A Grand Old Time Read online

  ‘Shall we take your van and go up to the headland?’ Evie said. ‘We can have a little walk and you can tell me about it. When we come back, we’ll make some supper and open a lovely bottle of wine.’

  Maddie felt in her pocket for the keys. She draped her other arm around Evie’s shoulders and took a deep breath.

  The early evening was still warm and bright. The little kitchen smelled of the warm aroma of herbs and frying potatoes. Kat stood in the doorway, a silent shadow, and Iggy moved towards his water bowl, lapping loudly. Maddie looked up hopefully from the table, which had been covered with a pretty blue-checked cloth and laden with plates full of green salad, sliced tomatoes, olives, cheese, piles of crusty bread. She patted the chair next to her, and Kat slumped down, sullen and tired, running a hand through her hair. Evie placed the Spanish omelette in the centre. It was huge, fluffy and golden, filled with peas and potatoes, peppers and onions.

  The chair squeaked as Evie sat down. She poured red wine into glasses. Kat pulled an unimpressed face. ‘What’s all this for?’

  Evie offered her most beatific smile. ‘For you, Kat. And for Maddie. To say thanks for putting me up here. For being welcoming. And because you’re both so lovely.’

  Kat turned away, wrinkled her nose and surveyed the newly whitewashed brick walls. Maddie took a slice of omelette and Evie indicated the rest of the food, then lifted her glass. ‘Sláinte.’

  Maddie raised her glass. ‘Santé.’

  Kat gulped at her wine, and mumbled to Evie, ‘That’s “cheers” in French.’

  For a moment, there was no sound except for the clank of knives and forks against plates. Then Evie looked up at both girls. ‘I’ve a confession to make.’

  Two pairs of eyes darted towards her face, so she winked. ‘I’m on the run.’

  Kat leaned forward. ‘From prison?’ Her knife and fork were in the air.

  Evie took a mouthful of wine and her laughter bubbled. ‘No. From a bloody care home.’

  Maddie’s brow creased. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Evie chewed thoughtfully. ‘My husband died and I just gave up. Felt lonely, so I went into Sheldon Lodge. I was surrounded with lots of lovely old people there and, do you know, it was the coldest, loneliest winter of my life.’

  Maddie’s fork was in the air. ‘I had no idea, Evie.’

  ‘So I ran away. I believe in the power of luck, you know. I’ve a lucky four-leaf clover in my handbag. Had it since I was four years old. Four’s my lucky number.’ Kat swallowed the last of her wine, so Evie refilled her glass. ‘I took a huge gamble and won some money, and it brought me to Liverpool where I met some grand people, but I was attacked by some poor little lad who was a chancer, and I thought about giving up, but then I came here and met you two.’

  Maddie and Kat exchanged looks. Evie passed the bread around the table and took a breath. ‘You two, you have it all. This place, youth, a future – each other. Make the most of it all. Before you know it, time’s like a whirlwind that has just rushed past and suddenly you’re seventy-five and on your own. There’s no time to waste on petty squabbles.’

  The young women stared at Evie and she beamed. ‘So come on, the pair of you. Let’s sort out priorities.’ She raised her glass. ‘Happiness. Someone you love, who loves you back. A good meal shared together. And the biggest priority of all. The present. It’s not called the present for nothing. It’s a gift.’

  Kat looked across at Evie and nodded slowly. ‘You’re right, Evie.’ She turned to Maddie and held out her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Maddie. I’ve been stupid, haven’t I?’

  Maddie leaned forward, mumbled, ‘Not your fault … nobody’s fault. Come here,’ and the two women clasped each other in a hug.

  Evie stood up, a grin on her face. ‘Will I open up a bottle? Another red one, perhaps?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  His eyes throbbed. Voices scratched in his head; all around him in the staff room, the low hum of conversation was spattered with the clink of teaspoons stirring coffee cups. He slumped over the table and wished time would stand still. His elbows slipped and pushed some papers onto the floor, reports, assessments: paperwork that would need completing tonight. He gathered them, and they rustled, dry as dead leaves, as he piled them up. He pushed his fingers into his eye sockets and rubbed hard. Penny Wray was standing behind him and she touched his shoulder. ‘Last lesson this term. Good luck.’ The klaxon sounded.

  He nodded and picked up his briefcase.

