Week 21 - Andrew - The Last Time

I have been to this city before. Not as I am now, the ambassador of a large company (VP of Client Partnerships-EMEA/APAC). I did not stand at a cocktail reception celebrating my visit, sipping on my expensive vodka. I left this city in girlish, weak tears, my head aching, and shame clinging to me, as visible as the sweaty county jersey on my back.

When I was here before, I arrived and left, two days later by train. This time, I was collected at the airport by a man with white gloves. He took our bags, and put them into the boot of an S-Class Mercedes. We made polite conversation on the way through town. I didn’t say I had been here before.

Fifteen years ago, I was drunk here on cheap whiskey and expensive Coca Cola. I drank them from plastic cups, sitting on garden furniture, Eoin and I pouring for the rest of the hostel visitors. Our treat - especially to the israeli group, tanned, giddy and on leave from the military. Now my vodka is viscous and cold, a mist rising up the heavy glass. The ice cubes are square and solid. The shaving of lime that twists through it is perfect. It is the twist of lime that only exists in the minds of obsessed bartenders.

I have stood in air conditioned meeting rooms for the last three days. The floor to ceiling windows in these rooms, and my hotel suite, show the city as it would like to be seen; glittering skyscrapers, beaming screens and the wide sweep of the river. These windows are to show off the miracle - how the Chinese have taken their second city and built the future.

Fifteen years ago, this was a building site. I stood in a similar rooftop bar, our one indulgence was a (then) exhorbitantly expensive coffee to see the city from the sky - Eoin and I took the morning, and went with two of the israelis, Elad and Rachel. We stared down, and didn’t really know what to say - It’s hard to connect with a building site over a coffee that costs the same as a night in a hostel. (Which in turn, is one third the cost of the vodka I’m now drinking)

When I stood in front of the presentations this week, and spoke of partnerships, we looked like the inhabitants of the future. My team were on one side of the table, our clients on the other. All of us bred, dressed and groomed exactly as we should be. I am forty-two, I run triathlons and my hair is the blend of grey and black that passes for distinguished.

Back then, I was gangly, Eoin, my school friend, turned travel companion (turned best man, turned godfather to my eldest) was fat and red haired. I had thought it was a good idea to shave my head. When I see the pictures, given my height and build, I realise I looked like a gearstick. The israelis were beautiful - the good looks that can only come from hard physical exercise and sun. Rachel’s gold jewelry and designer sunglasses sparkled on her tanned skin. Army training had turned Elad vicious, she said - vicious but gorgeous. She would wink at him then, and he would reach over and squeeze her shoulder. He never smiled at her.

Now, I have a beautiful wife, and two lovely children. My clients will ask me about them regularly, as I will ask about theirs. There is no humanity in these questions - we’re all trying to be the perfection that we want to see around us. We say ‘parenting is hard’ and widen our eyes - we commiserate when we hear bad personal news, but that is of no substance. We don’t feel their grief or pain.  In small talk, they will ask what I think of Shanghai, I won’t say that the city is burned into my consciousness - that I stood at the edge of something that may or may not have been very important, and turned back here. It’s easier to say that I’ve never been here, but am amazed at the scale of the place.

In this world - the now world - futuristic cities, perfect drinks and air-conditioned transport, we don’t have complexity or ambiguity. I don’t speak of the love I have for my wife, for all of her - the things she did before we met, the drugs she still takes. I don’t talk about running and swimming to obliterate feeling and thought - I talk about it in terms of ‘competing’ and ‘intensity’.

I don’t talk about the doubts I have about my children - my two beautiful daughters - I haven’t shared that I am terrified that I’m raising them to produce and consume like earthworms. I’m teaching them the life I feel should be taught - the values that I would like to see in print against my name - hard work, integrity, joy. There’s plenty in our lives that we’re not sharing. I know my wife will never share the bliss she felt when she tried heroin (only three times - she promises - during her J1). I won’t tell them about what almost happened here in a hostel laundry room.

How we had lunch, after the skyscraper coffee. Rachel and Eoin had pork noodles - Elad and I had prawns. The pork was bad, and within an hour, both Rachel and Eoin started complaining of stomach cramps. Later, as they vomited and slept, Elad and I sat in the hostel’s small garden, finishing the bottle of whiskey.

