A Grand Old Time: The laugh-out-loud and feel-good romantic comedy with a difference you must read in 2018

Evie said, ‘I am god-damned pissed off.’

‘Mammy,’ said Brendan. ‘How are you?’ and he realised she had already answered. Maura launched herself forward, her dutiful expression on her face.

‘Mother, it’s good to see you. You’re looking well. Can I get you a cup of tea?’

Evie looked at Maura in her suit and tightly pinned curls and decided she would rather eat shit. She closed her eyes. The reindeer was gone. In its place were thin blue veins that throbbed in her lids. She heard Maura whine to the care assistant: ‘I think she’s getting worse, Mrs Lofthouse.’

‘She comes and goes, I think.’

Evie wished they would all come and go.

‘It’s so upsetting for Brendan, seeing his mother like this. It’s like she’s away with the fairies.’

‘We see it all the time,’ replied Mrs Lofthouse, hollowly. Evie was not sure what she saw all the time; Mrs Lofthouse was short-sighted and short-witted. In fact just plain short. And fat. Evie felt a hand on her arm; she knew Brendan’s touch. Her emotion was visceral and she remembered the little boy who used to clutch at her fingers as a child. She opened her eyes. He was in his late thirties now, but looked older, his hair still thick but greying, his face loosening, hanging from the sharp cheekbones: a worried face. His mouth seldom offered the boyish chuckle he had once used as his trademark, but his eyes were still rounded with hope. Evie was about to smile at him, but Maura’s grunts made her turn sharply.

‘You’re back with us again then, Mother?’ Evie twitched her nose; Maura’s perfume was attacking her throat and making her choke.

‘I am not your mother,’ she wheezed.

‘Mrs Lofthouse, could Mammy have a glass of water please?’ Brendan called out and the care assistant waddled over like a frontline sergeant major holding a cup like a bayonet. Evie expected her to shout, ‘Chaaarge.’

Mrs Lofthouse said, ‘Come on, Evelyn, drink up.’ Evie took a mouthful then sat up, looking at each of them. She thought of the film about the hobbits, sitting around the table for a hobbity talk, each stunted, each poised, each waiting their turn. Evie coughed again and the water in her mouth sprayed in all directions. She spat and choked and laughed at the same time, a cachinnation of triumph. She flopped back in the comfy armchair, put her arms on the supports.

An hour passed. The conversation was slow and stilted. Evie stared through the window at the place where the path started and wound away towards the road. Brendan shifted in his seat and smiled towards his mother and then at his wife.

‘We can’t stay too long, Brendan,’ Maura said.

He rose up slowly, his eyes on his mother. ‘All right, Mammy, I’ll see you next week, same time.’

‘She probably can’t hear you, Brendan. It is so upsetting for him to see her like this.’

‘We see it all the time,’ mused Mrs Lofthouse.

‘Bye Mammy.’ Brendan kissed the top of her head. Evie almost reached out to him. Maura shook her head and pursed her lips. Evie scrutinised her daughter-in-law for several seconds.

‘Maura?’

‘What is it, Mother?’

‘Did anyone ever tell you? You have a mouth like an arsehole.’

Brendan’s face brightened, a smile flickering on his lips, and he looked at Evie with tenderness and something close to desperation.

‘Come on, Brendan.’ Maura’s mouth was now screwed tightly in anal closure. Brendan saw his mother wink at him before he rushed out after his wife.

Mrs Lofthouse snorted. ‘We’d better clean you up, Evelyn.’

‘I’m coming back as a stag,’ Evie announced.

Evie was sitting at her dressing table in room 15, second floor: her room. On the door was a small notice which read: ‘Please respect my dignity. Knock before entering and wait. I may be asleep.’ In the mirror, Evie saw the room reflected behind her: the single bed with the red rose duvet cover, her little chest of drawers, the shelf with her photos, the moss-green curtains and magnolia walls and the mouse-grey carpet. This was her home now, thanks to the sale of the house. Maura had said the house was too big for her, but room 15 was far too small. Brendan had thought she would have company in Sheldon Lodge and, when she had first looked round it, the thought of spending her first Christmas alone made the place look like a hotel. The bedrooms were attractive, as was the dining room with the little tables set for four, and Barry, the cheerful chef in his pristine checked pants, had promised her that he would let her have real butter on her toast. The manager, Jenny, had been friendly and welcoming, enthusiastic about the new lifestyle Evie would enjoy – fitness programmes and music nights and watercolour painting. Evie had looked with a child’s hopeful eyes at Sheldon Lodge, at the twinkling tree and the decorations, signed the forms and moved in. Christmas had turned out to be turkey, torpor and television.

