A Week in Winter(29)

‘Well at least you know the difference, which is more than some of us. Let me give you a hand planting some stuff that will survive up in Stone House. Half those things you put in will die in the winter.’

Miss Daly cycled around and had a pint in several of the local pubs to mark her territory. And when Brigid came home, she asked all the questions that Orla didn’t dare to. Like what would Brigid do all day after the honeymoon if she wasn’t going to work? Did they plan a family immediately? Would she be seeing a lot of the Farrell in-laws?

The answers were deeply unsatisfactory and seemed to centre around going to a lot of race meetings and popping down to Foxy’s sister’s place in Spain. But there were some small mercies. Brigid just loved Miss Queenie’s dress, describing it with approval as vintage. Foxy’s sister was going to be wearing a vintage dress also. It would be very suitable.

The wedding was just as awful as Orla had feared. It was totally over the top, with a giant marquee and conspicuous wealth on display everywhere.

The O’Haras had pushed the boat out and even done up a few of the townhouses which they had bought during the property boom but had been standing idle since the recession. They had been given a quick paint job and refurbished for the Farrell family to stay in, which met with much approval.

Foxy’s best man, Conor, another clown who had left behind his Irish roots with his Irish accent, made a speech of profound vulgarity where he said that one of the perks of being best man was that you got to shag the bridesmaid, and that this wouldn’t be too great an ordeal tonight. Foxy laughed uproariously. Orla stared ahead stonily and tried not to meet Chicky’s eye.

Chicky whispered to her brother Brian that he was well out of that lot. But Brian, who still smarted at his rejection by the O’Hara family, had lingering regrets about Sheila O’Hara – now separated from her gambling husband – who had once been thought to be such a good catch.

After the bride and groom had left for Shannon airport, Conor approached Orla.

‘I hear you have your own place,’ he said.

‘Don’t you have a wonderful way about you,’ she said admiringly, ‘I bet all the girls love you.’

‘We’re not talking about all the girls, we’re talking about you, tonight. How about it?’ he said, taking her remarks at face value.

Orla looked at him, astounded. He hadn’t realised she was sending him up. If Conor and Foxy were bankers, it was no wonder the Western economy was in the state it was.

‘If I were to die wondering what sex was about I wouldn’t go within an ass’s roar of you, Conor,’ she said, smiling at him pleasantly.

‘Lesbian,’ he spat at her.

‘That must be it all right.’ Orla was cheerful.

‘OK, be a ball-breaker then. I was only asking because it was expected.’

‘Of course you were, Conor.’ Orla’s voice was soothing.

Miss Daly had been on a great trek across the mountains to avoid going to the wedding. She had met two French dentists who were on holiday there. They were heading up to Donegal tomorrow. Miss Daly was going to go with them. They had a car with a roof rack – perfect for her bicycle.

Orla sat and gaped at her.

‘I know, Orla, the world is divided into people like me and people like Brigid. Aren’t you lucky to walk a middle road.’

She had little time to think about it. Rigger’s wedding was upcoming. This was going to be a much more normal affair.

Chicky was going to serve roast lamb in Stone Cottage, and they made a magnificent cake for Rigger and Carmel. Compared to the nonsense in the marquee and the posturing of the Farrell and O’Hara factions, this was very relaxed and full of charm.

Chicky, Orla and Miss Queenie sat and congratulated each other when it was over and the Hickeys had gone home happy.

The major building work was almost completed now on Stone House; there only remained the design and decor to be agreed. Chicky still wanted to hire professionals, and Orla insisted that nobody be paid any money until they proved they could do the job. Orla thought Chicky would be well able to do it herself. She had the original source material, after all. Miss Queenie could tell them what the place looked like in the old days.

Chicky understood comfort and style, yet she was hesitant and holding back about her own ideas.

‘We are charging serious money for people to come and stay here. We don’t want to have them saying that the place is phoney or tatty or anything.’

‘I met a lot of these designers in London,’ Orla said. ‘Some of them were brilliant, I agree, but a lot of them were cowboys. Real emperor’s new clothes. You’d want to watch them like a hawk.’

They settled on a couple called Howard and Barbara. They came well recommended by Brigid, who had met them with Foxy Farrell at a party in Dublin.

Orla hated them on sight. They were in their early forties, with affected accents and made lots of use of the words ‘darling’ and ‘so’, usually when dismissing something.

‘Darling, you mustn’t even think about having that grandfather clock in the hall. It will be so disturbing and unsettling for sleep rhythms.’

‘There was always a grandfather clock in the hall,’ poor Miss Queenie said, mildly.

‘Hallo, we are talking about making this place acceptable, aren’t we? That’s what we’re here for, darling.’