We talked about the city - how it was being built. I talked about my studies, and my plans - Elad talked about the Army. He had not wanted to be a soldier at first, but he loved it. I liked listening to him talk, and as daft as it sounds now, I was flattered that he was so open with me. He said he was going to leave Rachel - it had not been right for him.

I was quiet - even then, I knew that there is huge value in silence -  and poured more drinks into the plastic cups. I leaned over to hand him his cup, and he put his hand on my knee. It landed gently, then he settled it, and imperceptibly stroked me with his thumb. I could feel he was looking at me.

I stared at his hand. The city fell away, and all I could see was his hand, tanned, perfect, on my too-skinny, bony knee. This moment has stayed with me. The road forked here, and thoughtlessly, as lightly as choosing a checkout in a supermarket queue, I picked up his hand, and told him to fuck off. Then I ran back to my room, my cheeks burning, and lay on my bed. Eoin was snoring, on his back, and the room stank of his puke and shit.

When we had packed to leave, Rachel kissed both of us on the cheeks- Eoin and I. Elad laughed and hugged Eoin. When he turned to me, he slapped me on the back, and told me to keep eating prawns and drinking whiskey. Everyone laughed. I couldn’t speak.

That was the last time. They have built this city up. It’s different now. I’m different. I’ve never been here before.

Week 20 - Andrew - Twist in the tale.

My sister is missing.

I am in Atlanta airport, sitting at the bar of a Starbucks in the Food court. I have a lukewarm pint of coffee, and my mother is on the phone. I’m conscious that if she keeps talking, I’m going to have to charge my phone so that it will last me the rest of the journey.

It has always been like this. My sister will slip away, out of my mother’s sight, and Mam will think she’s missing. There will be phone calls. Long phone calls, while my mother goes over her full day’s movements, the times she has last seen my sister.

My sister, Cait, will re-appear a day or two later, hungover, in strange clothes. She never talks about where she goes. She just walks into the kitchen, and makes two cups of tea, Mam will cry and scream, and ask why she does this to her. Cait never says anything. She just puts one of the cups of tea in front of Mam, and drinks her own.

Cait lives at home. She works irregular shifts in a garden centre. She runs in the mornings, buys fruit from the greengrocer near my parents house, then sits online for the day. We don’t look like brother and sister. She is tanned and sinewy, an elaborate tattoo of flowers and birds climbing up one arm. I run to fat, permanently pale, with deep, blue bags under my eyes. She doesn’t smile, except at animals and babies. I’ve been told i giggle like a schoolgirl.

I know she’s ok. In the cold war, the Americans kept one aeroplane permanently in the air, over Thule in Greenland. This plane circled one specific radar station. The Russians couldn’t mount an attack without first destroying this radar station. If it looked like war, the Americans would get on the radio. If the plane was still in the air, and radar station was in its usual spot, then they held off on armageddon. The plane was called the Thule Monitor.

Genevieve is my Thule Monitor. Genevieve is a stuffed cat, a ragged baby toy. There are the traces of scorchmarks on Genevieve’s leg. While Genevieve is still in the house, I’m confident that we’re at most 48 hours away from more tea & hysterics. When Cait leaves for good, and she will, herself and Genevieve will walk out the door together.

Today is not that day - the first thing I asked Mam to do was to check her room, and to describe her desk. Genevieve is in her usual spot. Right now, I’m only worrying about the battery on my phone, and how to while away the next three hours in Atlanta.

*     *     *     *     *

Cait came into our lives with a silver twinkle in a pure blue sky. Dad had taken myself and Mam to Ardgillan park for a picnic. I remember this in colours. There was a field, glossy green grass - out to the horizon. Dad, in his grey t-shirt and jeans, was kicking the white ball.

We were on our own, the three of us. Then there was that glint in the sky. Dad was teaching me about airlines. He asked me what it was. I saw the red tail, and the white body - Qantas! He laughed, and rubbed my head - asked me where it was from. I knew Qantas were from Australia.

Dad kept watching the plane. I kicked the ball to him, but he wasn’t looking at it. The plane was getting bigger. There wasn’t any noise, either - there normally is with jets. The plane looked like it was turning. It was very low.