  He put the postcard inside the poetry book, at the right page for the lesson; he opened it and said to the class, ‘So, William Butler Yeats. “The Second Coming”.’

  Someone sniggered. McNally or Fearon, no doubt. Brendan carried on, his reading-to-the-class voice a little louder. He slowed his words, tried to emphasise the most important phrases, to convey the gravitas and beauty of the language.

  ‘Somewhere in sands of the desert

  A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

  A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

  Is moving its slow thighs …’

  A laugh vibrated, staccato machine-gun fire. Brendan looked up. ‘Kevin Fearon?’

  There was a pause, a face twisted in consideration. ‘I was just thinking about the slow thighs, Sir.’

  ‘He is always thinking about thighs, Sir.’

  Brendan tried to manage the moment with a half-smile. ‘All right, Jordan. Back to the poem. Where was I?’

  ‘In the middle of slow thighs, Sir.’

  Laughter ricocheted; kids’ faces were masks, distorted with hilarity and he felt himself duck a little, pushing his head down into his collar. He started again. ‘Somewhere in sands …’

  ‘Yeats is gay, Sir.’

  Brendan snapped his head towards the boy. ‘No, Gilbert, it’s believed not, Yeats married Georgiana H—’

  ‘Are you married, Sir?’

  ‘He is so; I have seen his wife, the blonde one with the big—’

  ‘She works in the doctor’s, my mother saw her.’

  ‘Now … Yeats is telling us in “The Second Coming” …’ Brendan’s heart drummed in his throat and he lifted the book. The postcard poked out from the page and Brendan pushed it back.

  ‘You and your missus, Sir,’ began Jordan Jelfs. ‘Do you write poems about her thighs, Sir?’

  Laughter crackled again. Brendan felt sweat leak and trickle down the back of his spine.

  ‘Tell us about your second coming, Sir, and her soft thighs.’

  ‘Is she a good ride?’

  Brendan put the book down on his desk and the postcard fluttered to the floor. He caught the eye of Malandra Shaw, who was applying mascara. She gave Brendan her full gaze.

  ‘Mr Gallagher would rather ride Miss Wray.’

  The boys howled, throwing themselves back in their seats. Kevin Fearon waved his fist over his groin. ‘I don’t blame you, Sir. I could ride her too!’

  ‘So come on, Sir, tell us about the Miss Wray one. Does she have soft thighs?’

  Brendan considered each face; the kids were rocking with delight, punching the air and looking at each other, mouths twisted in sarcasm. He brought his palm down hard on a desk. His mouth twisted and held still, a frozen grimace. He spluttered, and then the words came. ‘Shut up. Do you hear me? Just shut up, all of you.’

  The room went quiet for a moment. The air prickled. Brendan felt damp under his arms, and smelled the stale sweat pooling there.

  Softly, Kevin Fearon cooed: ‘Ooohh, he’s getting angry …’

  There was a snigger; someone made a farting sound on their arm. Brendan was pale as the page as he walked over to Kevin’s desk and leaned over, inches from his face. Something was building inside him, a hard mass of anxiety: the son, the husband, the teacher, the total failure. His mouth was dust-dry. He licked his lips, once, like a snake. Behind his eyes a throbbing pulse was blinding his vision. He brought his hand down on the table. ‘All this has to stop. Now. It has to stop.’


  His voice was raw and the edges of his words signalled a fury beyond his own control. Kevin leaned back in his seat, a smirk ready to curve on his lips, but something made him hesitate. At the back of the class, someone scraped a chair; someone else exhaled noisily.

  Brendan thumped the table again, his fist bloodless. ‘Yeats is an important part of our studies,’ he began. ‘This is all going to change. Over the holidays each and every one of you will write me an essay about Yeats’ poetry. You hear me? All of you?’

  He banged his fist again, twice, three times, and he was beating at his anxieties, flattening each one. All eyes were fixed on him. Brendan stood up, dizzy, and walked over to the board, pointing at a question projected in print. His voice shook, but his eyes were livid coals. He felt a pain in his hand. A nail was bent backwards and the skin was purpling.

  ‘Right. Right. What literary devices has Yeats used in “The Second Coming”? I want two sides of A4 paper from each of you, handed in to me the first day back after the summer break. Now, write it down in your homework diaries. In silence.’

