‘Don’t call them “Nappies”,’ Boss admonished, climbing down from his stool. ‘Disrespectful.’
All three had climbed down from their stools.
‘Up de Valera!’ they yelled and raised their glasses. ‘Up de Valera!’
(De Valera, former president of Ireland, dead at least thirty years. Irish people have long memories.)
Later discovered they did this little de Valera-praising ritual every day around 4.30.
Small ruckus ensued. A man at far end of the bar got off stool and slowly approached us. My three new friends nudged each other. Sniggered, ‘Look what’s coming.’
Newcomer extended shaking finger. In strange, quavery voice, he announced, ‘De Valera illegitimate son of stinking Spanish whoremaster!’
Was he? Spanish? Hadn’t known. Mind you, name a bit of a giveaway.
Further insult-calling ensued.
‘You dirty turncoat!’
‘You filthy free-stater!’
Much antipathy. Reason? Their grandfathers had fought on opposite sides in the civil war.
A few more insults were flung, then newcomer returned to his place and Boss said to barman, ‘Give him a drink on us.’
Meanwhile another drink had appeared in front of me. Hadn’t planned to stay, but as drink was there…
‘Tell us more,’ Boss ordered, his eyes very bright due to drunkenness and redness of face.
And actually great relief to talk, to get it all off chest. Another drink appeared. Explained my financial position. They didn’t like the sound of Nkechi.
‘What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is my own,’ the small, dark, smelly man said, in attitude of great wisdom.
‘Never a truer word! Never a truer word!’
(They were calling small, dark, smelly man the Master. Not because good at Eastern mysticism or martial arts but because he used to be headmaster in boys’ school.)
Boss exclaimed, ‘But why you looking for work? You can claim dole!’
Idea a novel one. Yes, had been on dole for brief spell ten years ago, after got sacked from fashion house for not making the grade and before started work as stylist. But had been earning own living for long time now. Had forgotten there was such a thing as welfare state.
‘You’ve looked for work,’ Boss said. ‘There isn’t any. Why shouldn’t you get dole?’
Awash with drink, ‘Yes!’ I agreed. ‘Why
shouldn’t
I get dole?’
‘You’ve worked hard, yes? Paid your taxes?’
‘Ah no,’ said Moss. ‘Let her alone.’
‘Actually
have
paid taxes.’
‘You have?’ They were astonished, then scandalized. Insisted on buying me other drink because of novelty.
General consensus, ‘You
deserve
the dole.’
‘We’re going to sign on tomorrow morning. We’ll collect you in van.’
Right! Good! Excellent! Great idea!
Awoke! A noise! What was it? Lay in bed, rigid with listening. Some thing moving around downstairs. Person. No, people! Voices talking.
Was being burgled!
Frightened. Couldn’t believe it was happening. More noises. Sounded… actually… like kettle boiling. Burglars making tea? Unusual. Murmur of voices again, followed by tinkle of sugar being stirred and stirred and stirred in mug. Then slurp. Actually heard it! Slurping of tea worst sound in world. Makes me want to go on
Falling Down
-style rampage.
I pulled on jumper over pyjamas. Found Boss and Moss sitting at kitchen table drinking – nay,
slurping
– tea. Boss said, ‘Ah there she is.’
‘There’s tea in the pot,’ Moss said. ‘Pour you cup?’
All came rushing back. New friends. Trip to Ennistymon to sign on.
They looked even more washed-up in unforgiving light of day. Art Garfunkel hair, hadn’t seen comb since 2003; 98fm T-shirt on Moss less than pristine. But they were happy to see me. Smiles.
I asked, ‘Where’s the other one? The small one? The Master?’
‘Doesn’t come. Bad back. Disability allowance.’
Hadn’t noticed anything wrong with his back yesterday. Uncertain about moral calibre of my new friends.
‘… Will get dressed.’
Not proper van. Like car with two seats in front but van bit in back, where back seats would usually be. Ushered into front seat beside Boss. Moss crouched in back, hugging his knees. Van remarkably filthy. And smelly. Tobacco. Animals. Cinnamon air-freshener. Had to roll down window in case I vomited.
Ennistymon
Not much bigger than Knockavoy but real town, not tourist place. Shop selling animal feed and innoculations, another one which seemed to sell only ropes. Surprisingly large number of chemists. People of Ennistymon prone to illness?
(Love
chemists, maybe I could have quick browse.)
