Freckles(6)

Ye rat, Spanner says to him, but gives him a fresh cigarette before coming back inside.

You should be careful, Spanner, I warn him, concerned. The last time you saw Chloe you had an argument with her sisters.

The three ugly sisters, he says. Faces on them like busted cabbages.

And she threatened you with a restraining order.

She couldn’t even spell it, he laughs. It’ll be grand. It’s my right to see Ariana. I’ll do anything. If bein nice is the last resort, then I’ll be nice. I can play that game.

The commuters from the 7.58 Dart start to mill on to the Main Street from the train station. Soon the small space in the bakery will be crowded and Spanner will be single-handedly serving coffees, cakes and sandwiches as fast as he can. I finish up my coffee, and take my last mouthful of waffle, wipe the icing sugar from my mouth, discard the napkin and I’m gone.

Move on now, Whistles, Spanner shouts at him. You’ll put everyone off their food and not one of them ever gives you a cent.

Whistles slowly stands, grabs his stuff, his cardboard seat and shuffles off around the corner and down Old Street. The breeze blows his tuneless song in my direction.

The first jobs of the day are the local schools. Not enough space, too many cars. Tired, stressed-out parents, pulling in where they shouldn’t be, parking where they shouldn’t be parking, cardigans and coats hiding pyjamas, trainers with business attire, hassled heads sweating to drop off before they leg it to work, bed-headed kids with school bags bigger than themselves being shouted at to hurry up and hop out. Would someone for the love of God take their kids from them so they can go and do all the things. I get abuse from the same double-parked stress-heads every morning. Not the kids’ faults. Not my fault. Nobody’s fault. But I’ve still got to patrol it.

First I eye up the free space outside the hair salon that will be filled within the next half-hour with a silver three series 2016 BMW. I glance inside the small salon, lights off, empty and closed until 9 a.m. While I’m looking in the window, a car pulls into the available space outside the salon. I turn around and eye the driver, a man, who’s switching off the engine and undoing his seat belt. He looks at me the entire time. He opens the door, puts one foot out on the pavement and stares at me.

Can I not park here, he asks.

I shake my head and even though I’m not imitating a garda, I am being one in my head. Gardaí don’t always have to give reasons.

He rolls his eyes, pulls his leg back into the car, and as he’s securing his seat belt and starting the engine he looks around at the signage, confused and irritated.

I stand there until he drives away.

It’s only 8 a.m. Pay-and-display begins at 8.30 a.m. No legal reason why he can’t park here.

But she always parks here.

Every day.

It’s her spot.

And I protect it.





Four


Nine a.m. to noon it’s mostly parking offences. Cars in loading bays preventing van deliveries, causing mayhem on small village roads. Parking tickets for cars left over from the night before, drinkers getting taxis home and not getting back to their cars in time the next morning to pay their parking fees. Busier with that today than any other weekday, with Thursday night being a popular night out. Parking is free on Sundays. They can do what they like then.

I’m kept busy.

I walk by the silver BMW outside the hair salon. In her spot. You’re welcome. Parking all paid up. Business pay-and-display in the correct place on the dashboard. Correct vehicle for the correct disc. Good woman. Most people forget to alert the council to their change of vehicle. Which is an offence that they get ticketed for. The BMW is all legal. Six hundred euro for that annual disc. She’s doing well. Her own little hair salon. Only has six seats inside but it’s always busy. Two shampooing stations, three chairs before a mirror. And a little desk and chair at the window for nails. Shellac and gel. She’s always there. I notice when her car’s not there, wonder if she’s okay, or the family, but I assume I’d know from the look on her staff’s face if something terrible had happened. Her parking credentials are always above board, but still I check. No one is infallible. Disc in the dashboard, a booster seat in the back.

That captures my attention for a moment.

At noon I walk down James’s Terrace, a cul de sac of terraced Georgian houses, now all businesses, facing the tennis courts. I admire the view ahead of me, right across to Donabate, fishing boats, sailing boats, blue, yellows, browns and green, reminds me of home. Home is a marina town too, not exactly like this, but the sea air is something to connect me, and it’s as close as Dublin gets to home for me. Cities make me feel claustrophobic and this suburban village has given me more breathing room.

Home is Valentia Island, Kerry, but boarding school was Thurles. I went home most weekends. Pops worked in Limerick University, a professor of music until he semi-retired a while back. He plays cello and piano, taught them on the weekend and during summers in our house, but his main job and obsession was talking about music. I could imagine his lectures, him full of joie to vivre about his favourite subject. That’s why he called me Allegra, Italian for fun and lively, but really from the musical description allegro, a piece of music that is played in a fast and lively way. The best instrument of all was Pops’ humming. He could, and can, hum the entire four minutes thirteen seconds of Marriage of Figaro.