He’d telephoned her the other day and she’d thought she’d passed the news on to Mammy that yes, he would be there and to make a room up for him at the guesthouse. It must have slipped her mind. She informed Mammy of his call.
‘The reason you’re forgetting things, Aisling, is because you’ve too much on your plate.’
Aisling thought that was an ironic thing to say, given there’d been feck all on her plate since she’d started her weight-loss journey, or nightmare, whichever way you wanted to look at it.
‘And,’ Maureen said, failing to see any irony in her words whatsoever. ‘I understand the planning of your big day is a stressful thing but that’s what the mother of the bride is for. It is my job to be a good listener, constant giver of compliments, cheerleader, and source of support to you.’
‘Mammy, are you reading that out?’
‘No, I am not.’
‘You are too.’
‘Well, according to Bridal Life magazine that’s my role and as such I want you to know you can relax because I’ve had a grand idea. Why don’t I come along for the luncheon with you and Leila? I don’t mind cancelling my watercolour workshop this afternoon. I’m annoyed with Rosemary Farrell anyway and could happily give it a miss. She’s after copying my idea of doing a self-portrait. You want to see hers, Aisling, she looks like yer wan with her gob wide open in that painting Moira was after putting on her wall as a teenager. Jaysus it gave us all nightmares so it did.’
Aisling knew the painting Mammy was talking about. ‘Edvard Munch’s, The Scream. He was a Norwegian expressionist.’ She spieled off the explanation Moira had given them all for the disturbing print she’d hung in pride of place on her bedroom wall. It had frightened Aisling almost as much as the Bono poster her little sister used to stick to her bedroom door as payback for something or other. ‘She told us we were all heathens who wouldn’t know great art if it smacked us in the head.’
‘So, she did. Uppity wee madam she was in her teens. Terrible phase. Anyway, what I was saying is that I could fill Leila in on all the family and who’s to go where. Take a load off of it all for you.’
‘No, thank you, Mammy. We’ll manage.’ Aisling knew her mammy was itching to take over from Leila; she’d done exactly that with Roisin’s wedding and if she were to give her an inch, she’d take a mile. ‘You’re in charge of the RSVPs sure, and you and Bronagh are having to sort out who’s staying in what room.’ No guest bookings were to be taken two days prior or after the wedding. ‘That’s a big enough responsibility.’ She’d given Mammy the task of tallying up who was coming and sorting out accommodations because she wanted her to feel part of it all, but that was a big enough part, thank you very much.
‘Well it is when you only give people a few weeks’ notice, Aisling.’
‘Mammy, we’ve been through all of this. I don’t see the point in dragging things out.’
‘There’s dragging things out and then there’s your Shogun wedding. People will talk.’
‘Shotgun wedding, Mammy. People don’t have to get married anymore because they’ve a baby on the way but for the record, I’m not in the family way thanks very much. So, people can talk all they like.’
‘Aisling, have you something in your mouth?’
‘No, of course not.’ She swallowed the bite of her sandwich.
‘Aisling O’Mara, your nose grew then so it did. And don’t you come crying to me when you’re a tenner short and your dress won’t fit.’
Aisling scowled and dropped what was left of the sandwich back on the plate. ‘Look, Mammy, I’ve got to go.’
‘Well, don’t let me hold you up. I’m only your mammy after all.’
Aisling rolled her eyes; spare her the poor, hard done by Mammy act. ‘Bye-bye, enjoy your watercolour painting class.’ As Aisling hung up, a thought popped into her head. She hoped Mammy wasn’t after doing a self-portrait as a wedding present for her and Quinn. Jaysus! Her grinning down at them as they lay in their marital bed would give her nightmares and be the end of any riding. She wrapped herself inside her coat and picked up her bag, her eyes alighting on her book, open to where she’d left it on the coffee table the night before. Roisin had given her it for Christmas and she’d managed to read two more chapters before her eyes had grown heavy. The next thing she’d known, Moira was nudging her telling her to feck off to bed because she couldn’t hear the tele over her snoring. What she wouldn’t give to clamber back into bed now with a nice cup of tea and a plate of hot buttered toast. Oh, to while away the afternoon with her book. Her idea of bliss. Give her that any day over an upmarket spa, she thought as she headed out the door making a mental note to self to get Moira to start giving her weekly facials and to be sure to double check her manicurist appointment and, somewhere in between her list of one hundred and one things to do, she’d have to find time to see her fiancé.
Chapter 4
Noreen
Noreen Grady’s knitting needles clicked and clacked to a rhythm of their own. She was knitting a jersey for the sick babies in Africa. It was a vibrant affair of yellow and orange because she thought the little baby who wore it would like the bright, cheery colour. Another twenty minutes and she’d have it done. Then she could put it in Kathleen’s box along with the others waiting to be shipped off to the hospital in South Africa. Agnes, Margaret and Kathleen, with whom she met each Friday here at Alma’s Tea Shop to catch up on all
