Big, shiny American bank, Galway
Getting little bits and pieces of styling work. This job had come from unexpected source – Nkechi. She didn’t want to drive from Dublin and I was in locality. Suited us both.
Female CEO was getting head-and-shoulders taken for company prospectus. Brief was to make her look warm, efficient, steely, feminine, approachable, hardworking, humorous and deadly.
Easy.
(All about the accessories.)
Terrible bloody traffic. Friday-night exodus from Galway. Afraid I’d be late for trannies
Finally reached home and jumped from car only to discover had no house key! Limbo-danced under wire fence to Rossa Considine.
‘Key.’ He jingled it at me. ‘Replaced plunger under your sink. Much obliged.’
‘Cease and desist from further details. That sort of thing gives me the heebie-jeebies.’
‘Hey, Considine!’ Some sort of ruckus out by front gate! Someone shouting from darkness beyond the house. ‘Listen, dude, don’t bother, right? She’s just a tease, yeah?’
Startled, Rossa and I strained our eyes at the blackness where the voice had come from.
Jake walked into pool of light spread from the front door, like denouement in bad thriller. He looked at me and sneered. ‘You didn’t hang around. Won’t be long now before you’ve slept with every man in Knockavoy.’
‘Let her alone,’ Rossa said, low and quiet. ‘Only borrowed her plunger.’
‘Yeah.’ Jake laughed nastily. ‘She let me borrow her plunger for a while too.’
‘Now just a –’ Rossa said.
‘Stop,’ I said. ‘Don’t bother.’
Fascinating, that’s what it was – a masterclass in how not to win someone back. If there had been tiniest pocket of Jake-love remaining in my heart, would have been erased for ever by this lunacy.
‘Will I walk back over with you?’ Rossa asked me.
‘No, no, is only few yards. And you’ve to get ready for tonight.’
‘But your man seems a bit… unhinged.’
‘He’s harmless.’
‘Would prefer to accompany you if it’s all the same.’
‘But he will shout at us.’
‘Sticks and stones.’
‘Okay, I will wave the sticks –’
‘– and I will throw the stones.’
Had noticed interesting phenomenon over last few weeks – evenings didn’t really get going until Chloe arrived.
Natasha, Blanche and Sue the new girl were getting changed in kitchen, but I felt as if were hanging around, killing time.
Sue was bachelor smallholder from ‘out the road.’ (Seemed to function as actual postal address.) His real name was Spuds Conlon. Presumed his
real
real name was not actually ‘Spuds’ but refrained from asking why called ‘Spuds.’ Presumed it was because he
a) ate spuds
b) grew spuds
c)… erm…
He was scrawny, bow-legged man, missing many, many teeth. Took lot of persuasion to get him to remove his flat cap. Reminded me of chicken from third world (sorry, developing world) country, the sort you would see pecking on dirt road, as you whizz past in your air-conditioned jeep. Nothing like plump Irish chickens, all top-heavy with breast, but bird where you would have to do much poking with your fork in order to find any bit of meat at all.
‘Where’s Chloe?’ Noel yelled from kitchen. ‘Need her to do my nails.’
‘Any minute now…’
Then in came Chloe with sparkling eyes, smiling mouth, pleasant comments, and readiness to help the other girls. Very, very likeable. If she really was woman, would have wanted to befriend her.
‘Love your hair, Chloe.’
Long, dark wig she usually wore, but backcombed slightly and pinned on top.
‘Was feeling Jacqueline Susann,’ she said.
Now that Chloe mentioned it, Jacqueline Susann was exactly what I was feeling too. (Unsettling to be stylist, i.e. a person who makes their living from anticipating and enacting fashion trends, to be overtaken by trannie-man.)
Unlike my other trannies who had their look and stuck to it (Natasha, leopard-skin, Blanche, tailored classics, etc.), Chloe arrived in different look every week. This week, black leggings, shiny, pewter-coloured ballet flats and excellent metallic off-one-shoulder sweater-dress, also in pewter colour.
She probably really could pass for a woman. Tall, yes, and not skinny, definitely not skinny – but not like brick shithouse either (unlike, say, poor Blanche).
Shapely legs – perhaps little too muscular around the calves and thighs, if you wanted to be critical, but didn’t want to be critical – and really lovely face. Very pretty dark eyes, enhanced by expert make-up and lush dark lashes.
