A Gift to You (28 page)

Please, God, if you have any sense of fair play, let him have his chest waxed, please,
Emma prayed, knowing that the back and shoulders were much more painful than the chest but that he
wouldn’t be able to chicken out of having them done, not with the cruise coming up.

She took a deep breath and threw her plastic cup in the bin. Giving a firm knock on the door, she entered the room to see her client lying on his back with his eyes closed.
There is a
God!
she thought exuberantly, testing the temperature of the wax. She cut the strips smaller than usual. Not for JP the mercy of a quick tug of a large strip.
Ooohh, nooo!
Emma
thought gleefully. Slow and painful, that’s how it would be.

‘I’m just going to spread some wax on you now, Mr Barnes,’ she advised. The prone man gave a grunt.

‘Just get on with it, please.’

Oh, indeed I will!
Emma bent her head to her task, smoothing the first strip over the molten wax.

‘Deep breath,’ she instructed briskly, before slowly pulling the strip back, enjoying the tearing sound of body hair being pulled from the roots.

‘Oowwww! Aaahhh!’ John Paul Barnes’s eyes shot open and he yelped. ‘That bloody hurt!’ he exclaimed indignantly, glaring at her.

‘
Really?
’ Emma pretended surprise, applying another strip. ‘Most
men
find it bearable,’
you big sissy
, she added silently, slowly pulling on
the next strip as the gynecologist let out another howl. ‘Oh dear,’ she commiserated with a saccharine smile, applying more wax. ‘You must have a low threshold of pain!
Very
low indeed,’ she murmured.
And I’m not finished with you by a long shot, Mister John Paul Barnes. The worst is yet to come!
She gave another tug and her
client’s eyes watered as he emitted another stunned gasp, while Emma pulled the strips with measured, deliberate movements, inflicting as much pain as she possibly could.

Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday, dear Emma, Happy birthday to me!
she sang silently, thinking her new year couldn’t possibly have got off to a better
start.

The sun is shining through the window on the landing. Rays of diffused light streaming onto the red-gold-patterned carpet that covers the stairs. This will be one of the many
things to remember on this life-changing day that will be buried deep in the recesses of the mind in the years that follow.

The sounds will never be forgotten either. The groaning and grunting getting louder at the top of the stairs. The absolute terror of feeling something is wrong. That a loved one is ill.

The bedroom door is open. The sickening tableau is revealed. A gasp of shock escapes as innocence is lost, and life alters its course forever in that instant.

The man and woman turn at the sound. Horror crosses the man’s face as the woman untangles her legs from him. Both of them are naked. The woman’s hair is mussed, cascading like a
blonde waterfall over her rounded creamy breasts. The man grabs his trousers to hide his pale-skinned, hairy nudity.

‘Wait!’ he calls frantically. ‘Wait!’

But it’s too late.

A burden is added to the hurt and sadness already borne.

July 1965

‘Do I
have
to ask her to my party, Mammy? She just is so mean to my friends. She says horrible things and she tells Aileen that she’s
fat!
’ Hilary Kinsella gives a sigh of exasperation as she studies her mother’s face to try and gauge what Sally’s response will be. Surreptitiously she crosses the
fingers of both hands behind her back as she gazes expectantly at her mother who is rubbing the collar of her elderly father’s white shirt with Sunlight soap, before putting it in the washing
machine.

‘Colette shouldn’t say things like that, but I think she’s a little bit jealous of you and Aileen being friends. She doesn’t really mean it,’ Sally says kindly.
‘And it would be a bit cruel not to invite her to your birthday party. Wouldn’t it now?’

Hilary’s heart sinks. She has been hoping against hope that just this once she can have fun with her friends and not have to listen to Colette O’Mahony boasting and bragging about
her huge birthday party which will be two weeks after Hilary’s own.

‘But, Mammy, she says that we can’t afford to go on holidays to Paris on a plane like she does, an’ she says her mammy and daddy have more money than we do,’ Hilary
exclaims indignantly, seeing that she is getting nowhere.

