Cecelia Ahern Short Stories (8 page)

Nods of agreement, memories flashing back, quiet murmuring.

‘She’s always been such an attention seeker, isn’t that right, Mum?’ Edward shouts out and everybody laughs.

‘Do you remember that birthday party, Greg?’ George calls to the baby of the family.

Forty years old this year, my baby Greg. I watch him fondly, at how his face reddens as they taunt him. Ever since the day they’d formed words on their tiny lips, they’d never stopped teasing. How cruel siblings can be. I’d always hated their carry-on as children and teens, each of them so precious to me that one insult flung at them would hit me ten times harder than it ever would them. But siblings are impenetrable, each mock only adds another layer of thickened skin. When should a mother step in? I questioned myself each time, for I’d end up doing more harm than good for the little one I was protecting. Mummy’s pet, they would chant then. No, I tried to stay well out of it and watched them instead with the eyes in the back of my head, hurting for them more than they could ever hurt, feeling tested more than they were testing one another. I still do now. Over forty years old, the lot of them, their tongues sometimes dripping with more venom than ever before. Old enough to know better, the more years they have, the more childish those words from their mouths sound.

They’re teasing Greg now about his behaviour at my seventieth-birthday party. He was up dancing on that floor all night, mostly on his own, inhaling helium from the heart-shaped balloons they’d arranged for me, and singing the Bee Gees. More was that performance a ‘Tragedy’ than the song, for his enjoyment will be a source of embarrassment for the rest of his life.

A surprise seventieth. Now there’s an oxymoron: never was there a day I knew was on the horizon more than that one. It’s not a number that creeps up and shouts boo! Life does slip by, it’s true, but I’m not so unobservant as not to notice or so numb as not to feel seventy years in this life. But a surprise seventieth-birthday
party—
now
that
was a shock. Have you ever heard anything like it? That was a great big boo! in my ear. Had my hearing aid been switched off I’d still have heard it. Lucky my seventy-year-old heart didn’t fail me when I was besieged as I entered the room. A few drinks with Betty and Frank, my you-know-what. Betty had barely been out of her bed for a month. Oh, but it was the best excuse Fred could think of to get me down to that pub. If it wasn’t for the state of his prostate, I’d have thought he had a little someone on the side. On the phone for an entire month before that party, he’d leave the room every time I walked in. Late at night I’d hear him whispering down the phone, and there’s me thinking he was organizing the new patio
furniture from the magazine I’d left open on the table. But no, when they all jumped out at me from the dark, throwing streamers in my face and shouting, the surprise was on me. A moment I’ll never forget, and nor will they, for they’re still talking about it as my mind wanders.

‘I seem to recall not being alone on that dance floor, thank you very much,’ Greg defended himself. ‘Mum joined me for the moonwalk and we have the video footage to prove it.’

Ah, yes, we did. We’d had fun watching that at Christmas and every single Christmas since. They don’t drop a joke, my boys. Fred looks at me and smiles, remembering it all.

‘Hear what they’re saying about you, Mum?’ my daughter Louise calls out, and there are laughs all around.

I hear you, I hear you, I chuckle. Fred looks at me adoringly. Never stopped loving me for a moment. A second or two maybe, but never more than that.

‘Well you didn’t acquire your dance skills from Mum,’ Brendan shouts. Ah, Brendan. Always defending me. Even when I know I’m wrong.

‘A wonder on the dance floor,’ Fred says softly and takes my hand in his.

Oh, a wonder we were, from the bunny-hop to ballroom, the chicken dance to the cha-cha, the jig to the jive, we did them all. I dragged him to a dance class in the local community school one night forty years ago and since then he’d been dragging me around the dance floor every chance he got.

‘Never did get the handle on the tango,’ Fred says. No, we never did. Though we tried, and that’s what counts. Failed at a few things, me and him, but got through it all together, stronger at the end of it all.

‘They really were Fred and Ginger,’ George adds, and there are murmurs of agreement.

‘Why ginger?’ Sarah, my seven-year-old granddaughter, asks.

I laugh. All I am to her now is her grey-haired granny but to everyone else … I look around for someone else to answer the question for me.

‘Oh, your grandmother had bright-red fire-engine hair.’ Brendan speaks up on my behalf and I’m not surprised it’s him. ‘And when all the others on the dance floor saw her spinning their way they scattered right out of her way.’

