A Wedding at O'Mara's (The Guesthouse on the Green Book 6) Read online

  Aisling knew the painting Mammy was talking about. ‘Edvard Munch’s, The Scream. He was a Norwegian expressionist.’ She spieled off the explanation Moira had given them all for the disturbing print she’d hung in pride of place on her bedroom wall. It had frightened Aisling almost as much as the Bono poster her little sister used to stick to her bedroom door as payback for something or other. ‘She told us we were all heathens who wouldn’t know great art if it smacked us in the head.’

  ‘So, she did. Uppity wee madam she was in her teens. Terrible phase. Anyway, what I was saying is that I could fill Leila in on all the family and who’s to go where. Take a load off of it all for you.’

  ‘No, thank you, Mammy. We’ll manage.’ Aisling knew her mammy was itching to take over from Leila; she’d done exactly that with Roisin’s wedding and if she were to give her an inch, she’d take a mile. ‘You’re in charge of the RSVPs sure, and you and Bronagh are having to sort out who’s staying in what room.’ No guest bookings were to be taken two days prior or after the wedding. ‘That’s a big enough responsibility.’ She’d given Mammy the task of tallying up who was coming and sorting out accommodations because she wanted her to feel part of it all, but that was a big enough part, thank you very much.

  ‘Well it is when you only give people a few weeks’ notice, Aisling.’

  ‘Mammy, we’ve been through all of this. I don’t see the point in dragging things out.’

  ‘There’s dragging things out and then there’s your Shogun wedding. People will talk.’

  ‘Shotgun wedding, Mammy. People don’t have to get married anymore because they’ve a baby on the way but for the record, I’m not in the family way thanks very much. So, people can talk all they like.’

  ‘Aisling, have you something in your mouth?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She swallowed the bite of her sandwich.

  ‘Aisling O’Mara, your nose grew then so it did. And don’t you come crying to me when you’re a tenner short and your dress won’t fit.’

  Aisling scowled and dropped what was left of the sandwich back on the plate. ‘Look, Mammy, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Well, don’t let me hold you up. I’m only your mammy after all.’

  Aisling rolled her eyes; spare her the poor, hard done by Mammy act. ‘Bye-bye, enjoy your watercolour painting class.’ As Aisling hung up, a thought popped into her head. She hoped Mammy wasn’t after doing a self-portrait as a wedding present for her and Quinn. Jaysus! Her grinning down at them as they lay in their marital bed would give her nightmares and be the end of any riding. She wrapped herself inside her coat and picked up her bag, her eyes alighting on her book, open to where she’d left it on the coffee table the night before. Roisin had given her it for Christmas and she’d managed to read two more chapters before her eyes had grown heavy. The next thing she’d known, Moira was nudging her telling her to feck off to bed because she couldn’t hear the tele over her snoring. What she wouldn’t give to clamber back into bed now with a nice cup of tea and a plate of hot buttered toast. Oh, to while away the afternoon with her book. Her idea of bliss. Give her that any day over an upmarket spa, she thought as she headed out the door making a mental note to self to get Moira to start giving her weekly facials and to be sure to double check her manicurist appointment and, somewhere in between her list of one hundred and one things to do, she’d have to find time to see her fiancé.

  Chapter 4

  Noreen

  Noreen Grady’s knitting needles clicked and clacked to a rhythm of their own. She was knitting a jersey for the sick babies in Africa. It was a vibrant affair of yellow and orange because she thought the little baby who wore it would like the bright, cheery colour. Another twenty minutes and she’d have it done. Then she could put it in Kathleen’s box along with the others waiting to be shipped off to the hospital in South Africa. Agnes, Margaret and Kathleen, with whom she met each Friday here at Alma’s Tea Shop to catch up on all the week’s news while they all did their bit for those less fortunate than themselves, were also clacking away. Once the jerseys were finished, they were going to start on hats for the little prem babies at the hospital in Cork.