  He stared wildly around the room. Each student bent a head towards the page, writing, and some twisting up to look at the white board, each face a study of perplexed or feigned interest. Brendan bent down and picked up the postcard, his hand a palsy of nerves and triumph, and he read the handwriting again. His mother was on a beach in Brittany.

  When the klaxon sounded and the students left, one or two bumping into desks as they went, Brendan collected the papers together and pushed them deep into his briefcase.

  ‘Happy holidays, Brendan,’ Penny Wray said when she came into the classroom, cool and confident in her shorts and T-shirt. Brendan’s face flushed violet. It occurred to him that he would not see her for several weeks. He breathed deeply and forced out the question that had popped into his mouth and filled it like cement.

  ‘Are you away for the summer, Penny?’

  She grinned. ‘I’m off to Mexico. And you?’

  He shrugged. ‘No plans. Not really.’ He looked at her, all white shorts and glowing skin, and tried again. ‘So, will you go to Mexico with a boyfriend?’

  She turned away and picked up his copy of W.B. Yeats, examined the cover and put it down again. ‘It will be a sporting holiday. Snorkelling, sailing, sunbathing.’

  Brendan almost said he wished he could come along. ‘Sounds perfect,’ he mumbled.

  She grinned at him. ‘Will I email you some photos then? The scenery’s lovely. I’ve been there five times before.’

  He nodded and wondered again if her offer of friendship could have been something more. He was aware that his shirt held the stench of sweat. She sat at his desk, crossing her legs, and he swallowed. She had a newspaper in her hand and was unfolding it. Her ponytail swished and she flicked the pages.

  ‘Look,’ she said, pointing at an advertisement. ‘I’ve found us new jobs. Here – this one would suit me perfectly. In charge of sports, just in the north of the city. And this is the job for you. A pastoral post in St Cillian’s. The application date is this week. It’s just up your street. You’d be great at it.’

  Brendan followed her finger and read the print. A new job in a new school. Penny was right, it was what he needed, and he would apply. They would find different schools and have different lives and she would not miss him. But perhaps change was just what he needed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘You have been on that laptop all evening. Why don’t you come through and watch TV with me?’

  Brendan was engrossed in finishing his application to St Cillian’s. He pressed his lips together but no sound came out in reply. Maura tried again, her voice saccharine with effort.

  ‘I could open a bottle and we could share some cheesy nibbles?’

  Brendan read through his application, adjusted a word or two and pressed send with a mixture of disbelief and satisfaction. ‘What was that?’ he said.

  ‘Wine and nibbles, darling.’

  She had been using new endearments throughout the week. Her eyes had taken on a kind of bovine hopefulness and her lashes fluttered, heavy with extra mascara.

  ‘In a minute.’ He thought about calling her a new tender name, ‘sweetheart’ or ‘honey’ perhaps, instead of the usual placatory ‘my love’, but it felt awkward. He picked up his mobile and found his mother’s number, pressed dial and waited. Nothing, again, except an empty voice requesting a message. He wondered if she had discovered how to pick up voicemail.

  ‘Brendan, will I start the film?’

  A sudden thought occurred to him. He started to search for something on the internet, his brows together, his eyes reflecting the moving screen. She was behind him, looking over his shoulder. He pressed the keys and waited. A white page flipped up, a timetable. Maura put her arms around his neck, looking over his shoulder. Brendan made the screen whizz up and down: Cork to Roscoff, Roscoff to Cork.

  She leaned against the back of his chair and rested her face against his head. He could hear her breathing, her mind processing the details.

  ‘Is it a little holiday we’re having? Are we going to France?’ She twirled her fingers in his hair and her voice was light and girlish. ‘Oh Brendan, I’d love to go to France. Just you and me. The food and the wine – just think, and the beaches. You’d have a chance to practise your French – you’d like that. And we could enjoy some culture, the churches, the history. You could do a bit of canoeing perhaps and I could sit in the sunshine and get a suntan. I’m so pale at the moment. It would do us both good.’

  Brendan put the laptop down and turned around. She was wearing a flimsy dressing gown. It was loose and he could see she had little on underneath, if anything. Her damp hair trailed across her forehead. He became aware he was staring.

  ‘Ah.’ He turned back to the laptop. ‘Maura. I was thinking of going by myself.’