Edward makes the sound of an ambulance and we all laugh. And then off they go discussing me again as though I’m not in the room. I’m sure I blush; I always have done. George may have got my red hair but Greg was cursed with my red cheeks. Louise? My only girl. I look to her and find she’s watching me, sadness in her eyes. I see the child in her again.

‘Well the things that stand out in my mind about you, Mum,’ George continues, ‘are your dancing, your graceful waltzes across the floor. You and Dad moving so fast no one could tell whose feet were whose.’

Murmurs of agreement.

‘And all those beautiful dresses you wore, too, and you’re wearing one of my favourites tonight.’

Oh, it’s my favourite, too, and Fred’s. He’s looking me up and down, still approvingly after fifty years. I swallow hard. There is plenty of discussion all around me now about which dress is whose favourite. An entire wardrobe of ball gowns, I made many of them myself but not the one I wear now. It’s gold-sequined and floor-length; worn the first time Fred and I got first place in the dance competition. I wear a pair of shoes to match. I can’t walk in them, not to mention dance in them, but I wear them all the same. I wear a gold slide in my silver hair with an emerald stone. Brings my eyes out, makes them sparkle, people always complimented. It’s not the slide that does it, I’d always say, it’s the man that gave it to me. He liked that.

‘A fondness for blueberry muffins also features strongly when I think of you, Mum,’ Greg carries on.

I laugh, and so does everybody else.

‘It’s not so much the blueberry muffins that stand out in my mind, it’s the twenty minutes spent taking the blueberries out before eating them that’s particularly memorable.’

‘The same with scones,’ Louise pipes up.

‘Is that so? I didn’t know,’ George laughs.

Fred looks at me and laughs. ‘Oh, you and your muffins and scones, love.’

‘What about her ironing Dad’s handkerchiefs?’ Edward calls out, and I have to chuckle again.

‘Every time I walk into that bloody house, she’s ironing Dad’s dirty handkerchiefs. For what? To end up scrunched in a ball in his pockets anyway!’

Fred takes a white crumpled handkerchief out of his pocket and waves it around the room.

‘He surrenders!’ Brendan shouts, and they all laugh again.

‘Her knock-knock jokes!’ Louise shouts out.

‘Awful!’ Edward calls.

‘Oh, they’re not so bad.’ Brendan brings it back down again. Typical Brendan.

‘Your homemade brown bread,’ Louise says softly, and I hear mmmmm’s of delight.

‘Your driving,’ Edward says, and there’s laughter. ‘Every day a new bump or scratch on that car.’

Fred and I laugh, knowing that a good driver I am
not.

‘Always blaming somebody else,’ Louise laughs.

The room erupts, and I cringe. A good liar I am not.

Fred finishes his whiskey, Edward tops him with more. Louise eyes Edward angrily. I smile in the quiet that follows. Bubbles of tension simmer, then calm.

‘There is so much for us to celebrate you for, Mum. We each have our individual stories, personal ones that
we’ll never forget, but collectively we thank you and celebrate you for the love and care you’ve given us all throughout our lives. During all our ups and downs and in-between moments, your love for us has never wavered, has never lessened. We have always felt you’ve given us your all, dedicated yourself completely and utterly to this family, and we have selfishly but gladly taken it all from you. Thank you.’

There are murmurs and nods of heads in agreement. My eyes fill.

‘We all love you very, very much, Mum.’ George’s voice cracks, and his wife Judith reaches out to hold his hand. He composes himself, my eldest boy who never cried in front of anybody, not even when he fell and hurt himself, wasn’t picked for the football team or fell in and out of love in the past. Only with me he’d shed those tears. He cried with me last week, let all those tears fall down those once-again pudgy cheeks, and I, with older hands, wiped them away for him again.

‘So let us all raise our glasses in a toast. To Mum, we all love you and … we will miss you beyond words.’

‘To Mum,’ voices repeat and eyes moisten.

There is a silence now. A sad one. They will be fine, they will all, always be fine.

I am beside Fred, but he looks before him to where I lie. He squeezes my hand, kisses me gently on the forehead and finally, slowly, lets go.

I drift away but don’t go far. Will never, ever be far.

‘Ah, this is the life, isn’t it, May?’ Mallard sighs with satisfaction as he makes himself comfortable along the lakeshore.

