Homecoming (29 page)

‘Are you working full time with Nora?’

‘For the moment, but Birdie’s back in two weeks. I’ve been thinking I should move on,’ Megan added. ‘I’ve been here since New Year, long enough for everyone to have forgotten about me, so I was thinking of going back into the world. Not London.’ She shuddered. She couldn’t bear to think of her old flat where she’d hidden out when the story had broken. ‘Los Angeles, perhaps.’ Other actors said it was a hard place to make a home, but she couldn’t settle in Golden Square forever. ‘What about you?’

‘Oh, I still want to take a trip back to my home in Connemara,’ Eleanor said. ‘When the weather’s better.’

They were both waiting, she and Megan. Waiting for life to begin again. Megan’s would, but Eleanor wondered if it was all too late for her.

Eleanor got into bed that night and watched a little television on the small portable set. She had never been much of a fan of television. It tortured people with its vision of happiness. How many clients had come into her rooms worrying that their lives weren’t like that of the people on the small screen? Through her practice, she knew enough television writers to know that the happy lives that played out on TV sets around the world were indicative of what people fantasised about rather than any reality.

Eventually, she switched off the box and her bedside light, and lay in the darkness, hoping that sleep would come.

The nights were the worst. By day, she could feel as if she were still part of the human race, but at night, the loneliness came and overpowered her.

‘Night night, Ralf,’ she whispered.

15
Holy Days

Holy days and fast days were hard going, especially for anyone working the land. On holy days like Ash Wednesday, you had to be up early to walk to morning Mass and get the ashes on your forehead. The ashes were from the burned palms from Palm Sunday, and they’d be mixed with oil and the priest would anoint people’s foreheads with this mixture in the sign of the cross.

I can still smell that oil. Catechism oil, we used to call it. It was like the smell of the tabernacle at a funeral, when the canon waved incense over the coffin.

Agnes was once given a tiny vial of perfume that smelled of the Far East, with incense and amber in it. I couldn’t bear the smell of it: it reminded me of being a child in the church, and the thought of the cold, hard corpse in the coffin beside us. We were all used to death, you know, Eleanor. Not like people today. We all went to the funerals, and as a small child I’d kissed the marble-cold forehead of many a corpse. In a way it was good: death held no fear for us.

Ash Wednesday was the start of Lent and it was a day of fasting. You could eat no meat, only one decent
meal and two small collations – which were tiny meals.

My mother always cooked us cod on Ash Wednesday with a little butter and a few small boiled potatoes. There were no second helpings and no pudding. Just a small meal and a decade of the rosary afterwards.

We all ate fish on Fridays.

Pin-bone your fillet of cod – my mother used her fingers and so do I – and then poach it in a little milk with a pinch of pepper on top and a bit of dill, if you have it.

The local shop was not the place to go on the eve of a wedding in the village. Not when you were the older, unmarried sister of the bride-to-be. It was an act of recklessness on a par with arriving at the gates of hell with an ice cream. Everyone would want to discuss marriage, engagements and ‘When’s
your
big day going to be, love?’

So when Connie pushed open the door of Flanagan’s for Everything! she took a deep breath. She loved Flanagan’s with its bizarre combination of things for sale –
Buy bleach and get a packet of boiled sweets free!
Mr Flanagan had been running it for donkey’s years and, while the lure of the big supermarket had certainly dented his business, there was always steady custom for Flanagans. After all, where else could you buy the makings of an apple pie along with something to trap those pesky mice?

Connie’s grandmother, Enid, liked to reminisce about the good old days when Mr Flanagan Senior used to stand behind the counter and get things for the customer.

‘You had a list and you gave it to him, and while you had a sit down – there was always a comfortable seat at the counter – he got it all.’

‘Yes, but it took him hours,’ Connie’s mother, Barbara, would point out. ‘Someone else would come in and he’d talk to them about the price of a tin of custard powder, then he’d be off to answer the phone, and you’d be waiting.’

‘But you knew all that was happening in the parish by the time you left,’ protested Enid. ‘I liked that.’

‘You should get email, Nan,’ advised Connie. ‘You could stay in touch with the Courtown Bay mafia that way.’