The triple mirror held her reflection, and her mother’s face looked back at her from three angles, hollow-eyed. Her mother had had no teeth when she died. Evie still had all her own teeth, bar one. Her mother had been grey but Evie’s hair was soft and brown, although the roots were streaked with silver. Her mother was all done in at forty; Evie was seventy-five, but she was certain she was not done yet.

‘Hot chocolate for you, Evie? Rich Tea biscuits or Penguins?’ Evie glanced over her shoulder to see Alex, his smiling face peeping around the door. Alex placed the tray down, and lifted off a mug and a plate of biscuits. ‘Everything all right for you today, darling?’

‘I’d rather have a nice glass of Merlot.’ She chewed her lip. ‘Alex – do you like it here?’

Alex’s cheeks lifted with laughter. ‘I am here for three years, Evie. I have girlfriend here. Work is good and the people are friendly. Dublin better than Kiev for me, that is for sure.’ Evie looked miserable and turned away. ‘Why you don’t like it here, Evie?’

‘I am bored, Alex.’

‘There is television, darling. Banjo player is coming in later. Maybe now you can play dominoes downstairs with Barbara?’

‘I don’t give a shite for dominoes.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘It’s driving me mad.’ Evie’s eyes were intense. ‘I’ve come here by mistake.’

Alex shook his head. ‘Maybe tomorrow things are better?’ he suggested, but his face lost its smile as he picked up the empty tray and left Evie alone again. She lifted the cup. The hot chocolate was tepid and the biscuit tasted like grit.

Evie looked around at her room. She could not live like this for the rest of her days. Images came to her of static yoga classes and gurning banjo players and the two old ladies who stared, unblinking, at the television. Her fingers clutched at the neck of her jumper and as the idea came to her she stood paralysed, and could only feel the beating of her heart. In one movement, she was in front of the dressing table.

She tugged open her top drawer, lifting underwear to find her purse, her driving licence, her cheque card. Below were more familiar things: her bus pass, a passport, some jewellery, a small umbrella. She touched the four-leaf clover that her father had given her so many years ago, still dried and pressed in tissue paper, now between the pages of her small photograph album that was crammed with pictures of a younger Brendan in shorts with his father Jim. She found the mobile phone that Brendan had given her for Christmas so they could keep in touch, still in its box. These items were no longer relics of the past – they were tickets to new freedom. Without thinking, she pushed them all into her small handbag. June in Dublin was always pretty, and the Monday morning shops would be full of people. She would spend time breathing fresh air; just a small scent of the real world was already in her nose. Evie knew the door codes and the schedules of Sheldon Lodge. Each day ran like clockwork. It would not be difficult. That night, she slept the sleep of the smug.

Chapter Four

The children swarmed across the pitch, some yelling, some pushing, some straggling behind. Brendan blew the whistle with a pheep so loud it hurt his ears. The kids buzzed around him, their voices a cacophony of complaints.

‘Get yourself changed now.’

‘Mr Gallagher, that last ball was a penalty. Dennis brought the striker down.’

‘Did not, you gobshite.’

‘And you did so.’

‘I’ll give you a fat fucking lip.’

‘Yeh? Yeh? Come on, then.’

Brendan blew the whistle again. The kids’ faces were red with sweat and effort.

‘In the changing rooms: showers, now. Go on.’

The kids sloped off, shoulders down. One of them muttered, ‘Twat.’

Minutes later, Brendan sat in the staff room, clutching a coffee. He looked down at his muddy shorts and saw two pale booted legs dangling. He gazed around the office; piles of paper meant piles of report writing. More evenings at home in front of the laptop. The coffee tasted burnt. The door swung open and Penny Wray came in, her shorts pristine, her ponytail bouncing. She put a hand on Brendan’s shoulder as she passed.

‘Was it murder?’