In shower of dirt from van wheels, we parked in Disabled space right outside Welfare Office. Boss rooted around on filthy floor, produced Disabled sticker and threw it on dashboard.
I didn’t want go into Welfare Office. Had all made perfect sense last night, when drunk. But was sober now.
Not that I thought myself above claiming welfare. Oh no. Simply wearied by futility of what lay ahead.
Claiming welfare, like twelve labours of Hercules. Should be simple – had paid contributions, had lost job, had tried without success to get another one, was skint. But obstacle course. Fill in this form. Fill
in that form. Produce last year’s accounts, this year’s accounts, utilities bill, proof of Irish citizenship, letter from last employer…
If, by monumental effort, produced everything, it still wouldn’tbe enough. More requests, progressively more challenging. Photo of my first pet. Three white truffles. Tom Cruise’s autograph. First pressing of ‘Lily the Pink’. Bottle of limited-edition Vanilla Tango (trick task, as Vanilla Tango only ever came in cans). Charcoal illustration Zinedine Zidane’s bottom. Brass rubbing of Holy Grail. If I did them all, would then get letter saying, ‘We have found other query. You are not entitled to any dole, you will never be entitled to any dole, but bring us 10 grams of powdered unicorn horn in a nice box and we will see if can make discretionary payment.’
If people ever get payment from Welfare Office, it is not because they’re entitled to it. It is a reward for tenacity, for sheer bloodymindedness, for enduring Kafkaesque pettiness of their requests and not blowing up and shrieking, SHOVE YOUR SHITTY LITTLE PAYMENTS! I’D RATHER STARVE!
As expected, given short shrift (what
is
that exactly?).
‘You are new claimant?’
‘Yes.’
‘You need assessment!’
‘Okay, can I have assessment?’
‘You cannot just waltz in expecting assessment. You need appointment.’
‘Okay, may I book appointment?’
(Wouldn’t have bothered if hadn’t been for Boss and Moss crowding around me, saying, ‘Go ON, Lola! It’s your RIGHT, Lola.’)
‘Actually have appointment free this morning.’
‘What time?’
‘… Now.’
Grim back room, with assessor man. Don’t mean to be unkind, but could see why he wasn’t front-of-house person. Looked all… pointy. Like fox. Sharp, inquisitive features, nose, chin. Fox-like colouring,
reddish hair in ponytail at nape of neck. Wearing the special glasses that all interrogators seem to wear. Ones with narrow silver frames, which light glints off in manner intended to unsettle. The Silver Frames of Suspicion.
‘A stylist?’ he asked, full of contempt. ‘What kind of job is that?’
‘I source clothes for people.’
‘Source?’ he asked, making fun of the word. ‘What does that mean?’
‘I… find… clothes for people. If someone has to go to a fancy red-carpet do, I get designers to send over a selection of dresses. Or if someone is very busy, I call in stuff and they try it all on without having to traipse around shops.’
He gave me strange look.
‘Look,’ I said defensively, ‘I know it’s not a very worthwhile job. Not like being a nurse or… or… aid worker in Bangladesh. But there is a demand for it and someone has to do it and I like it and it might as well be me.’
‘Not much call for it round here,’ doleman said.
‘I know. That’s why I’m here. I looked for jobs in all the bars in Knockavoy, but end of season, nothing doing.’
He asked, ‘Why have you come to live in Knockavoy?’
‘Personal reasons,’ I replied, trying to keep voice steady. Lip started its mad twitch, like it was trying to send a message in Morse code.
‘You’ll have to do better than that! No secrets here.’
‘Okay,’ I said, blurting it all out. ‘My boyfriend is getting married to someone else. The shock has had bad effect. Have messed up every job I’ve done. Have been sort of sent into exile to get over it before I destroy my business completely. Having to pay my assistant and her cousin while I’m away. No jingle left for me.’
‘Okay,’ he said, writing it all down. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
Wondered which way they’d block my claim. Almost curious. Would it be because I was self-employed? Or should I be claiming in Dublin? Or was this ill-health, rather than unemployment per se, so should I be claiming disability benefit? Oh I knew all their tricks.
On my way to Mrs Butterly’s for soap-watching, passed the Dungeon. Heard, ‘Hey, Lola!’ Three eager fizzogs were beaming out: Moss, Boss and the Master. They’d been
watching
for me.
Called from street, ‘Going to watch
Coronation Street
with Mrs Butterly.’
‘Come in for one!’
‘One quick one!’
‘Will come on the way back, when all the soaps are over.’