Dad picked me up. He grabbed me underneath my arms, so fast it hurt. Then he started running, and shouting at Mam. He was telling her to run, and he was running. He forgot the ball - I kept trying to tell him, but he kept running. He ran until he found a little stream, in a ditch. He threw me into the ditch, and jumped in with me. He pulled Mam into the ditch as well. I kept trying to look up, but he kept holding me in the ditch.

My feet were wet, and I looked up. The Qantas plane was so close. It flew right over our hiding place. Then it crashed, and there was a huge noise, and it started to get very hot. Dad pushed mam and I down, into the water. He told me to keep my head out of the water, but to keep everything else in the water. He said he was going to see if anyone needed help. Mam tried to stop him, but he told her to mind me.

It got dark, with all the smoke. Dad was gone for a long time. He came back, wild-eyed and covered in black. he jumped in the stream, and splashed water on his face, kissed me on th head, and ran back. When he came back the second time, he had a baby with him, crying and holding onto a raggedy, scorched stuffed cat. He was covered in blood. He handed her to Mam, and ran back over the ditch. He said there were more.

There weren’t. We waited. Hours later, the firemen found the three of us. They pulled us out of the ditch. They gave us blankets, and sat us in an Ambulance. No one asked us our names. We walked past rows of bodies. Mam started shouting about Dad. They found his body. He had managed to get into the cabin. He was killed when one of the fuel tanks exploded. Mam screamed when she heard that.

While we were waiting in the ditch, the baby dropped the raggedy stuffed cat. I held onto it. That night, when Cait was asleep in our house for the first time, I put it on the pillow beside her.

While the plane stays in the air and while Genevieve is still in her usual spot, we can hold off on armageddon.

Week 20 - Laura - Twist in the tale

A follow-on from this piece.

Three hours later, everyone from this morning’s meeting except Mr Kennedy was in Noni’s front hall. Sure enough, buoyed up by a hearty lunch in Fagan’s, the rest of the O’Haras had asked for my help with dear old Noni’s posthumous crossword. Or “this ridiculous farce” as they chose to describe it.

Gina, Noni’s only living sister; Gina’s children Bertie, Martha and John; Noni’s late brother Alfred’s children Peg and Suzanne and her long-dead twin Patrick’s own twins Maggie and Sean all jostled for space around the Muckross House painting I’d already told them I suspected as the crossword’s first solution and the holder of the next clue.

Birdie and Faye were more relaxed, having elected to sit in the adjoining sitting room in the familiar chairs they claimed as their own on Monday evening visits for as long as I can remember.

Determined for the O’Haras to get to know Noni better, even now, I recounted all I could remember of her Killarney escapades before looking for the next clue. “She was always a flibbertigibbert,” Gina, who I’m convinced was never in love in her life despite having clocked up 44 years of marriage before her husband Bert cashed in his chips, tutted.

“Oh but she was a ticket,” Birdie exclaimed. “She’d have done the same in her later years too,” Faye added, knowing full well Noni’s fuddy-duddy relatives were all but physically covering their ears to stop them having to hear more of Noni’s youthful escapades. “She used to say there’d be no stopping her if it wasn’t for her dodgy hips.”

Resigned to the fact that I wasn’t going to warm the ‘good will hunters’ to Noni with this particular tale, I carefully took her treasured painting down and set it against the wall she’d had painted bright red last year, in one of her last acts of rebellion. Sure enough, scribbled in chalk on the wall behind the painting was the next clue: “Twist in the tale (8)”.

“That could be said of lots of Noni’s stories,” Faye cackled. With no real memories of her to go on, Gina, Bertie, Martha, John, Peg, Suzanne, Maggie and Sean looked at least as puzzled as they had when Mr Kennedy had read out this morning’s inaugural clue.

Unsure myself, I decided to think logically - “the best way to approach crosswords, but often a boring way to lead life”, Noni used to say. “Twist in the tale,” I mused. “That usually means an unexpected ending, but that’s far too many letters to be the solution. ‘Curveball’ doesn’t work either, and ‘unanticipated’ is far too long.”