‘That group is always murder.’ Brendan took another mouthful of coffee as punishment. ‘I spend all Sunday night dreading the little beggars.’

Penny sat down and crossed perfect legs. She pulled a bottle of water from her bag and unscrewed the lid effortlessly. ‘I just had Year Seven girls doing performance on the trampoline. I have some great little gymnasts in that group.’

Brendan thought that Penny didn’t look like she had been on the trampoline. She smelled of something sweet, something fresh, and Brendan sighed. Then he remembered. ‘It’s the Class From Hell next for English.’

Penny laughed, a sound soft with sympathy and warmth, and she touched Brendan’s arm. ‘I don’t know why they make you teach English, Brendan. You are a sports teacher.’

He shrugged. ‘I am thirty-nine, Penny. That is what they do with old PE teachers – farm them out to the classes no-one wants to teach. The losers in front of the losers.’

‘I will be a head teacher by the time I am your age.’

Brendan did not doubt it, and that made the prospect of teaching poetry to the worst class in the school almost unbearable. Twenty years to retirement. Years of teaching kids who disputed penalties, who hated Yeats’ poetry, who hated him, then home to Maura in the evening to write reports while she grumbled about how they needed a new car and how he didn’t have time to take her out in the evenings. Brendan swallowed more coffee.

‘I’m running my kick-boxing class tonight.’ Penny looked at him and smiled. ‘Why don’t you come along?’

Brendan pictured Penny in her boxing kit, throwing punches and kicks, touching his arm, his waist, as she helped him do the same, their voices loud in one groan of effort. ‘Wish I could.’

‘You could bring your wife?’

He thought of Maura in her jog bottoms, kick-boxing, and pushed the thought away. She’d never shared his love of sport. The klaxon sounded and Brendan rose up like a trained pigeon and grabbed his battered briefcase, heading for the door. He heard Penny call:

‘Good luck with the evil ones, Brendan. I’ll get you a baguette for lunch when you’re back.’

In the corridor, a sudden gust of wind blasted through the banging door and gripped him by the throat.

An hour later, the klaxon screeched and room E5 was empty again. Brendan put his head in his hands. The silence rang in his ears, more deafening than the shouting and banging on desks that had filled the room minutes before. His head hurt, a dark throbbing behind his eyes. When he opened them, the room looked back at him, a panorama of upturned chairs and screwed-up paper. Brendan picked up the bin and began to fill it with litter. He held a paper ball in his hand, squashed to fist-size. He opened it, with slow care, and read the words:

I have spread my dreams under your feet,

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

He bent again and picked up more paper.

‘Brendan. Ah. Here you are.’

Nancy Doyle pushed her glasses up from her nose and showed him her practised lipstick smile. He looked around at the mess in the room and noticed Nancy surveying the space: a professional head teacher’s assessment of his lesson, based on the amount of discarded detritus.

‘Brendan, can we sit down a minute? I need to have a little chat with you.’ The smile again; Brendan assumed the worst.

‘Of course, Nancy.’

He moved his chair to look at Nancy; the dark suit, silk shirt, hair swept up. She drew a breath. ‘Look, Brendan, I’ll cut to the chase. I’ve just had a call from Sheldon Lodge.’

Brendan sat upright. ‘My mother?’

‘They’d like you to phone them. As soon as you can. It appears your mother left the home first thing this morning, and she hasn’t returned.’

Brendan saw an image of his mother in her coat, her shoulders hunched against the cold. It was her back view as she walked along crowded streets. In his mind she was frail, and passers-by bumped her out of their way as they rushed in the opposite direction.

‘I’m sure everything is fine. Your mother does seem to have taken quite a few of her belongings, though. I think you should go and ring Sheldon Lodge now. Do you have a phone on you?’

He did not move.

‘Go and sort it out about your mother. Give me a call at the end of the day, will you? Let me know she’s safe and sound.’

Brendan felt energy rising through his legs; he was up and grabbing at his briefcase, walking frantically to the door, calling over his shoulder:

‘Thanks Nancy. Yes, I will. I’ll be sure to get back to you later. Thanks.’

He was through the swing doors and moving towards the yellow Fiat Panda, parked between white lines in the car park; his mobile was in his hand, searching for the number of the care home, as he muttered, ‘Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams? Oh, Mammy, what in hell have you done now?’

