‘An extension,’ Maria said, registering Maureen’s expression as she looked around. ‘Best thing we ever did.’
‘It’s a lovely room, looking out on your garden like so. Do you grow your own vegetables?’ Maureen gestured to the raised beds where she could see all sorts of leafy greens on the go.
‘Yes, we do. I’m a big believer in you are what you eat.’
That would make her a digestive biscuit then, Maureen thought, impressed by Maria’s prowess in the garden. She’d struggled to keep the potted begonia Rosemary Farrell had bought her for her birthday alive. It had been touch and go on several occasions when the plant had looked like it was on its last legs but she’d had a word with Him upstairs and like a miracle it had always rallied. She’d never hear the end of it if it died. It was the first thing Rosemary looked for whenever she called in.
The open plan area they were standing in had a modest but functional kitchen in the corner and the rest of the floorspace was given over to an overstuffed blue sofa with a throw rug tossed over its arm. Bean bags were strewn on the floor along with scatter cushions and a veritable symphony of musical instruments including a piano. An enormous book case dominated one side of the wall space. It was overflowing with dusty old tomes. There was no television Maureen realised soaking it all up. She couldn’t imagine not having a tele. ‘Do you play all of these?’ She made a sweeping arc at the instruments with her hand.
Maria laughed. ‘No, I sing and play piano. My husband plays the guitar and our oldest is learning the flute; our middle child’s keen on the violin and Jessie the baby she likes the tambourine and castanets.’
‘What a clever lot you are.’ Maureen was delighted by the thought of this musical family getting up from the table each night after dinner to bond over their instruments. How lovely. Her lot had fought over what programme they were going to watch on the idiot box and whose turn it was to help with the washing-up. She sighed. She’d have loved it if they could have all harmonised together, a family brought together by their music. Ha, no show! There was Aisling not even able to get a place in the children’s choir at St Theresa’s. She’d even resorted to bribery in the form of one of her famous porter cakes but the choirmaster would not be bought. As for music, her head ached at the memory of the awful stuff that had come blaring out of their bedrooms. The number of times she’d had to remind them they lived on the top floor of a guesthouse and the people paying good money to be in the rooms below did not want to be subjected to Def Tiger and Twisted Brother or the like.
Patrick had been the biggest offender, him and that ghetto blaster of his. She shuddered, recalling how he’d grown his hair long and had it permed. That wasn’t the worst of it though. Oh no, the leather pants he’d squeezed himself into were an abomination. She’d told him until she was blue in the face his bits and bobs wouldn’t be able to breathe through all that leather. Sure, she’d said, he’d ruin his chances at fathering a family. And look, here he was now, a man closer to forty than thirty with no children. A mammy knew best. She shook the image of Patrick in his teens away, envisaging a happier scene whereby the O’Maras were gathered in the family’s living room having a jam session or whatever you called it. She blinked, realising she’d just pictured the Partridge Family.
‘Are you alright there, Maureen. You look a little pale. Would you like a glass of water before we begin?’
‘No, thank you.’ Maureen gathered herself. She was paying by the hour. It was time to get this show on the road.
Maria gestured towards the piano and sat down on the stool before lifting the lid. She pushed her hair back over her shoulders and then flexed her fingers. Maureen wasn’t sure where to put herself. She didn’t want to lean over the piano like some sort of saloon girl but she felt a little eejitty standing there with nothing to do with her hands. ‘Maria, would your little one mind if I borrowed her tambourine for the lesson?’
Maria looked surprised. ‘We’re going to be doing scales, Maureen, and I’ll be showing you some breathing exercises which will help free your voice. I’m not sure you’re going to need a tambourine.’
‘It’s just that I’d feel more comfortable with something in my hands.’
‘Oh, I see. You don’t need to be nervous with me but if it helps, I’m sure Jessie won’t mind. Help yourself.’
Maureen retrieved the plastic tambourine and her shoulders relaxed as she stood alongside the piano. She gave it a rattle for good measure. ‘Sorry,’ she said to Maria whose fingers had been about to strike the keys. ‘Do you happen to know any Fleetwood Mac? Your Stevie one was very good on the tambourine. You’ve the look of her, you know.’
‘No, I can’t say I’ve had much call to play Fleetwood Mac, Maureen. My pupils tend to want to sing Barbara Streisand, Bette Midler, Celine Dion that sort of thing.’
‘Not me. Not my cup of tea at all. I’m like that song, you know the one. I’m a little bit country and a little bit rock ‘n’ roll.’ She shook the tambourine for effect.
‘Yes, you told me on the telephone when you booked that you’re going to be singing in a country band.’
‘I am. Do you happen
