It Could Never Happen Here, page 5
She sighed, grabbing a two-pack of waffle biscuits from in front of the register. ‘I’ll take a mug,’ she told the barista stoically.
She paid and moved to the end of the counter to wait on her flat white. Beth Morton, who taught at a boys’ secondary school two towns over, was already waiting. Christine lifted a hand to greet the petite woman. Beth had three sons in Glass Lake, one of whom was in Maeve’s class.
‘What do you think of Lorna Farrell’s hairband?’ asked Beth as Christine stood in beside her. ‘Too much, or just enough?’
She followed her gaze to the corner alcove where a gossip of women was huddled around three tables scattered with cups and phones and car keys. Christine had been in school with half of them. The difference was she’d left; she’d lived in other places, had other experiences, and while she had ultimately ended up back in Cooney, she did not consider it to be the centre of the universe. It wasn’t even the centre of West Cork.
‘I’ve never been able to wear them,’ said Christine, watching Lorna’s head dip towards her notebook, the emerald stones of her hair accessory catching the harsh café light. ‘They always end up going more headband than hairband on me.’
‘Same,’ said Beth, taking her coffee (served in a lovely, cheery Christmas cup). ‘Last time I wore one, my husband said I reminded him of Axl Rose.’ She took a sip and licked her lips. ‘What are you in for?’
‘School musical. You?’
‘Same. Feck it, anyway. I knew I should have come last week. Maeve’s not after lighting, is she?’
‘No. Costumes.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’
‘Flat white for here!’
Christine took her mug, which was more like a bowl – did the surface area really need to be so wide? – and added two sugars.
‘I’m just glad Ethan doesn’t want to be in the thing. Zero stage presence, that lad. He’s the only one of my boys I ever left at the supermarket. There has to be less competition for the backstage roles, right?’
‘You’d imagine. And it’s a school play; there’s got to be something for everyone.’
‘In a perfect world, sure. But we’re not in a perfect world. We’re in Glass Lake,’ said Beth, taking Christine’s discarded sugar sachets and throwing them in the bin. ‘At least you’re one of them. Oh, don’t give me that look, Christine. You know what I mean. You went to the school. I’m not even from Cork.’
‘Well, I don’t think I’m in the Lakers’ good books either. Lorna has been thick with me since an argument in the playground last year. She refused to let Brian on the other swing because Annabelle’s imaginary friend was using it.’
‘I’m supposed to be in double geography right now. I told them the boiler burst.’ Beth blew air through her lips as she shook out her shoulders. ‘Christ on a bike. I feel like I’m the one auditioning. Why do we do this to ourselves?’
‘I have no idea,’ replied Christine, who should have been at her desk, working on an article about cuts to West Cork’s bus service. She didn’t know what she was going to do when she got back to the office after meeting her ‘source’ and had no juicy information to relay.
‘There are other schools.’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Christine, though they both knew that if you lived in West Cork and didn’t at least try to get your kid into Glass Lake you were basically negligent.
There was a child in Brian’s class who travelled out from Cork city every day. He only got into Glass Lake because his mother took a job as a special needs assistant. Halfway through his first year, she quit, and they couldn’t very well kick him out. Heaps of parents gave grandparents’ and third-cousins-once-removed’s addresses as their own to secure places. Christine didn’t feel wonderful about sending her children to such a privileged school, but they lived in Cooney, and she was a past pupil. This, combined with the baptisms, which she had no problem with, had made her lot a shoo-in. She wasn’t about to send them further away just to prove her egalitarian credentials.
Beth took a deep breath. ‘Right, come on. Before your coffee goes cold. You know if you get it in a takeaway cup, it stays warmer longer?’
When they reached the group, Claire Keating was holding court. Claire was well known in Cooney for having three sets of twins. If the Keatings so much as went to the supermarket together, a photo would appear in the Southern Gazette’s social pages.