  He swivelled around again and was surprised to see that she was upset. The smile slipped down from her face and her eyes became soft, almost tearful, then colder and hard.

  ‘I thought I would bring my mother home. I’d just be away a couple of days. Not long.’

  Frozen disbelief stared back at him.

  ‘She’s written to the Lodge and said she doesn’t want her place there any more. I need to go and get her, Maura, find out what’s happening.’

  Maura exhaled. The dressing gown gaped and she pulled it across her chest, tying the belt firmly. ‘Why don’t you just call her? Tell her to come home?’

  Brendan held up his mobile. ‘I just tried. She’s not picking up.’

  ‘But we don’t need to go after her. She’s a grown woman. She can come back by herself.’

  He frowned. ‘But what if she doesn’t want to come back?’

  ‘Then let her stay.’

  Brendan glanced over her shoulder and back to his hand, which was squeezing the phone. He glanced at the wedding ring on his finger. He had imagined himself going alone to France. It would be an adventure. He would be a sleuth. He wouldn’t tell his mother what he was doing; he’d text her, then catch up with her. Eventually, he’d phone, tell her where he was, and they’d meet in a nice restaurant, over some moules marinières. She’d be surprised to see him, delighted, and he’d persuade her to come home. She’d say, ‘I’m glad you came, Brendan. I’m ready to come back. I missed Dublin too much. But most of all, I missed you.’

  ‘Ring her, Brendan.’ Maura nodded towards the phone. ‘Then we can see the film.’ She raised her eyebrows hopefully. ‘And have some nibbles.’

  Brendan hung his head. He wondered if his mother was having a great time in Brittany. It occurred to him that she mightn’t be missing him at all, that she might not need him. The thought filled like a raincloud and dropped damply across his shoulders. He groaned. ‘I’m going to France, Maura.’

  ‘Then text her and tell her we’re coming.’

  He shook his head, looked at his hands for a moment and then glanced around the room. ‘I don’t like sending Mammy t
exts. She probably won’t read them. Anyway, she might not want to come back. I’ll go and surprise her. Tell her we miss her. Tell her she should be back here, in Dublin, with us. Persuade her to come home.’

  ‘Then I’m coming with you.’ Her lips made a straight line. ‘Book the tickets, Brendan. I’m owed a few weeks off work. You sort out the ferry crossing. I’ll go and start packing the cases. There. That’s it, all settled.’

  Evie walked up the hill, one arm crooked through Maddie’s and the other through Kat’s. The music was audible, the light playing of pipes lifted on the wind, and the three women were already dancing on skipping feet. Maddie leaned towards Evie. ‘You’ve seen nothing of Pentrez until you’ve seen some Breton dancers. They come here every Friday evening in the summer, in costume. You’ll love it, Evie.’

  Kat smiled and Evie grinned back. She had never seen the young woman so happy as during this past week and the three of them had worked hard in the gîtes together, chatting all the time. Evie had pretended to be shocked by Kat’s raucous renditions of various so-called traditional Irish songs. ‘Paddy McGinty’s Goat’ had been particularly rude. They had been telling tales and drinking brandy. Evie had entertained them with stories of her mischief at St Aloysius’ School and the responses of the angry nuns, and she had made them cry when she sang ‘Danny Boy’ in her high quavering voice.

  They caught sight of the little night market. The aroma of crêpes hung on the air and costumed dancers were already in full swing, arm in arm with local people who seemed to know every step. Evie grinned as Kat and Maddie pulled her through the throng. They found themselves in a circle of dancers and they linked arms, following the moves and laughing at their mistakes.

  The man who turned to Evie moved lightly on his feet, despite his solidity. He held her waist easily, his other hand slipping into hers in a practised dance move. His face crinkled, his cheeks concertinas of charm. Evie allowed herself to be turned, puzzled by the unfamiliarity of a stranger’s hands, and she looked over his shoulder at the musicians in black and white, smart in their tasselled hats. They were singing, playing lusty pipes which blew bubbles of music into the air. Evie turned again on the whisk of a gavotte and Maddie and Kat were dancing together, their eyes glazed with happiness, Maddie’s plait swinging in an arc. Evie’s partner tightened his grip on her waist. His forearms were muscled and his puffed cheeks reminded her of Popeye the Sailor.