“It’s ‘surprise’,” Birdie, a fellow crossword fiend, called in. “It has to be, and I think I know just the story Noni was thinking of too.”

Curious now, everyone piled into the front room.

“Did Noni ever tell you about the time she met Princess Diana?,” Birdie asked the room. “She never did!,” a green with envy Gina burst out. “No way!,” Peg added, admiration already melting her aloofness.

“Well she did,” Birdie continued, casually pretending not to notice what her question had done to the atmosphere in the room.

“It was back years ago now, when she lived over in London. She was doing a line with that Duke at the time - I forget his name, but it doesn’t matter. Anyway, he brought her to that Royal Ascot race and they were hanging out with all the fancy folk. Of course Noni was at least their equal. She was never affected by people’s station in life. She looked sensational. She often showed me pictures of the day, and oh, her outfit - I can’t describe how gorgeous it was. She’d made her own headpiece to go with it, naturally, having become known for that over there.

"Anyway, it was late in the afternoon when she was in the toilet no less that she bumped into Princess Di herself. In a right state, Noni said the princess was. You’d never think it’d happen to a royal, but hadn’t her hem come undone and she was mortified. What did Noni do but take a needle and thread out of her handbag and fix it there and then for her! Noni said she’d have done it for the waitress that served their drinks on the day just the same - and you know she would have done too - but that the princess was as grateful or more than anyone would have been. ‘Forever in her debt,’ she told me the princess said. Being the ticket she was Noni told her not to say that, just in case she looked for something outrageous in return as thanks.

“Anyway, Noni forgot about it, well as much as you can forget about doing a bit of stitching for someone like that, but about a month later she got this darling little sewing set in the post. All jewels it was on the outside, and on the inside it was engraved with Forever in your debt, your friend in need, D. I think she ordered a couple of headpieces from her after too.”

“You are having a laugh,” an incredulous Martha said.

“She’s not,” I replied. “And what’s more, I know where that sewing kit is and I bet it’s where our next clue is too.”

“I swear there’s about twice as much enthusiasm knocking around than there was at the start of this game,” I heard Birdie whisper to Faye as we all decamped to the room Noni called her workroom right up to her death.

“She’s right too,” I thought, pleased that the O'Haras might finally be starting to enjoy getting to know Noni properly.

Week 19 - Andrew - Laundry

The evening the washing machine broke, Paul hung himself. I was lying in bed, he got up – he didn't even kiss me – and he went downstairs and hung himself.  He wrote a note, put it on top of the mortgage and credit card statements, and, like a tumour metastasizing, turned our horrific marriage into something far worse but ultimately finite.

There's a temptation to imagine that marriages that end in suicide end poetically and tragically. Declarations of love in a tear-stained note, a last painful look at the sleeping children, and then the lonely construction of a noose and a gallows.

I can tell you, when you are looking at a swinging belly in a liverpool jersey, the smell of shit, and the realisation that now there is only you left to deal with this – It is not poetic tragedy. It was not a surprise. He had painted a picture. He thought I would put this together, and fall to my knees, one hand clamped over my mouth, a silent wail – the whole thing.

I stood for a second, and called him a fucking eejit. And do you know – I was relieved. I've heard people say 'my life is over. I was relieved that mine was. Fucking Liverpool, GAA, Debt, traberdine tiles, no work, small towns, endless commutes, sweaty pints, rants, apologies.

When I was nineteen, I went to Australia on my own. I bought a giant boat of a clapped-out Ford Falcon with a scottish girl I met in a hostel, and we burned up the east coast, her driving, me with my long brown legs out the passenger window.

I met Paul in Australia. I liked him because he was tall, and he was good looking – before pints and chipper put paid to that. When we got back, he bought a house. Hundred and ten percent mortgage. He borrowed more from the credit union to do it up. New kitchen, bathroom and extension.

Then it turned out I couldn't have kids. Paul kept doing up the house. He bought a jeep. Then the work stopped. I kept my job – they'll always need nurses, although they won't pay them well – but Paul sat at home.

He didn't cook, he didn't clean. He took obsessions – we had a home gym. A built in barbecue, cycling, golf. All of them with costs – “These will pay for themselves”, he used to say. I was so anxious to keep him active I never mentioned the costs. I took more and more shifts.