‘Well we can’t afford to go abroad and the O’Mahonys
do
have more money than we do,’ Sally says equably, twisting another shirt to get rid of the excess water
before dropping it into the twin tub. ‘But do you not think you have much more fun in our caravan, going to the beach every day and playing with your cousins on our holidays, than walking
around a hot, stuffy city, visiting art galleries and museums with adults, and having no children to play with? Do you not think it must be very lonely not to have any brothers and sisters?’
Sally remarks, a smile crinkling her eyes.

‘I suppose so,’ sighs Hilary, knowing what is coming next.

‘Poor Colette with no sisters or brothers, and not many friends either. And no mammy to have her dinner ready after school like I do for you, pet. You’re so lucky with the family and
friends you have. You always have someone to play with when you come home from school, so wouldn’t it be a
kindness
to invite Colette to your party? Because I know that you are a
very
kind little girl. Now go and play with her and I’ll bring some lemonade and banana sandwiches out into the garden for the two of you, and you can have a picnic for tea,’
her mother says briskly.

But I don’t
want
to be a very kind little girl, Hilary wants to shout at her mother. But she knows she can’t. Sally has high expectations of her children. Kindness to others
is mandatory in the Kinsella household. Whether she likes it or not, Hilary has to be kind to Colette O’Mahony and, yet again, endure her unwanted presence at her much anticipated birthday
party.

Tears smart Colette O’Mahony’s eyes as she scurries away from the door where she has been listening to Hilary and Mrs Kinsella discussing whether or not she should
be invited to Hilary’s crummy birthday party. Colette’s heart feels as though a thousand, no a
million
nettles have stung it. Mrs Kinsella has said ‘poor Colette’
in a pitying sort of voice. She is
not
poor. She has her own bedroom and doesn’t have to share with an older sister. She has loads of good dresses and other clothes. Hilary Kinsella
only has
one
good dress for Sundays.
And
most important of all, Colette has a
servant
at home to make her dinner when she comes home from school.

Mummy calls her ‘the housekeeper’, but Colette tells all the girls in her class that Mrs Boyle is her ‘servant’.

Mrs Boyle will make jelly and ice cream and many delicious fairy cakes and chocolate Rice Krispie buns and a
huge
chocolate birthday cake for her birthday. Hilary will only have a cream
sponge and Toytown biscuits and lemonade and crisps. This thought comforts Colette. It is only through her supreme sense of superiority that she is able to process the enormous envy she has for all
that Hilary has. She hates that her mother works four days a week and Mrs Boyle – who is quite strict for a servant – looks after her three days, and Mrs Kinsella minds her on
Thursdays.

How she longs to spend a summer in a caravan and play on the beach all day. How she longs to join the Secret Six Gang that Hilary and her sister and cousins are part of every summer in
Bettystown. It sounds even more exciting than the Five Find-Outers stories that Mrs Boyle sometimes reads to her. Well she is going to start her own secret gang and Hilary is not going to be
allowed to be part of it, Colette vows.

The nettle stings in her heart are soothed somewhat at this promise to herself as she observes Hilary marching out of the kitchen with a cross look on her face. ‘We have to go and play
outside and then we’re having our tea in the garden,’ she announces with a deep sigh.

‘
My
servant gives me a push on
my
swing before
my
picnic in
my
garden,’ Colette declares, eyeballing her best friend. ‘It’s a pity
you
don’t have a servant or a swing,’ she adds haughtily before sashaying out into Hilary’s back garden.

‘Get me twenty Player’s, and ten Carrolls for your ma and get yourself a few sweets.’ Gus Higgins hands Jonathan a pound note and pats him on the shoulder.
‘Don’t be long, now,’ says Gus. ‘I’m gaspin’ for a fag!’