Clamour came from kitchen. ‘Chloe’s here? Chloe’s here! Chloe, come in, need you to help me with my monobrow…’
Chloe flitted about helping the other girls. She had much specialist information because had done year of eco-swot training in Seattle, city with ‘sizeable’ cross-dressing population. She knew about ‘male’ foundation, a thick, wet-cement-style unguent which filled in gaps and entirely covered evidence of beard on face and set into natural-looking, attractive finish. She advised on waxing of chests, shaving of backs of hands, helping affix false nails, etc.
But despite giving freely of her knowledge, she looked like princess and the best others could manage beside her were Ugly Sisters from panto.
Plan for the evening – we would watch film,
The Devil Wears Prada
(delivery of new stock at Kelly and Brandon’s) – then have
‘deportment lessons’, where we would practise walking like ladies. (Had got book on subject.)
‘Ready for film?’ My hand poised over remote.
‘Just need to do little tinkle…’
‘Better refresh my lipstick…’
‘Must look in handbag for my glasses…’
Girlish clamour eventually died down. I hit play, song started – then four slow heavy raps on front door!
Jake? And if not Jake, then who? Not another bloody trannie?
‘Girls, anyone got any friends they’ve invited and not told me about?’
Fearful shaking of heads.
‘You sure? Because if I open that door and find trannie outside looking for sanctuary, will be very cross.’
‘No. Promise.’
‘Then hide,’ I urged. ‘All of you.’
They scampered away upstairs and I opened front door. Large, intimidating-looking policeman, in navy serge uniform and brass buttons, standing there.
Game was up.
Mixed emotions. Undeniable relief that Friday nights had come to end, the responsibility had been heavy one. But also sadness on behalf of trannies. Feared they’d get into trouble, that their names would be published in the
Clare Champion
and they would be laughing stock throughout county.
‘Am Guard Lyons, can I come in?’ deep voice boomed from beneath peak of cap.
‘Why?’
‘Believe you hold cross-dressing events here on Friday nights.’ Was almost blinded by shininess of his enormous polished black boots.
‘Is not illegal.’ My voice wobbling. ‘Doing nothing wrong. Tom Twoomey knows and doesn’t mind.’
(Had continued to check with Tom every time a new girl joined. His unvarying response was that so long as no one broke the toaster again, he didn’t care what we did.)
‘No one said it was illegal. Can I come in?’
‘No.’ Sudden defiance. ‘Trannies inside. Nervous dispositions. Need to protect their identities.’
‘Look.’ Sudden drop in decibel of voice. ‘Would like to join in.’
Oh for the love of God! Cannot believe this. Simply cannot believe this. Who knew there were so many trannies in County Clare? In Ireland, for that matter?
‘You are trannie, Guard Lyons?’
‘Not gay. But, yes, like to dress up in ladies’ clothing.’
Heart heavy in chest. ‘You’d better come in, then.’
Ran up the stairs. Trannies clustered in my bedroom, their little fizzogs bruised with anxiety.
‘There is policeman here.’
‘No!’ Noel began moaning. ‘No, no, no, no, no, no, no! It’s over, am sunk, am ruined, am –’
‘Stop it! He is one of us. You. He is cross-dresser.’
Lipsticked mouths fell open. Pancaked jaws swung with surprise.
They clattered downstairs in their high heels and suspiciously circled Guard Lyons, like pack of mascaraed hyenas. I effected introductions.
‘How you know about us?’ Noel asked with some defiance.
‘Happenstance, Natasha, happenstance.’
Guard Lyons had slow, ponderous way of speaking, as if giving evidence in petty larceny case.
‘Please explain.’ Noel sounded positively bitchy.
Guard Lyons cleared his throat and got to his feet. ‘On the morning of Tuesday, December the second, a housewife, to be known from hereon as Mrs X, domiciled in the townland of Kilfenora, North Clare, mistakenly took delivery of a parcel from An Post.’
‘Please sit down,’ I murmured. ‘Is not court of law. Rest of you, also sit down, enjoy your little drinkies. Yes, thank you, Guard Lyons, continue.’
‘Mrs X, a busy woman, the mother of three children under the age of four, neglected to notice that said parcel was not addressed to herself but to one Lola Daly of Knockavoy–’
‘Nosy bitch,’ Noel said.
‘– and had it opened “before she knew what she was doing”. Direct quote.’
‘Nosy bitch.’
‘On divesting the box of its packaging, the housewife discovered strange undergarments within, to the sum of four. “Pervy” was the word she used to describe them. In considerable distress she summoned the parish priest, who blessed the garments with holy water and advised bringing in the local constabulary. Who happened to be none other than my good self.’