The crystal-blue water shimmers beneath the light of the sunrise, its ripples appearing like goose pimples as morning warmth touches cold. The water moves up and down as though, like Mallard, it takes a giant sigh of relaxation, breathing in and then releasing. The sun slowly rises, by far the largest buoy in the large lake. The more it peeps above the horizon, the further the orange glow seeps from the sun and spills its way, like ink, towards Mallard on the shore. His personal pathway to the sun. He knows things can’t possibly get any better than this. Him and May, back in Ireland at last, after a winter spent at their holiday home in South Africa.

‘It’s lovely, love.’ May fidgets beside him, restless as always as she picks at some bread.

‘You’re not too cold? We could go somewhere else if you’re cold?’

‘No I’m nice and warm, pet.’

‘Are you tired after the flight? You look a bit tired. Maybe we should have gone straight home instead of stopping off here.’

‘I am a bit tired, Mallard. It felt longer than usual. Or maybe I’m just getting old.’

‘Well it can’t be that,’ Mallard smiles. ‘It must have been longer than usual. Why don’t you go for a dip?’

‘That’s a good idea.’ She brightens up and hops over the harsh pebbles that border the lake.

Mallard looks out to the lake and spots familiar characters bobbing nearby in the waters. He quickly follows after her. ‘Actually, I’ll join you, May, those French lads over there were on the flight with us. Never stopped jabbering on for a second, do you remember them?’

‘Oh, you know me, love, I was in my own world. I was just watching the view for the entire journey.’

‘Well that’s what I wanted to do too but it was just
bonjour
this,
oui, oui
that, all the way over. And I wouldn’t trust them: males such as those just come over here to ruffle a few feathers, if you know what I mean.’

‘Oh, Mallard,’ May laughs. ‘You exaggerate too much. They look like they’re a friendly bunch to me.’

‘Of course they do, that’s what they want you to think. For Christ’s sake, don’t look now, May, they’re looking right over at us! Ah, hello there!’ He calls across to them and adds under his breath, ‘They’re coming over.’

’ Bonjour.’

‘Eh, yeah,
bonjour
to you, too. Enjoy your flight?’

‘Oui, oui,
it was
très
pleasant. Scenery was spectacular all of the way. Let us introduce ourselves,
je
m’appelle
Pierre and this is
monfrère—
my brother—Jean-Paul.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ May says politely.

‘This is my wife May, and I’m Mallard.’

‘Ah! Mallard!’ He laughs.

‘Yes, my parents were imaginative,’ he says, feeling himself heat up.

‘What a charming name.’ Pierre smiles.
‘Enchanté.’

Jean-Paul doesn’t say anything. Mallard eyes him suspiciously.

The four of them bob up and down rhythmically in the water. The motion is soothing and the gentle breeze of the morning sun tickles and brightens their faces, like a paintbrush on canvas.

May disappears as she dives head down into the waters, and not being the best conversationalist in the world, particularly with strangers, Mallard looks around awkwardly.

‘So, Mallard, are you from around here?’

‘No, no, we live more inland, Carrick-on-Shannon to be precise, but thought we’d give this Lake Corrib a crack, seein’ as it was such a lovely day and all and we’ve heard so much about it. We always travel with a large group, from in and around the same area, but we just thought we’d go out on our own for a little while. We’ll head home shortly.’

May, who’s still head down, kicks the surface of the water and manages to splash the three of them.

‘Eh, sorry about that. May’s a keen diver.’ He watches the soles of her feet splish, splash. ‘We’ve got a place in South Africa where we spend the winter, but it’s always nice to get back home, isn’t it?’

‘Bien sur. J’adore Irlande.
We come every year.’

‘Is that so? Seems these days it’s the other way around, with the country doing so well and all, the skies are filled with plane loads of people flying out to their holiday homes. Can’t get away from the Irish at all, I find,’ Mallard says seriously.

To his confusion, they both laugh and Mallard can’t relax until May pops back up from the water.

‘Where do you stay when you’re here, Pierre?’ she asks, shaking off the water from her face, sending droplets flying into Mallard’s eyes.

‘Every year we have spent months in Dublin city.
J’adore
Dublin. We spent most of our days in St Stephen’s Green in Dublin. The weather was splendid, such a lovely park with lake and waterfall. We have been every year, but for last year.’