She’d set such high store on the evening but the night was promising to be a flop and she was regretting all the effort she’d gone to having her hair and nails done. Rosemary Farrell had agreed to be her plus one for the evening, even though she didn’t belong to the club, and Maureen was grateful to her for agreeing to accompany her. She’d learned since Brian had passed a lot of married women didn’t take kindly to a widow joining them at their table. She imagined it would be the same for the newly divorced. Rosemary however had managed to wear her gratitude at keeping her company thin by the time they’d finished their, pre-dinner drinks with her complaining about her clicking hip.
Maureen had sat down at their allocated table for the meal and two men she’d met a handful of times while taking her sailing lessons had swooped down to sit either side of her. Rosemary and her clicking hip never stood a chance. Instead, her rambling club friend sat down across the table next to a woman who worked for the council. Rosemary, Maureen had seen glancing over, was in her apple cart at having an ear to bend about the state of some of the public walking ways. She’d gotten particularly strident as she informed the council woman how she was sure the shoddy paths had played a part in giving her a dicky hip in the first place. Maureen felt sorry for the woman, knowing she was in for a blow by blow account of Rosemary’s hip replacement surgery over their entrees.
So it was, Maureen found herself sandwiched between Grady Macaleese, an aging playboy who had a penthouse overlooking the harbour here in Howth. He’d droned on and on about his boating prowess in a manner which had made her wonder whether he was talking about boating at all. He’d kept mentioning things like his big rudder and his ramrod boom. On her right was Rory Power, a wet-lipped, ruddy-cheeked man with an appalling combover who’d not been able to avert his eyes from her bosom all evening. It was a miracle how his fork had managed to find his mouth during the main course.
Yes, she’d been wondering why she’d bothered coming and she’d been so looking forward to the evening too. She liked mingling with the boatie types, just not these two boatie eejits. As the plates were cleared away and Grady began to tell her about how he liked to manhandle his keel, she looked toward the stage and her mood brightened. The band was about to start. At least she wouldn’t be able to hear him over the music. She interrupted him, past caring if he thought her rude. ‘What sort of music are we in for?’
Grady looked flummoxed at having to answer a question not directly related to himself. Rory, eyes still firmly attached to Maureen’s right breast, informed her it was to be a Kenny Rogers tribute band. ‘The club’s director of entertainment is a country and western fan, that’s him prancing around in the cowboy boots, over there.’ He pointed toward the stage.
Oh yes, Maureen thought, spying the gentleman in question, all he was missing was a piece of straw to chew on. She liked the sound of some Kenny Rogers though. The Gambler usually got everyone on their feet.
It had too, she thought now, getting to her feet as she heard the kettle begin bubbling away. She’d managed to escape the clutches of Grady and Rory by taking herself off to the bathroom and when she’d reappeared, she’d attached herself to a large group who’d taken to the dance floor. She’d felt a little like a teenager as she caught the eye of the singer who did indeed have a look of your man Kenny with his thick thatch of salt and pepper hair and matching beard. It was his twinkling eyes that won her over though and when he asked if he could fetch her a drink while the band took their break, she was very happy to accept. Rosemary’s nose had been out of joint when she’d spotted Maureen in conversation with the lead singer whose name, she’d since found out, was Donal. She’d limped over to say she was calling it a night because there was no show of her being able to manage the dancing, not with her hip clicking.
Maureen poured the boiled water into her cup and waited for the tea to brew. She wondered what her children would make of Donal’s retirement hobby. Sure, she decided, they’d be won over like she’d been if they got the chance to hear him sing Lucille. Satisfied her tea was just the right shade of tannin, she flicked the bag onto the little saucer she kept beside the kettle and then carried her drink over to the table. Pooh began to whine as she burst into the Dolly part of Islands in the Stream. It was something she’d been doing ever since she’d met Donal.
Chapter 17
‘Moira O’Mara, I can see your knickers!’ Maureen said. She was perched on the edge of the sofa in the living room of the family apartment in between Bronagh and Ita. They were all awaiting the appearance of the bride-to-be. She’d opted for a slimline tonic, mixed with the gin her eyes had migrated to when she’d arrived, and it was going down a treat. Bronagh, who’d poured herself into a deep pink dress, which she told Maureen she’d had