‘OK, Mr Higgins,’ Jonathan says, looking forward to the Trigger Bar he’s going to buy as his treat. The fastest way to the shop is through the lane, halfway down his road, but
he decides against it. The lane is a gathering place for some of the boys in his class to play marbles or football. It is no place for him. ‘Nancy boy’ and ‘poofter’ they
call him, and while he does not know what ‘poofter’ means, he knows it’s a nasty and spiteful taunt. He takes the longer route, and crosses the small village green to
Nolan’s Supermarket. ‘Hi, Jon,’ he hears Alice Walsh call, and smiles as his best friend catches up with him.

‘Guess what? My daddy gave me six empty shoeboxes from his shop so we can make a three-storey doll’s house with them. Can you come over tomorrow?’

‘Deadly.’ Jonathan feels a great buzz of excitement. ‘Mam has some material from curtains she is making for Mrs Doyle; we can use it for our windows. And we’ll make some
ice-pop-stick chairs and tables. But I have to clean out the fire and set it and do some other jobs for Mam first and then I’ll come over. See ya.’

‘See ya!’ she echoes cheerfully before he opens the door to the shop and hears the bell give its distinctive ping. Mr Nolan is stacking shelves and he takes his time before serving
Jonathan. ‘Don’t smoke all those at the one go,’ he says, giving him a wink as he hands over the change. All the big boys buy Woodbines after school. Jonathan tried smoking once
and it made him sick and dizzy, so Mr Higgins’s and his mam’s cigarettes are quite safe.

‘Did you buy something for yourself?’ Mr Higgins asks when Jonathan hands his neighbour his change and the brown paper bag with the cigarettes in it.

‘I bought a bar,’ he says when Mr Higgins takes the Carrolls out of the bag and hands them to him.

‘Gude wee laddie. Nie here’s the cigarettes for your mother. It can’t be easy for her being a poor widda woman. I have three daughters of ma own to support but at least I bring
home a good wage. Tell her it’s a wee gift.’ His neighbour is not from around Rosslara. He and his family moved into the house next door to Jonathan’s two years ago when Mrs Foley
died and sometimes Jonathan finds it hard to understand him if he talks fast. He says ‘nie’ instead of ‘now’ and ‘wee’ instead of ‘small’. The first
time Jonathan heard him say ‘wee’ he was shocked because he thought he was talking about wee wees. Until his mammy explained it to him, saying that people from different parts of the
country had different accents.

Jonathan’s mammy has to work very hard doing sewing and alterations, as well as working every morning in the doctor’s surgery answering the phone and making appointments for
patients. Jonathan’s daddy died when he was three and his mammy has to pay a lot of bills and take care of him and his two older sisters.

Mr Higgins says his mammy is a grand wee woman. He’s kind to her and buys her cigarettes, because she can’t afford them herself. Jonathan thinks this is a great thing to do and so he
never minds running errands for his neighbour.

‘Tell your wee mammy, ma missus will be wanting her to make a communion dress for ma wee girlie. She’s away into town to get new shoes for them all and I’m having a grand bit
of peace.’ Mr Higgins gives a little laugh and pulls the sitting-room curtains closed.

‘I’ll tell her, Mr Higgins,’ Jonathan says politely, wondering why his neighbour is opening the button at the top of his dirty blue faded jeans. Perhaps he’s going to lie
on the sofa and have a nap, he thinks.

‘Before ye go, I want you to do me another wee favour. It’s just between you and me now. Our little secret. And there’ll be another packet of ciggies for your ma and a treat
for yourself next week if ye do as I ask,’ Mr Higgins says. His breathing is raspy and his face is very red and Jonathan is suddenly apprehensive. Something isn’t right. Something has
changed but he’s not sure what. And then it’s as though everything is happening in slow motion, even the very particles of dust that dance along a stray sunbeam that has slipped through
a gap in the closed curtains, and even the pounding of his heart thudding against his ribcage, as Mr Higgins advances towards him.

1990
Upwardly Mobile

‘See you tonight,’ Niall Hammond said, planting a kiss on his drowsy wife’s cheek.