Freckles(61)

Ah here’s Mammy now, Paddy says, as an old woman in a wheelchair is pushed to the door that meets the patio area and is left there, as a woman, presumably her carer, faintly visible in the darkened house, lifts a hand and leaves.

Thanks, Cora, Paddy calls. See you later.

So now it’s me, Daisy, Paddy, Decko and Mammy. I look over at Daisy. Maybe yesterday I would have felt embarrassed by this party in front of her. But I don’t today. She’s texting, not paying the slightest attention to anyone around her.

Hiya Mammy, Paddy says, kissing her. Mammy says nothing but her jaw works left to right as if she’s a cow chewing on cud. Wiry hairs on her wrinkled chin and lips all pulled in as if a drawstring around her lips. Looks like she has no teeth. We’re having a barbecue, Mammy, you like sausages don’t you, he asks.

She looks up at him then, a flicker of recognition in an otherwise confused state. She either recognises him or sausages. I think of Pops and his mice and hope it doesn’t come to this. It would hurt me, scare me if Pops didn’t recognise me. He’s all I have. What happens when the person who knows and loves you the most, the number one of your five, no longer knows who you are. Would it mean I’m erased.

The doorbell rings. I know who this is, Paddy announces again, genuinely excited at the guest arrival part of his day.

When I hear the voice at the other side of the door my stomach flips. Georgie.

I look at Daisy, open-mouthed. How did he know we were here, I ask.

I texted him the address, he’s going to drive me home, she says, and I feel relieved that she’s going to leave and not at all insulted.

In Georgie strides, in his tight shorts and T-shirt, body popping with muscles, thick neck from his rugby days, if he ever played. Collar up on his pink polo shirt. Slip-on shoes. Boat shoes. In case he’s going to be hopping on a yacht here in the Liberties. Plastic bags clinking in his hands.

Good afternoon all, he says confidently. What a smashing day. It smells good, Paddy, he says as if he’s known Paddy forever. I brought the Heino.

He doesn’t work here. His confidence, his accent, his voice, his posture, his energy. It doesn’t fit into this small yard, or this neighbourhood. The perfect gentleman, he thinks, as if butter wouldn’t melt, but to me he’s all rotten inside. All private school politeness, all dirty spoiled privileged cock on the inside and he shouldn’t be here with real honest to goodness people.

The doorbell rings again and I offer to get it, to escape the maddening sense of anger that’s rising in me for this guy I barely know. If Decko doesn’t give him a hiding, I will.

I open the door and Fidelma’s there with her daughter in her Holy Communion dress, hands pressed together in white-gloved hands in prayer, a position she’s been no doubt forced to take for every door they knock on. Decko, Georgie and Daisy, Paddy, me, Fidelma and her daughter Matilda all stand around sweltering outside, not a spot of shade in sight, not a bit of breeze. Mammy’s in the kitchen wearing a heavy cardigan and drinking water through a straw.

Time for food I reckon, Paddy says. He hands the food around on kids’ paper party plates. I try to make polite chit-chat with Fidelma who works in reception in Fingal County Council. I ask one question about the Communion and she goes through the entire Communion ceremony for me, from prayers to songs. Matilda spills tomato ketchup on her white dress and cries. Decko doesn’t want anything with lettuce, peppers or onions. He doesn’t eat vegetables. He tries the burger and won’t eat it because there’s something on the meat. Paddy tells him it’s been marinated that’s all, but he won’t finish it. He lights up a cigarette instead. The lack of breeze keeps the cigarette haze trapped in the hot square and at some stage we all cough. Paddy makes a joke about opening the gate and letting the heat out but that’s as far as he goes to complaining.

The food is delicious. The best barbecue I’ve ever had. Even the gherkins are a taste sensation. I eat every morsel and lick my fingers and hold my plate out for more to a deliriously happy Paddy. George eats the steak, no carbs, and declares it to be smashing. But his overuse of the word dilutes its genuineness. Daisy demolishes her chicken and I see her wrap a sausage in a napkin and put it in her bag when she thinks no one is looking. I try at one stage to get a group conversation going about Daisy’s charity work. Her next trip is Nepal to help build and repair classrooms damaged by earthquakes. I’m sure Matilda would like to have heard about her building schools but the Happy Nomad is no more interested in talking about her volunteering adventures then Decko is in trying a barbecued banana for dessert.

Fidelma’s chest is burning in the sun. It’s sizzling and starting to bubble with a heat rash. She swiftly leaves with Matilda. I give Matilda a fiver, it’s all I have spare. Decko gives her something too. Paddy of course has a card ready for her, but Daisy and George don’t even notice the guests leave. The party is over but they don’t pick up on the social cue to go. Or even when I say let’s go.

Instead, George blares music from his iPhone and they begin dancing to ‘Rhythm is a Dancer’ in their own worlds thinking they’re fun and fabulous, more fun than anyone ever placed on the universe. They look pathetic. Georgie’s boat shoe accidentally kicks the barbecue legs. The barbecue falls over, makes an almighty noise as it clatters to the ground. Mammy gets a dreadful fright, she starts crying. Paddy goes for Mammy, Decko goes for the barbecue, George and Daisy are almost peeing themselves laughing.