  Her three friends were in the midst of a whispered discussion over whether Alma’s currant buns had been on the dry side and was she after putting yesterday’s buns back in the cabinet? Noreen thought it quite likely. She was a business woman herself and Alma was as hard-nosed and sharp as they came, didn’t miss a trick.

  The jangle of the door opening brought in a whiff of cigarette smoke from a smouldering fag end on the pavement outside. The jangling was a sound that always took her back to her own days behind the counter. It was a familiar tinkle, signalling someone was in need of something, and had always seen her put down the tins she was restocking the shelves with or whatever she’d been busy doing to look up and say a cheery hello. Alma could do with injecting a little more of the cheer into her greeting, she thought looking at the po-faced woman as she wiped out her cabinets. Noreen missed running her little corner shop. It hadn’t just been a place to get your essentials it had been a hub for hearing all about what was happening in the village of Claredoncally where she’d lived for all of her married life.

  Things were changing here though, she thought, as a truck rumbled through the narrow street outside. The windows rattled and her seat juddered. Oh, they were changing alright and not for the better in her opinion. Her shop was a Spar now. A Spar! Who’d have thought. All the personality and personal service she and her late husband, Malachy, God rest his poor departed soul, prided themselves on, leached from it by a generic chain store. It had been their child that shop. They’d poured the love and energy left over from not being able to have a baby of their own into it. And it had been enough too, almost. The hole still left by the absence of children’s laughter had been filled by Emer. It had broken her heart to take down the sign they’d hung over the door some fifty years earlier almost as much as it had broken her heart when Malachy passed. But passed he had and practical she had to be. She was no longer able to manage the stairs to the cosy home they’d made above the shop. The time had come to put her feet up.

  The price for the premises dangled under her nose by the conglomerate was the sort that didn’t come along twice and so, despite her misgivings at accepting, common sense had been the order of the day. She liked to think Malachy would have approved, or at least understood. The business and home didn’t fit anymore with him gone. It had become too much to manage for a widow woman on her own.

  It had been an adjustment to move into the brand new, little house she’d had built on an empty square parcel of land three streets down from the main road of Claredoncally. It was quieter for one thing, especially with the double glazing on the windows. There was something to be said for a few mod cons and creature comforts in one’s old age though, and her chest at least hadn’t missed the damp beginning to seep through the walls of the bathroom in the rooms above the shop.

  She hoped Malachy was having a good long rest up there with the angels. He deserved it, he’d worked hard all his life. Never harder than when they were young. Fresh out of the high school they’d both gone off to earn their keep at the local fish factory, saving what pennies were left from their board to go toward their wedding and their dream of buying Mr Brosnan’s corner shop when the time came. Sure, everybody had known the old man was going doolally from the way he kept handing out too much or too little change and talking about the oddest of things, yes it had been high time he sold up. And, when he did, they’d been ready and so the little corner shop in charge of servicing the village of Claredoncally had become Grady’s Convenience Store.

  She’d felt such pride in the place and had never tired of turning the sign hanging in the window from closed to open. There was no greater satisfaction than being one’s own boss in life. She smiled to herself, recalling how she and Malachy used to laugh about how nice it was to finish their days work with him not smelling like a mackerel, her a herring.
And, they never ate fish ever again except when they had to, as good Catholics, on a Friday.

  ‘Noreen,’ there was irritation in Kathleen’s voice and Noreen looked at her blankly, coming back from her reminiscing to ask her old friend to repeat what she’d said.

  ‘Sure, you were away with the fairies. I asked you about this big do in Dublin, Aggie’s after telling me you’re off to.’

  ‘Oh yes, the wedding.’ Noreen put her knitting down; she’d been trying not to think about it. She looked at the teapot on the table. Another strong cup of tea was in order if she were to relay this tale. ‘Any chance of more hot water, Alma,’ she called. Alma nodded, muttering something under her breath as she put her cloth down and set about filling the kettle.

  ‘Can I interest you in another currant bun each? They’d go down a treat with your tea,’ she asked, waddling over and setting the water down.

  ‘Sure, you’d need something to wash them down. Stick in your gullet those would,’ Agnes muttered.