Lorna Farrell was to Claire’s left, taking notes in a Glass Lake copybook. She was dressed in a Lakers ’92 hoodie (which she’d clearly had made as the school didn’t sell merchandise) and bejewelled hairband. In front of her sat a flapjack cut into tiny chunks. Fiona Murphy was slouched on another chair, texting on a phone held up so the Little Miss Fiona case covered half her face. She had multiple bracelets dangling from her wrists and her fingers were covered in delicate gold rings.
Christine and Beth took the two available chairs.
‘I would have backed you up in the WhatsApp group, but you know how difficult it is to say anything there any more,’ Claire was saying to a vaguely familiar woman with an auburn bob. ‘God forbid you question one thing about your child’s education, without everyone accusing you of undermining the teacher. Which obviously you weren’t doing.’
Christine placed her coffee on the nearest table. It was the only ceramic mug. She should have just got a festive cup. She wasn’t going to save the ice caps single-handedly.
‘Obviously not,’ said Auburn Bob. ‘I want Ben to learn about climate change. I just don’t think they should be using the parents’ literal cars as examples of the worst offenders. He point-blank refused to get in his booster seat last Friday. He wanted to get the bus.’
‘Rosie’s started going through our bin and taking out everything we forgot to recycle,’ said another mother.
‘I told Ben the bus also ran on petrol and he called me a climate change denier.’
‘I’ve got three kids, two pets, and a mother-in-law who asked to move into our house but is actually residing up my arse,’ said the other woman. ‘I’m sorry if I don’t always have time to rinse out every yoghurt pot.’
‘It’s not good for their mental health,’ added Auburn Bob. ‘Climate anxiety. Right? Isn’t that a thing?’
‘I’ve never liked how they teach climate change at that school,’ said Claire, drawing air quotes around the words ‘climate change’. Claire had some questionable views, which she liked to share on WhatsApp and Facebook, but Christine kept shtum. Her plan was to say nothing until the musical came up. It was best to go softly-softly with the Lakers. They took this whole thing very seriously. ‘Lorna?’
‘Yep, got it.’ Lorna tapped the notebook with her pen. ‘Have a word with Principal Patterson. See if we can’t get the third-class climate change module toned down.’
‘Great. Thank you. And welcome to our latecomers. Christine …’
Christine dutifully returned the finger waggle.
‘… and excuse me, I don’t know your name …’
‘Beth. Beth Morton. My son Ethan is in sixth-class. He was hoping to work on the musical this year.’
‘Whoa!’ Claire whipped her head back as though Beth had just gone to throw her Americano at her. ‘Jump right in there, why don’t you? That’s fine.’ She exchanged a look with a few of the others that suggested it was not at all fine. ‘I’m afraid, Beth, we can’t discuss the musical until Beverley gets here. She’s our director.’
‘I could actually give everyone an update on the musical,’ said Lorna, whose full schoolyard name had been Lorna Lick-Arse Farrell. Christine had a feeling she’d started that moniker. ‘I’m across that with Beverley.’
‘That would be great,’ enthused Beth.
‘No,’ said Claire, holding a hand up to Beth and, by extension, Christine. ‘We’re waiting for Beverley. Now. What else is there?’
‘The Halloween party,’ said Lorna, recovering quickly. ‘And actually, sorry, can I just check? Did anyone have an issue with the sixth-class knitting assignment? Anyone think it was a lot to ask of the kids, or too much pressure, or …?’
‘I thought it was great,’ said Fiona Murphy, using the straw from her iced water to pull at her lips. ‘Made me think the new teacher might be worthwhile, and not just as something to look at.’
A few of the others nodded and Lorna made a show of crossing something out. ‘No issues. Roger that.’
‘Right. Halloween. Talk to me,’ said Claire. ‘Where are we on decorations?’
The Lakers debated whether the proposed skeletons were too scary and if safety scissors would suffice for cutting through pumpkins. Lorna was experimenting with ‘organic’ papier-mâché cauldrons and would let them know how she got on. Then they discussed hiring a photographer for the Glass Lake first holy communions next May, and Claire passed around ring binders containing sample shots. Christine was tempted to ask what was wrong with Seamus McGrath, the school caretaker and general factotum who took the official class photos every year free of charge. Although she suspected the free bit was the problem. She caught sight of the ‘pricing structures’ in one of the ring binders and realised these women were willing to pay more for photos than she was for a car.