Flanagans had moved on in the sense that customers could choose their own groceries, but they still had to run the gamut of Mr Flanagan Junior, who was every bit as interested in gossip as his father had been.

‘Connie, as I live and breathe!’ he declared, while the over-the-door bell was in the death throes of its welcoming jingle. ‘Weren’t we just talking about you!’

‘Hello, Mr Flanagan,’ said Connie, abandoning all hope of a drive-by shopping spree. At the counter was Mr Flanagan and the Courtown equivalent of Wikipedia, Mrs Hilary Leonard, who knew everyone and everything that went on in the locale.

‘Connie!’

Mrs Leonard was very short and when she threw her arms around Connie, she got a good hold of Connie’s middle, and squeezed tightly.

‘Your mother said you’d be in.’

Since the need for extra milk and some brown sugar for coffee had only just transpired, Connie wondered how her movements were already accounted for. But that was Courtown Bay for you: other people knew what you were going to do even before you knew it yourself.

‘I suppose they’re all at fever pitch down in the house?’ Mr Flanagan said, eager to talk.

‘Enid’s rheumatism is at her again,’ Mrs Leonard leapt in. ‘But she has some of those tablets left, doesn’t she, Connie?’

Again, Connie had to bow to Mrs Leonard’s superior knowledge. Either she had the O’Callaghan family phones bugged or she had psychic abilities.

‘Gran’s rheumatism is bad again,’ she agreed, ‘but she’s determined to be well enough for tomorrow.’

‘It’ll be a great day for your family,’ Mr Flanagan said. ‘I won’t make the church, now, because of the shop.’ He said ‘shop’ with the sort of reverence a US president might reserve for ‘the Oval Office’. ‘But I’ll be up for the meal. I wouldn’t miss seeing your sister married. She’s a lovely girl, Nicky.’

‘Oh, gorgeous, and she’ll make such a beautiful bride –’ began Mrs Leonard.

Connie could sense she was about to start describing the dress, which nobody apart from Connie, her mother and Nicky had seen so far. But she wouldn’t put it beyond Mrs Leonard’s powers to know what it looked like.

‘I’ll have to get a move on,’ Connie said cheerfully. ‘They’re expecting me back with the milk.’

‘You’re a good girl.’ Mrs Leonard patted her arm affectionately. ‘Always thinking of others. You were like that even when you were little. Well, younger. You were never little. But it must be handy being so big when you’re a teacher. None of the little monkeys would dare to cross you!’

Connie decided against explaining that whacking the students was no longer part of a teacher’s role.

‘I supposed it’ll be you next?’ Mr Flanagan said archly.

Mrs Leonard’s eyes were big as she waited for Connie’s response.

Connie winked. ‘That would be telling…’ she said.

She bought milk, sugar and a big bar of chocolate, said her goodbyes and headed for the door.

‘I hope it’ll be you next, Connie!’ roared Mr Flanagan. ‘Getting wed, I mean.’

‘Thanks.’ Connie managed a smile and let the door swing shut behind her.

Leaving home might allow a person to reinvent themselves. But five minutes back in her hometown, and it was as if she’d never left.

She was no longer Connie O’Callaghan, career woman with her own flat, nice holidays, a pension plan.

She was Big Connie, the tall one of the O’Callaghan girls, as opposed to Nicky, who was the dainty one. Careers cut no ice here, unless you ran a giant corporation and were on the business pages looking grave.

In fact, Connie thought grimly, reversing out of her parking space, even if she
were
running a corporation, someone would be bound to wonder was there any sign of her getting married yet.

It wouldn’t be enough to run a company, fly in a private Lear jet and holiday in fully staffed villas in Gstaad. No, a husband would have to be part of the package.

It was the same everywhere. The whole planet was obsessed with why single women were alone. Why? If a woman so happened to have got that far in life without a significant other, so what?

The fastest-growing demographic in the world was single women. Or so she’d read. Maybe it was like that so-called ‘fact’ about how women over thirty-five were more likely to be killed by terrorists than to get married, which had turned out to be totally made up. But still, if there were loads of single women out there, why couldn’t they start a union? The Stop Bugging Us About Why We’re Not With A Nice Man Union. Or the Don’t Ask Us About Our Sex Lives, And We Won’t Ask About Yours Union.