  ‘What did you say, Aggie?’ Alma said, wincing. ‘My knees aren’t half giving me bother today.’ Her expression was a grimace as Agnes shook her head but didn’t bother to repeat her sentiment. ‘It’s no good for my arthritis all this standing about. I’m too old for this lark.’

  ‘Giving the buns, away are you?’ Margaret ignored her moans and groans never pausing in her purl stitch.

  ‘You want to take a leaf out of my book, Alma, and retire,’ Noreen offered up.

  ‘Sure, and how am I supposed to afford the likes of putting my feet up when Margaret here would have me giving away my earnings. She’d have me in the poor house.’

  ‘Ah, get away with you. I’ll have a bun but heat it up would you and for the love of God put some butter on it,’ Agnes said, and Alma scuttled off before she could change her mind. Noreen topped up the pot and while she waited for the tea to steep, she filled her three friends in on the invitation she’d received a few days ago.

  ‘So, the wedding is at the family’s church there in Dublin and the reception is to be held at the restaurant her fiancé owns. And you’ll be accommodated at the guesthouse your grand-niece or whatever she is runs,’ Kathleen clarified. None of the women had been able to come up with an appropriate title for the daughter of a cousin either so grand-niece it was.

  Noreen nodded.

  ‘Well for someone who won’t have to lift a finger for a few days you don’t look very happy about it all,’ Agnes pointed out.

  ‘Is it Emer?’ Kathleen asked, studying Noreen’s face, knowing the family history. ‘Will she be there?’

  Noreen’s lips tightened at the mention of her sister’s child, Emer, who she’d taken under her wing. Emer, who she’d treated like a daughter. Emer, who’d betrayed her.

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘She will.’

  Chapter 5

  ‘Aisling, eat something would you,’ Leila said, watching her friend play with her food across the table. She’d have preferred to go to Quinn’s for lunch but Aisling had suggested they come here to Holy Moly the self-proclaimed salad gurus of Dublin instead. The only reason Aisling wanted to steer clear of her fiancé’s bistro was because she knew he’d ignore her dietary requirements and present her with a plate heaped full of her favourite, bangers ‘n’ mash. Quinn, Aisling had confided in Leila, did not make her efforts to lose weight before the wedding easy. Aisling, Quinn had confided in Leila, was a nightmare when she was hungry and he wished she’d buy a dress in the next size up and be done with it.

  ‘I don’t like chickpeas.’ Aisling speared one viciously with her fork before eying it as though it were a cyanide pill.

  ‘Then why did you order a Moroccan salad?’

  ‘Because it sounded exotic but healthy. I’d have rather have had what you’re having but I didn’t want all the garlicy, mayonnaise stuff. Perhaps I should have asked for it without the dressing.’

  Leila had chosen the chicken Caesar salad and was thoroughly enjoying it. ‘Yes, but if you don’t have the dressing, it doesn’t taste like a Caesar salad which defeats the purpose. Here have some croutons.’ She flicked a couple over onto Aisling’s plate.

  Aisling crunched on them and then helped herself to a few more until Leila thwacked her with her fork. ‘Leave some for me.’

  ‘Sorry.’ It wasn’t fair Aisling lamented. Leila was a petite blue-eyed blonde who could stuff as many croutons and the like down her as she wanted and never gain a pound. Sure, all she had to do was sniff anything remotely tasty and it took up residence on her hips. She debated briefly as to whether she should risk one more, crispy piece of the dried bread but then decided no, she’d crack on with what they’d come here to talk about. It would take her mind off eating, for the interim at any rate. ‘I don’t want anything to be the same, Leila. Not one single thing. You know that don’t you?’

  ‘As when you were planning to marry Marcus the Fecker McDonagh? Yes, Aisling, you’ve mentioned it more than once.’

  ‘Exactly.’ She waved her fork at her friend and the chickpea fell back into the bowl. ‘I’m not shopping at Ivory Bridal Couture this time around either because I think it jinxed me the last time.’