Chapter Five

On the crowded bus to Dublin, Evie sat low in her seat and hugged herself. It was as if eyes were focused on her back, as if she was constantly being watched. She stared through the window, thinking she could be recognised at any moment, identified and apprehended. The idea came to her: she would buy a hat, one which would update her appearance and cover her hair at the same time: a disguise. Her fingers fiddled in the little bag; they were all there, all of her things. Clutching the bag to her chest, she shuffled to the front as the bus slowed.

In a department store, she tried on the whole range, looking at herself in the mirror wearing floppy hats, wedding hats, fur hats, fascinators. Finally, she decided on a red beret. It had panache; it covered her hair completely and she thought she looked like an intelligent outdoor type who might be independent and take walks with a dog. She bought sunglasses, a huge handbag and a jaunty coat in a lightweight fabric and she saw herself in the mirror: a middle-class lady of leisure, or a stylish Parisian tourist. She paid with her card and headed for the chip shop, her old coat and bag in plastic carriers banging against her legs. Fried food was frowned upon in Sheldon Lodge. Evie bought chippers, battered cod and four pickled eggs and settled down on a bench to enjoy them. The chips were hot, mouth-burning, delicious with the forbidden tastes of fat and too much salt and vinegar. The batter crunched perfectly, releasing a stream of grease onto her tongue. It would all go down well with a nice glass of Prosecco, she thought.

A man sat on the bench next to her. He was middle-aged, hunched over, and wore an old overcoat; his face was a dark rash of stubble. Evie offered him a pickled egg.

‘And I don’t mind if I do,’ he told her, pushing the whole egg into his mouth and swallowing it in a gulp.

She offered him another.

‘Thank you kindly,’ he said and, like an anaconda, opened his mouth into a broad yawn before the egg disappeared.

Evie imagined his neck becoming egg-shaped for a moment before it made the downward plunge. She ate her chips one by one. A pigeon fluttered by her feet, its beak jabbing at scraps, and she almost flicked her foot at it. She thought again; perhaps the pigeon was in need of a chip too. She dropped a couple by her feet and the pigeon pecked, its wings folded behind its back like a dapper little man.

‘You’re in Dublin on holiday, then?’ asked Anaconda Man.

Evie considered her reply. ‘Ah, I am a crime writer. Doing research.’

‘Oh and what are you researching?’

‘Good fortune.’

‘Then I am your guy,’ said Anaconda Man, licking egg from the corner of his mouth.

‘Indeed?’ Evie was intrigued. The pigeon fluttered away.

‘Yes, I like to take a chance myself. I am on my way right now to place a bet on a certain horse. And why not come along for the fun of it? To find good fortune.’

Evie thought for a moment. Sheldon Lodge seemed a long way away. She smiled.

‘I would be delighted,’ she said, throwing her warm chip paper in the bin. ‘I have never seen inside a betting establishment before.’

They passed two betting shops, both with big double-fronted windows with posters offering luminously coloured deals for bets and odds. She expected him to pause, but Anaconda Man plodded past, his eyes focused ahead. Evie was just behind him; she was about to snatch at his arm, but thought better of it. Both betting shops were names she had seen many times advertised on the television.

‘We have missed it …’ she panted. ‘That was a betting shop. Where are we going?’

‘Not far now,’ he grunted. He’d broken into a sweat, which sat in seamy creases that folded across his forehead. He walked on quickly, Evie trotting behind.

‘What was wrong with that betting shop?’

‘Nothing.’ Anaconda Man was determined and focused. ‘Just not the right betting shop, that’s all.’

Evie hesitated for a moment. Perhaps he was a deadly and dangerous character like Sweeney Todd or the Ripper, leading her into a dark alley. He might mug her, or worse.

‘Come on, nearly there,’ he grunted. ‘They’ll be off soon and there is a particular hot horse I need to back. Are you with me?’

Evie wondered if she was being unwise. They turned the corner into a dim street where the brick buildings had started to crumble. They stopped at a little shop with dark windows and a creaking door that had probably once been green and, before that, painted yellow – Evie could see patches of it showing through the faded green.

