Aisling glanced down at her filmy blouse; it was chiffon, the sort of thing she wouldn’t normally be seen dead in. It reeked of Arpège, Mammy’s signature fragrance. She’d thrust it at her earlier that morning when she’d arrived at O’Mara’s with Roisin and Noah meekly following behind announcing she’d come early to ensure her wardrobe instructions were obeyed. ‘It’s alright for you three, red suits you with your colouring but it makes me look like I’ve picked up some sort of chronic disease.’ She’d not been happy, telling Moira to shut up when she smirked at the state of her in the blouse. Mammy had told her she’d better be careful or the wind would change and she’d be stuck with a face on her like a gin-soaked prune forever. Roisin had got off lightly, borrowing a turtle neck from Moira that looked very well on her and Moira looked the part in her preppy red jacket.
‘We’re the fecking Addams family,’ Moira added her pennies’ worth. ‘And there’s Morticia,’ she pointed at Mammy, who had—thank the Lord—opted for chinos with her red shirt.
‘The Bundys, and Mammy’s Peg Bundy.’ Aisling giggled getting into it now, and Moira and Roisin joined in.
‘No, I’ve got it.’ Roisin jiggled on the spot. ‘The Waltons.’ This time there was proper giggling as Aisling and Roisin chimed, ‘John Boy’ as they pointed at their brother. Roisin began humming the theme tune.
Mammy looked back over her shoulder. ‘What are you three on about.’
‘Nothing, Mammy.’ Moira smiled sweetly. ‘Just saying what a grand idea of yours this was.’
Maureen narrowed her eyes, unsure if she was picking up on sarcasm in her youngest daughter’s tone or not.
‘I suppose we should be grateful she didn’t try and bring Pooh along in a little red doggy coat for the occasion,’ Roisin said, once Mammy had returned to her chat with Patrick. She’d had to have words with Noah who’d been desperate to introduce Father Christmas to Mr Nibbles. She’d only managed to dissuade him by saying that if Mr Nibbles got frightened and had an accident, Father Christmas might not be too happy about it and it could possibly have a roll-on effect as to what appeared in Noah’s Christmas stocking.
‘Oi, you.’ Moira nudged Roisin as she recalled her sister’s flushed face and coy expression upon answering her phone last night. ‘Who was that you were speaking to last night. I know it wasn’t Colin because you always get this screwed up expression on your face like you’ve got the piles when you talk to him, and I know it wasn’t a friend because your voice went all sort of low and Macy Gray like. My money’s on Mr Hot Fiddle.’
Roisin hesitated, she didn’t want to share her phone call with her sisters. She wanted to keep her exchange with Shay tucked away to bring out in private to mull over. Not that privacy was a big feature on her trips home! Every time she recalled the melodic timbre of his voice, heat shunted through her core and the feeling that evoked was not one she wanted her family privy to for obvious reasons. It had taken her by surprise, him calling so soon after she’d arrived back in Dublin, his obvious interest only adding to the thrill of listening to him ask how life in London was treating her. She’d seen her sisters’ curious glances as she told him she’d found work, and a new flat for her and Noah. She’d glared over at them before turning her back on her all-seeing, all-hearing family.
They hadn’t talked for long, he was due to go on stage in a few minutes having left the rest of the band warming up and it was the first chance he’d had all day to give her a call. The way he’d said ‘stage’ conjured an image of his rangy body clothed in a blue plaid shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up, the buttons undone to reveal a smooth muscular chest, and his faded Levi’s battered and worn with a brown leather belt. The cowboy hat was dipped low over one eye and his thumbs were hooked through his belt loops. She realised she’d seen a book cover not dissimilar to the scenario she was envisaging at Mammy’s and quickly banished it. He played Irish folk music and rock not country and western and he was not the type of man to walk around Dublin with a cowboy hat on.
Standing there in the kitchen she’d suddenly wanted to see him performing more than anything. To sit down the back of the crowded pub he was gigging at and just watch him. A door had banged then and she’d heard music and shouts of laughter in the background. He’d said he had to go but before he hung up he asked her if she’d like to catch up for a drink or dinner before Christmas, whatever she could squeeze in because he knew it was short notice and she’d be busy given the time of the year. She could manage dinner tomorrow evening she said, hoping she hadn’t sounded too eager.
She was already imagining the feel of his knee as she accidentally on purpose grazed hers against his under the table. They’d said their goodbyes with him arranging to pick her up from O’Mara’s at seven. She was certain Mammy or one of her siblings would have Noah although she didn’t relish telling them where she was going. She’d held the phone to her ear for a few more seconds after the call had disconnected, putting the parts of herself that had disassembled at the sound of his voice back together before joining the others in the living room once more.
Now, standing in the heaving book shop, Moira nudged her again. ‘Well, was it, Shay?’
‘Ow, don’t do that.’
Aisling