  ‘The only thing jinxing you was that ex-fecker of a fiancé of yours and good riddance to him.’

  Aisling agreed with the latter sentiment. ‘I know, if Marcus hadn’t jilted me then I wouldn’t have gotten together with Quinn but I’m not taking any chances, Leila. I’ve booked us an appointment at Bridal Emporium on Friday afternoon, which, as you know is a one-stop shop for the bride, the bridesmaid, and the mother of the bride, then on the Saturday we’ve an appointment at Hair She Goes to figure out how we’re all going to be wearing our hair. I texted you the times, did you get it? It’s going to be a busy weekend.’

  Leila held a hand up. ‘You’re speaking way too fast, Aisling. Slow down and take a deep breath.’

  Aisling knew she was beginning to sound like one of the Chipmunks whenever she talked about her wedding but she couldn’t help it. She inhaled slowly through her nose and out through her mouth like Roisin had showed her. It helped a little.

  Leila carried on. ‘It is going to be busy, but sure, it’s great Rosi’s coming over to be part of it all.’

  ‘Yes, she can help me keep Mammy in line. I think Mammy’s feeling a little left out of things but one of the reasons I chose Bridal Emporium was so she’ll be occupied choosing her mammy of the bride outfit instead of focussing on my dress. Do you remember, Roisin’s?’

  ‘I do.’ Leila said sobering at the memory of the white crochet toilet dolly dress, Roisin had been lumbered with in order to keep her mammy happy. Then, thinking of Maureen O’Mara sitting all alone in her apartment in Howth when she could be joining them for lunch added, ‘Poor Maureen. You should have brought her along with you today, Aisling. She could have been brought up to speed with all the plans.’

  ‘There’s not shutting her out and being a complete roll-over, Leila.’

  ‘True.’

  They giggled. ‘Anyway, enough about Mammy. I want a completely different style of dress this time and need you there to be honest with me but in a nice way, okay?’ She pinned her gaze on her friend, already hearing Moira in her head, ‘It makes you look like a milk bottle with a red top and freckles, Ash, get it off.’

  Leila raised two fingers to her temple, ‘I promise to do my best, Brownie’s honour.’ Her smile however drooped at the realisation Aisling’s insistence everything be different this time around meant she could say goodbye to the beautiful bridesmaids’ dresses previously picked out.

  Aisling registered the disappointed look on her friend’s face. ‘I’m sorry, Leila, I know you look gorgeous in soft blue but we’re going for a whole new look for all of us. I don’t want any reminders, okay?’

  ‘Fair play to you, although they were divine. You don’t have to pay for mine either. You’re spending enough as it is and, speaking of money...’

  Were they? Aisling thought finding the topic distast
eful.

  ‘I am keeping a running total of your expenditure, here.’ Leila produced a notebook in which was a handwritten tally of columns with deposits put down and a note as to the balance and when it was due. She pushed it toward Aisling who gazed at it blankly before sliding it back to Leila.

  ‘It’s a good idea to check-in with this regularly, Ash. So you don’t get any nasty surprises.’ She snapped the book shut. ‘It’s amazing how costs for a wedding can escalate and these days bridesmaids don’t expect the bride to cover their dresses.’

  Aisling had no choice but to spring for Moira’s dress and as such it was only fair she did the same for Roisin, who wasn’t cashed up either. As for Leila, she was grateful to her for coming to the rescue with the organising of her day on such short notice. The dress was her way of saying thank you to her friend. ‘I want to.’

  ‘Well, I appreciate it, Ash, but promise me you won’t go overboard alright? You’re the star of the show. And we don’t want anything short either, alright? Or, we’ll all have fecking goosebumps in the photographs, and can we have a cape or jacket of some description so we don’t freeze our arses off? I saw some horrendous photos of a winter wedding the other day where the bridal party was all lined up with the bridesmaids’ headlights on full beam. Imagine passing it around the family?’ She shuddered.

  Aisling grimaced. ‘Uncle Colm would love it! He’d probably ask if he could have the negatives.’