Paul had never been happy. When we were young, I mistook this for stoic silence, and a silent, ancient country solidity. It was the opposite. He was pathetic, a man struggling with an illness as banal and fatal as cancer.

Why couldn't he have talked to anyone about it? That's one I hear a lot – It's also untrue. He talked all the time about it. Lying on the couch – 'maybe I'd be better off dead'. When the bills came – 'I can't take this'. Long, long angry rants about how he couldn't do this anymore. He made it my fault. I hadn't stopped him buying the house, I hadn't kept an eye on the money. Why wasn't I making an effort.

Would he do anything constructive? Would he fuck. It's hard to love someone so self-obsessed. It's hard to get dressed, put on lipstick, and go out for a night with someone who is so intent on not treating what's making him miserable.

I stood there for about two minutes – it might have been an hour, but I don't want to be dramatic. I called the guards, and made a cup of tea. I function well under pressure, and i'm not squeamish. There were jobs to be done. I heard a Garda whisper 'cold bitch' to her colleague about me.

I don't think i'm a bad person. I didn't do anything. I married a man who caught a disease, that turned out to kill him. The disease took me, too – It took my life while it was there. It won't kill me, though.

People look at me like i'm a tragic widow. I'm going to be the girl with the long brown legs again.  

Week 19 - Laura - laundry

“Get it together Kit,” I coached myself, as I lugged the last basket of his damp clothes to the line at the bottom of the garden. “You didn't cry this much at the funeral!”

Losing Peter was sudden, to say the least. I went through the days after he died in a relatively pleasant Xanax-induced haze. (I’d totally recommend it, in the circumstances.) It’s taken me almost a year to face going through his things though, and despite the fact that he’s been gone for almost twelve months now, somehow this bit seems the most final of all.

I know Peter would want any of his clothes that were up to it to be donated to a charity shop. He hated waste, so it stands to reason. And, to be fair, he was in his own way quite the fashionista. Oxfam will be lucky to get his very last collection - a stylish mix of smart and casual.

To think of the years I griped about our wardrobe. It wasn't half big enough to contain both of our stuff. Trying to find what I was looking for among the outfits wedged into the available hanging space used to drive me demented. Since I've taken out Peter’s stuff I can freely browse through dresses I haven’t seen in years. I haven’t cried so much in years either though.

I have downsized his collection in the past, of course. Mainly by shrinking his cashmere-mix sweaters. In contrast this time, though he’s never going to wear them again, I've never been more careful about taking heed of the care labels on the damned sweaters. Not one of them has changed size or shape, even a little bit.

I used to think I hated laundry. This laundry is a totally different kettle of fish, and one I’m not coping well with at all. This, the actual final load of his washing I’ll ever do, is about a hundred, no, make that a thousand, times worse than any laundry I've ever done before.

It’s a shame the Xanax prescription has long since run out.

Week 18 - Andrew - A set of Instructions

Welcome to another in the series of Andrew’s How-tos, where I’ll be walking you through some quick steps to wow your friends, and make your life in the kitchen that bit easier.

This week, we’ll be going for classic cool, and talking about how to sear a duck breast with a classic pan sauce. We’ll be accompanying that with a classic vodka martini.

Very few dishes are as impressive as a simple seared duck breast - Rare meat, crispy skin, and a dark, caramelised exterior. Couple this with a rich brandy sauce and a light green salad, and you’re bound to impress your guests. This is a great menu for a romantic meal.

This dish does involve some prep close to serving, so make your guests a pre-dinner cocktail. We recommend a classic - Vodka Martini, shaken, not stirred.

First step as always, is to get the ingredients together.

(for the duck)

2 x Duck Breast,

Shallot,

Garlic

Brandy,

Salt,

Pepper

You’ll also need:

a frying pan, and a sharp knife.

(for the martini)

Ice - by the bucket

Vermouth

Olives

Vodka (as nice as you can afford)

You’ll also need:

A cocktail shaker

Martini glasses

Cocktail sticks

Let’s start with the drinks. The trick to a good martini, apart from excellent ingredients, is temperature. A proper martini is served as close to freezing temperature as possible:

1) Fill your glasses with ice.