Even Eleanor, who had been the epitome of the career woman in many respects, seemed to want Connie to find a man. She’d even flagged up the single father next door. For sure, he looked nice enough, though he hadn’t shown her much interest. And she’d been quite short with him that time he’d parked in her space, so he probably had her marked down as a bit of a mad old bag.

She sighed. Once you’d passed your man-magnet sell-by date, it was better to accept it. If only everyone else would.

‘You got chocolate. Great,’ said Nicky when she got home.

‘Next time there’s a grocery crisis,
you
have to go to Flanagan’s,’ Connie muttered and ripped a couple of squares out of their packaging.

‘You got the third degree?’

‘Judge Judy couldn’t have done it better.’

The following morning, Nicky’s wedding day, Connie woke up with the sense that it was going to be a fabulous day. The sky was cloudless, the clock radio in her old bedroom in her parents’ house had woken her by playing one of her absolute favourite songs ever – ‘Walking On Sunshine’. And yesterday’s utter conviction that she was going to wake up with an outbreak of hormonal spots had turned out to be totally wrong.

‘Blemish free,’ she said delightedly to her reflection once she’d rubbed the toothpaste off. To be on the safe side, she’d used this old wives’ remedy to dry up any possible outbreaks. The only problem was the scrubbing required to get dry toothpaste off her face.

‘You smell very minty,’ said Nicky, when they met up in the kitchen, both in pyjamas and looking for coffee.

‘My teeth and my face are going to be dentist-white today,’ Connie said, giving Nicky a hug. ‘This is your day, darling girl. It’s going to be wonderful.’

‘I hope so,’ Nicky said. ‘I feel a bit Bridezilla-ish today.’

‘Is that like Godzilla? Are you going to stamp out a city?’ Nothing could dampen Connie’s mood.

‘No, just worried and possibly obsessed. All this work has been leading up to one day: today. What if it all goes wrong?’

‘Do you trust Freddie to be there waiting for you?’ asked Connie, who had utmost faith in this fact herself.

‘Of course.’ Nicky smiled.

‘That’s all that matters,’ Connie pointed out. ‘You have a dress, he has the ring, you’ve got the money for the party. Anything else going wrong is mere caprice.’

Nicky was a beautiful bride. And Freddie’s face never lost its smile all day as he stared at his new wife with an expression of delight and disbelief.

‘They’re like a couple of kids, aren’t they?’ Connie’s dad, Arthur, said to her fondly as the newly married couple arrived at the reception to a round of applause.

Connie nodded. ‘Yes, Dad,’ she said, and had to search her small handbag for another tissue. She’d cried all her mascara off already.

The day raced on in an atmosphere of happiness, and soon the hotel staff were clearing away tables to make room for dancing, and a buffet table was set up with sandwiches and cake stands filled with tiny cupcakes, which had been Nicky’s idea.

Connie hadn’t thought anyone would have any room for more food after the meal, but her mother said they’d have to try some of the cupcakes, ‘just to see’.

‘I’ll get some,’ Connie suggested. Barbara O’Callaghan looked tired now. The length of the day showed on her face, so like Nicky’s. ‘You sit here and I’ll come back with a plateful, so we can choose.’

The DJ was setting up his equipment, and the room was still in the mid-way state between formal dinner and party. Connie idled beside the pastel-coloured little cakes. They were like mouse’s cakes, she decided, so pretty and dainty.

The plate full, she turned back and could see her mother had been joined by the gossip-loving Mrs Leonard. She was always marvellous entertainment, and would, doubtless already have gathered a vast amount of information about the day: who was ignoring who and who’d nearly worn the same dress as someone else but had a change of mind at the last minute, thankfully.

Connie was three steps behind her mother when Mrs Leonard’s voice reached her.

‘She’s a great girl, your Connie. Is there still no sign of her getting married?’

Connie stood frozen. The two women were facing the other way, heads together. They didn’t see her.

‘I’ve sort of given up hope,’ Barbara said apologetically. ‘After a certain point in your life, you’re too set in your ways to get married. Lord knows, I’d have never stuck with Arthur if the two of us didn’t practically grow up together.’