They seemed quite disappointed.
While waiting for
EastEnders
to start, I said, ‘Mrs Butterly, you know the house next door to me?’
‘Rossa Considine’s? Nice lad. What about him?’
‘You know how he was supposed to be getting married?’
‘To who?’
‘He’s not any more, but he was going to…’
‘No, he wasn’t!’ Mrs Butterly quite categorical. ‘He’s been footloose and fancy-free this last eight months since he broke the heart of Gillian Kilbert. Nice girl but terrible ferrety look about her.’
‘… Yes… but…’
Vacillated. Should I ask her about the woman in the wedding dress? Vacillated small bit longer, then got bored vacillating. Limited enjoyment potential, vacillating. (Don’t think I could ever take it up as hobby, vacillation. Imagine putting it on speed-dating form. Or job application. ‘List interests.’ ‘Fashion. Billy Wilder movies. Yoga. Vacillating.’)
Anyway I digress (and actually that is something I
do
enjoy).
EastEnders
was starting and Mrs Butterly was elderly lady. Possibly senile. I let Rossa Considine’s mystery woman go.
The Dungeon
I was greeted like homecoming queen. A high stool was found and brushed clean, drinks were set in front of me, also KitKat. Turned
out the Dungeon housed not one but two Alco’s Corners. Bitter enemies. The other Alco’s Corner had a dog. Boss’s one had me.
I said, ‘Tell me about the couple living next door to me.’
‘No couple,’ Boss said. ‘Just a man. Rossa Considine. Single gentleman.’
‘Nothing suspect about that, though,’ the Master chimed in. ‘Not like in times past, when if man didn’t take a wife, everyone would say was a woofter. Sociological shift.’
‘But Rossa Considine had a girlfriend?’ I asked. ‘Until a couple of weeks ago? They were getting married.’
Chortles of laughter, indicating I couldn’t be more wrong if I tried.
‘But,’ I protested, ‘I’ve seen a woman in his house.’
‘A man is entitled to some R and R!’
‘What kind of woman?’ the Master asked. ‘Small, blondey, has the look of a ferret about her? Gillian Kilbert. All the Kilberts have the same ferrety cast. They get it from their father’s side.’
I considered. ‘No,’ I said, ‘nothing ferrety about her. And she was wearing a wedding dress. Standing at an upstairs window, staring down at me.’
The three men shot each other alarmed looks and Boss went quite white, no mean feat with the vast network of red veins littering the landscape of his face. Then they turned their startled gazes on me.
‘Why… why… you staring at me like that?’
They said nothing. Just kept on looking.
‘You have the Sight,’ Boss said.
‘… What? You mean, you think… the woman I saw was… a ghost?’
Involuntarily I shuddered. I remembered her white dress and her dark hair. Then, just as quickly, I got a grip. That was no ghost dress Firestarter had been burning on his bonfire. But for some reason I didn’t want to tell Alco’s Corner about that. Just felt it was… I don’t know… Firestarter’s business.
Boss furrowed brow. ‘Did this woman look anything like Our Lady?’
What lady? ‘Who?’
‘The MOTHER OF GOD. You are a crowd of pagans above in Dublin.’
‘No, nothing like the mother of God,’ I said.
‘Think hard,’ he said. ‘Blue frock? Halo? Small child?’
‘No, I’m sure.’ I could see where Boss’s make-a-quick-buck brain was going with this. Trying to talk me into having had a vision of the mother of God, so he could set up Knockavoy as a new site for Catholic pilgrims.
‘Leave it,’ the Master advised. ‘There were no witnesses. Rome would never buy it.’
‘
Bloody sticklers
,’ Boss muttered. ‘Anyway, yes, Rossa Considine, nice fellow apart from forever climbing up the side of a mountain or swinging on ropes into potholes. Works for Department of Environment. Something to do with think tank on recycling. A proper job. I remember when people had proper jobs. In the bank. Or civil service. Now it’s all web designers and… and… cognitive behavioural therapists and your thing. Stylists. Useless, fecky, meaningless jobs.’
I said nothing. But was affronted. Felt like saying, At least
have
a job. Unlike you trio of drunken layabouts.
Then remembered actually
didn’t
have job.
Sudden change of mood. One of the men from competing Alco’s Corner called, ‘Give us a recitation, Master!’
Transpired the Master knew vast reams of terrible poetry. Without further encouragement, he cleared his throat, rolled eyes back into his head and gave ‘recitation’ of something called ‘The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God’.