2) Drizzle a capful of vermouth over the ice. Leave the glasses to stand, allowing them to chill.

3) Thread three olives onto a cocktail stick. Leave aside.

4) Add 2 measures of vodka (per martini to be served) to your cocktail shaker, along with a good handful of ice.

5) Close your cocktail shaker, and shake it vigorously. Like a polaroid picture. Use this opportunity to look cool. Don’t stop shaking until the outside of the shaker is frozen.

6) Take your glasses, and swirl the ice & vermouth mixture around the glasses, before pouring into the sink. The idea is to leave a thin coating of vermouth in the glass.

7) Pour the now-freezing vodka into the glass. This may contain a mist of ice.

8) Add the cocktail olives, and enjoy.

9) Repeat

10) Bin the duck breast, and eat peanuts. Realistically, you’re not going to cook after two or three of these.

Week 18 - Laura - a set of instructions

I knew my wry smile was out of place as we exited Kennedy & Co Solicitors. It was only two days after Noni’s funeral, after all. I figured the great aunt I loved wouldn't have cared if I cried with laughter on the main street of Ballymacken village itself. Hell, maybe that was part of her plan. But I'm guessing smiling is not part of the protocol when it comes to reading people’s last will and testament.

If my smile was a bit out of place next to the ache the knowledge I’d see Noni no more had lodged in my chest six days ago, when I’d found her body next to that day’s completed Times’ crossword, then the contrast it created next to the puzzled frowns on the faces of my various relatives was enormous.

There were twelve people in all at this morning’s reading headed up by old Mr Kennedy, all bar Noni’s friends Birdie and Faye - or ‘Noni’s Cronies’ as I’d affectionately christened them years ago - members of the extended O’Hara family.

I think everyone except me, Birdie, Faye and Mr Kennedy was knocked for six when they heard how Noni planned to distribute her considerable wealth.

She made her fortune in London, as far as I know. That was years ago though. For as long as I've known her she’s just been Noni - my eccentric great aunt who loved a laugh and who helped me out more times than I can remember.

She was a fan of simple pleasures - her garden, fancy tea cups and a mongrel called Charlie who I can tell misses her as much as I do. She was nobody’s fool though, and sharp as a tack despite her 96 years. I figure that’s why she did things a little differently when it came to writing a will.

I might be related to them, but I’d find it hard to write a reference for any of the O’Haras at today’s meeting. On paper of course they are the people who are closest to Noni. In reality they’ve only barely stayed in touch with her to get their grubby hands on their share of her bank balance. Noni’s been calling them the ‘Good Will Hunters’ for years. She confided in me a few months ago that she was going to give them her money, but was going to have fun doing it and teach them a lesson into the bargain.

A crossword fiend, Noni always said it was word games that let her keep her wits about her while friends and neighbours gradually lost theirs. It used to drive the 'Good Will Hunters' mad when they’d call by for obligatory visits every six months or so. She used to torment them trying to get them to join in, while they’d say things like: “I have more important things to be thinking about than a ten letter word that means ‘ominous’.”

I honestly thought hell would freeze over before Noni would get them to do a simple crossword for her. Trust her to have the last laugh though, because they’re going to have to if they want to get their hands on her money.

It was laughable really. There we were expecting Mr Kennedy to solemnly read out what would go to whom, and instead after all the legal preamble he simply said: “A treasured memory of a 1976 holiday in Killarney (8, 5)”, and explained that Noni wanted us to solve a crossword she’d personally set, which would allow us to find out what possessions were being passed on to each one of us. Only then, he said, would Noni's will be read out in full.

The baffled expressions around the table were hilarious. Having barely listened to Noni when they visited, of course the rest of them didn’t know about the holiday romance she’d had with an artist there. They’d never seen each other since, but he’d sent her home with an oil painting of Muckross House that she’d hung in her hallway and always referred to as a ‘treasure’. I fully expect another clue behind the canvas.

Any minute now they’ll come over to me, looking for my help. I’ll give it of course, but just as I’m sure Noni planned, by the time we’re finished with her crossword they’ll think twice about their future behaviour, and know a lot more about one cool lady.