The betting shop was fluorescent bright inside and smelled of dust and sweat; it was a furtive gamblers’ lair, sheltering little men on stools huddled over newspapers. At the far corner was a counter where two men were whispering and exchanging money. The place was full of people eyeing her suspiciously. She was thinking about walking out again when someone spoke.

‘Ah, Memphis. Good day to you,’ called the man behind the counter.

Evie watched her smiling companion; so then, Anaconda Man was called Memphis.

‘Hello there, brother.’

Memphis looked unlike the man at the counter: she assumed their fraternity was based on the betting.

‘I’d like to introduce my fair companion. She is a crime author. Her name is …’

‘Agatha,’ said Evie, holding out her hand and deciding that lies were the safest way forward.

She pulled the red beret down on one side, and glanced over the top of her sunglasses. She would make an excuse in a minute and leave. Memphis raised his arm, holding out money.

‘I want to place a bet on the one-thirty. Twenty each way on number fifteen, El Niño.’ Memphis shared the newspaper he had just picked up with Evie. ‘There you are – El Niño – he’s a good hot horse for you, and no mistake, if you want to make some fast money.’

She studied the newspaper. A name in print and the number four caught her attention at once. She looked at the door; she could stay for a few minutes more. Evie bit her lip and thought.

‘I want to bet on number four – Lucky Jim,’ she announced.

The counter man smiled, his lips a thin U-shape. ‘Rank outsider, lady.’ Two men behind her guffawed.

‘A hundred to one,’ agreed Memphis. ‘But who are we to stop a lady having a little flutter? After all, you’re seeking your fortune.’

‘Be quick,’ grimaced Counterman. ‘Betting closes soon.’

Evie reached into her new bag and pulled out a roll of notes, withdrawn from the bank as contingency earlier. Money just sitting in the bank, doing nothing, which would cover her spending spree with plenty left over. Her hand shook: she remembered selling their home, the place she had lived with Jim and Brendan, then just with Jim, for so many years, and tried to recall her husband’s face.

‘My bet for number four – Lucky Jim.’

Counterman counted silently, Memphis watching every movement.

‘How much do you want to bet, missus?’

Evie nodded her head. She thought of Sheldon Lodge, of Mrs Lofthouse and her pink prawn lips, then she thought of her husband Jim, his flat cap pulled down over serious eyes, a cigarette squeezed between his lips. For a moment, she hesitated, but wasn’t four her lucky number? She’d never proven it to herself properly and this was her big chance. She didn’t understand odds, but this horse had to win. It had Jim’s name and her lucky number. And Jim had been such a good man. Her voice was faint. She crossed the two fingers on each hand. Four fingers. ‘All of it.’

‘Five hundred euros?’ asked Counterman, his eyebrows shooting upwards.

Evie breathed in. ‘Number four. To win.’

Counterman winked at Memphis. ‘Lucky Jim to win – a hundred to one. Here, lady, and best of luck to you.’ And he handed her a slip of paper in exchange for her money.

Evie could see the men’s faces staring in disbelief. She was the centre of their attention, an anomaly, a rank outsider, just like Lucky Jim. She suddenly wished she had left the betting shop when she had the chance.

The tinny voice on the radio announced the start of the race and Evie was aware of the scent of anxious bodies crowding around her. A short man in a cap smirked at her through sparse teeth. Evie tried to move back but she was cornered. A huddle of men gathered around her, all with the same expression, worry mixed with hopefulness as they clutched their betting slips.

‘And they’re off,’ announced the lilting voice on the radio.

Evie breathed in as the mass of bodies came even closer. El Niño was in the lead, closely followed by Steam Packet and Argonaut: no mention of Lucky Jim. As the pace increased, the men around Evie seemed to do an imperceptible jig with their knees. The voice became quicker; the knee jerk turned into a bounce, their backs bobbing, quickening with each furlong. Evie smelled the anxiety of the betting men and she turned her nose as far away as she could, hoping the race would soon end. The five hundred euros had not been a good idea at all. Evie almost wished herself back in Sheldon Lodge. Almost.

‘And it’s number fifteen, El Niño … El Niño followed by Argonaut and they are turning into the home straight, El Niño, he is a neck in front but Argonaut, ridden by Paddy Mills, is giving it everything he has; now it is El Niño …’