“I love that shop,” Fiona says excitedly. “I convinced Mum to take me in there one time, and she dragged me out by the ear when she saw all the bongs for sale.”
“They have a whole section for crazy evening wear and gross wedding dresses. Let’s go try them on. We can run your lines for Othello after.”
I’ve only actually been in Basement once, back when Abbie was getting married and someone had told her they found an original Vera Wang in there. They were, it turns out, messing with her.
We stop to admire the window display before going in. There’s a female mannequin in a gas mask wearing a neon tutu, walking a male mannequin on a lead. The male mannequin is wearing a leather harness.
“Oh my God,” Fiona says, trying not to laugh. “Is this a sex shop?”
“I think they just like to push the envelope.”
“They’re pushing it all right,” she says, looping her arm through mine and pulling me through the door. “She is pushed.”
A man with green hair and huge holes in his earlobes nods at us as we stride to the back of the store. We find an old theatre trunk full of yellowing lace and a sign that says, Broken Dreams – 50% off. There is a shower curtain draped across one corner as a makeshift changing room.
Fiona ends up in a puffy-sleeved 1980s monstrosity, the satin fabric slit to reveal her entire thigh. I’m in a giant meringue, the layers of taffeta itching my leg. We can’t stop screaming at each other, collapsing into giggles every time we discover a new hideous feature.
“You look like you should be carrying a big brick phone,” I say. “So you can be an eighties power business bride.”
“And you need –” she examines me – “a hat. You need one of those stupid hats that sit at the front of your head. I’m going to ask.”
She pushes past me and runs barefoot to the counter. I hear her voice, giddy and shrill. “Hi, sorry, excuse me, do you have any hat—? Oh.”
The “Oh” sounds worried, defensive. I stick my head out of the shower curtain, anxious to go to the front of the shop in my stupid dress. A group of men are talking to the green-haired boy. They’re about the same age, but the way the men are dressed makes them seem decades older. Or, not older, but from an older time. They’re in navy-blue suits, and have a sort of 1960s masculinity that makes me think they’re going to say something from Mad Men, a show I have not watched but feel I understand the vibe of.
Two of them stop to leer briefly at Fiona. One, a young-looking guy with short blond hair, is speaking to the green-haired boy.
“So, as you can see, sir, you’ll find that in Section 18 of the Irish Criminal Act, any person who commits, in public, any act that may offend modesty or injure the morals of the community can receive a fine of up to six hundred euro. Or, if the court decides, they may be sent to prison for up to six months. It’s really in your best interest to comply.”
The man is American. My knowledge of American accents isn’t good enough to know where it’s from exactly. It’s that kind of clear-water accent that you only expect Americans in adverts to have, as opposed to Americans in films. The kind of adverts that always end with “side effects include nausea, depression and diarrhoea…”
“Piss off,” Green Boy retorts.
“Sir, I really must stress that this is the law, OK, and that your store – and your window display – is in direct contradiction to this country’s moral heritage.”
“This country’s moral heritage?” Green Boy sneers. “What would you know about the morals of my country?”
“With all due respect, this is still a Catholic country.”
“Is this a wind-up? Jesus feckin’ Christ, man. Have you been living under a rock or what? I dunno what kind of Ireland you came here for, but we’re more or less done with the Bible-bashing bullshit. Equal marriage? Repeal the Eighth? News to you, mate?”
Green Boy keeps getting louder, but the Americans stay icy, polite. I expect Fiona to come running back, but she doesn’t. She stands there, her body language wary, curious. I feel afraid for her, suddenly. I start quietly slipping my jeans on underneath my huge skirt, the taffeta rustling noisily as I do.
One of the older men hears it and turns around, taking in Fiona and me for the first time.
“Sir, do you really think it’s appropriate to have school-aged children in your store?” He turns to Fiona. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“It’s … uh, it’s a half-day.”
“And don’t you think you should be doing something more productive and … wholesome with that time?” His eyes scan her body. The dress that was so funny a few minutes ago now feels like proof of some terrible crime. “Where do you go to school?”
“St Bernadette’s.”
“And is that a Catholic school, honey?”
“Umm, kind of.”
“How do you mean, kind of?”
“Like our principal is a nun, but I don’t believe in God.” In saying the word “God”, Fiona seems to regain some kind of courage. “And this shop rocks. There’s nothing wrong with this shop. Morally or any other way.”
Green Boy permits Fiona a tiny smile. This spurs her on even more.
“And don’t call me honey. Not if you’re going to call him sir.”
He smiles at her, his lip curving tightly inwards.
“Of course,” he says, then turns his attention to Green Boy. “If you’re not going to listen to me, I’m afraid I’ll have no choice.”
“No choice?” he spits back. “What are you going to do?”
They stare at one another wordlessly for a second, and I suddenly remember nature documentaries about alpha predators.
“Well. I must be going. Have a nice day, girls. Why don’t you take a pamphlet from one of our boys here?”
A waxy blue brochure is thrust into my hands, and they’re gone. Children
