on your headstone,” Helen said. “First, Regan and I are going out for a quick gawk at her ladyship’s manor. I looked it up—it was built in 1860!”
“Can I come?” Mum asked.
“Only if you ask me properly.”
“Can I come too? Because…I have ‘the horn’ for other people’s houses.”
“Good woman. You’re in.”