(Had half noticed that consignment of underwear had failed to reach me. But so many deliveries of clothing arrived on almost-daily basis, had never fully focused on missing order.)
‘On account of my specialist interest in the subject,’ Guard Lyons said, ‘I recognized the items for what they were – merely reinforced jocks. Nothing at all “pervy” about them. Did not explain this to the woman. Simply removed the items and the box addressed to Miss Daly for safe keeping and swore Mrs X to secrecy –’
‘How?’ Noel demanded. ‘How you know she’ll keep her mouth shut?’
‘Because I have something on her. Everyone has their secrets, Natasha. Mrs X will keep her mouth shut.’
‘Oh. Well, good. Good.’
‘I then proceeded to make enquiries about Miss Lola Daly and discovered that gatherings were held at her Knockavoy address at seven o’clock every Friday night. I “put two and two together” and concluded that the Friday-night gatherings and the reinforced jocks were linked. My conclusion was correct.’
‘Nothing short of amazing!’ Noel had changed his tune considerably. ‘That’s three of us who have come to you, Lola, by accident. Me. Chloe. And now…?’
‘Dolores,’ Guard Lyons said. ‘My name Dolores.’
‘Welcome, Dolores! Yes, welcome, welcome.’
‘That’s all very well,’ I said. ‘But what about my delivery of reinforced jocks?’
‘Impounded. Write them off. Blame it on An Post.’
Dolores Lyons very tall. Six three or thereabouts. Large-framed and actually extremely overweight but carried it well. Unbuttoned thick serge jacket, releasing enormous stomach harnessed to super-sized ribcage, and I thought, My biggest challenge yet.
Everyone gone except Chloe, who was helping with tidying up.
‘And then there were five,’ Chloe said, clattering wine glasses into sink. ‘You seem to have vocation, Lola.’
‘I don’t want fecking vocation.’
‘But that’s the trouble with vocations, you don’t choose them, they choose you.’ Chloe amused at my plight. ‘Think of Mother Teresa. When Career Guidance asked her, What you like to do when you grow up, Mother Teresa? Maybe she said, I’d like to be air hostess. Unlikely, don’t you think, that she would have said, Would like to befriend lepers. Unlikely, yes, Lola, unlikely?’
‘Glad you find this so funny.’
‘Maybe Mother Teresa didn’t even like lepers. Maybe she had a “thing” about lepers but the lepers didn’t care and flocked to her anyway.’
Chloe highly entertained. I lined up empty wine bottles by door for when I go to bottle bank with Rossa Considine.
‘… As the trannies seem to be flocking to you, Lola.’
… go to bottle bank with Rossa Considine…
‘Saint Lola, patron saint of cross-dressers.’
Chloe is Roeea Considine…
Why is life so effing peculiar?
Phone call from Bridie.
‘Am rough as a badger’s arse,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Christmas party last night. You are lucky being self-employed –’
‘– Unemployed.’
‘No need to endure Christmas party. Oh God, Lola, rough as a badger’s arse.’
‘Where you hear that expression?’
‘Telly. Good, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, very.’
‘Been thinking. About Paddy de Courcy. A man like him could get booty call off anyone.’
‘Your point, badger’s-arse woman?’
‘He wasn’t ringing you for booty call.’
‘For what, then?’ Was suspicious. Unlikely Bridie was going to say, ‘Because he still loves you.’
‘Was keeping you sweet. Onside.’
‘Why Paddy need to keep me sweet?’
‘You have stuff on him. Few weeks ago there was lots in papers about that Dee Rossini and her sex life. She nearly had to resign. You could spill the beans to papers about all that peculiar sex Paddy made you do. Would be explosive sensation.’
‘Wasn’t peculiar sex.’
Moral high ground was mine because Bridie had recently admitted terrible shameful secret. Since she got married, ‘relations’ with Barry had taken downward turn. He did end-of-year appraisal (he works in HR) and told her they had had sex only fifteen times in previous calendar year – once a month, plus extra go on his birthday, their anniversary and the day Kildare won All-Ireland football championship. (Strange as neither of them Kildare fans. Perhaps it is bypass related?)
‘Oh yes,
was
peculiar sex, Lola. I admit that, at the time, I felt like sexual dullard compared to you. But looking back… Not a lot of love in that sort of sex you had with Paddy de Courcy. And bet you didn’t tell me half of what went on.’