These were the times when she couldn’t quite believe she’d ended up in the exact place where she’d begun. Sometimes, when she was quick-fire buttering bread and flinging it into moaning mouths, she wanted to turn to her children and say: ‘You’ve no idea! Mammy once lived in a squat and wrote for the NME and slept with a member of Suede!’ It had only been three articles, and he was actually the band’s sound engineer, but the squat bit was entirely true. A squat! She doubted if any of these women had even been camping.
Someone got a text from Beverley saying she was running late. Beth made a tutting noise and when Claire’s eyes darted in their direction, Christine made sure to turn her attention to Beth too. No need to be taken down with her.
She took another mouthful of coffee and grimaced. It was stone cold.
‘I’m going up for a refill. Anyone want anything?’ she asked, pretending not to see the daggers thrown by the mother who’d been in the middle of bad-mouthing another part of the curriculum. ‘No? Okay.’
She joined the queue behind Butcher Murphy, who ran the butchers below the Southern Gazette’s office and was an unlikely candidate for a takeaway coffee. Butcher had a head like a ham and even though Christine had known him since childhood, she couldn’t remember if it had always been like that or if it was a career version of how owners start to resemble their pets. His real name was Simon, but nobody called him that.
‘Well, if it isn’t the vegetarian,’ said Butcher, who called her this because three years ago she’d asked if he ever stocked fish. ‘Ordering a double shot of salmon, is it?’
‘Just a regular, old-fashioned Americano. Presume you’re getting a soya chai tea?’
‘Heee-yah,’ he scoffed. ‘Three euro for some dirty water? They saw youse coming anyway.’
‘Next!’
Christine waited but Butcher didn’t step up to order.
‘Next!’ called the barista again.
‘She’ll have an old-fashioned Americano,’ said Butcher, swapping places with Christine.
‘In a takeaway cup,’ she added. She’d forgo the avocados next time she did a shop. ‘Aren’t you ordering anything?’
‘I’m just here to keep an eye on things,’ he said, peering over her shoulder towards the Lakers.
‘Ah.’ She understood the situation now. Butcher and Fiona Murphy had separated a couple of years ago and, even if you went on the mildest of local rumours, he had not taken the split well. Fiona had swiftly started dating again and relished letting everyone, including her ex-husband, know. She’d cornered Christine at the Easter fundraiser to ask if the Southern Gazette would be interested in a column about modern dating. Christine had pretended her raffle number was being called and excused herself in the direction of the stage.
‘What do youse be talking about at these yokes?’
‘I’m not the best person to ask. I’m not a regular.’
‘Clothes, is it? And men?’
‘I think it’s mainly about the kids …’
‘Heee-yah. Sex, I suppose,’ he added, suddenly forlorn. Sixty to nought in no time at all.
‘I better get back, Butcher. Look after yourself.’
He gave her the Cooney nod – sharp, fast, diagonal – and shuffled behind the next queuing customer. She returned to the Lakers just in time to hear that Beverley would now not be making the meeting at all.
‘She just texted. Some sort of emergency,’ declared Lorna, holding her phone aloft.
Bloody wonderful. Would she have to come again next week? How would she swing that? There were only so many ‘sources’ Cooney could realistically have to offer. And wouldn’t it be too late? The musical was in a fortnight.
But then Lorna removed a second copybook from her handbag and started brandishing it about. ‘I can fill everyone in on the musical,’ she said loudly, the café light bouncing from her hairband to the crisp white pages and back up to her taut forehead. ‘I’ve been across the show, in a sort of producer capacity.’
Claire waved a hand in her direction as if to say, ‘Continue’.
‘That’s great because my daughter Maeve—’
But Lorna ploughed on. ‘We’ve actually had some really exciting news. Like, really exciting.’ She looked around the group, slowly nodding her head. ‘This year’s musical … is going to be on TV!’ Lorna gave herself a gleeful round of applause. ‘We submitted the script to RTÉ and it has been accepted. They’re going to film several segments for The Big Children’s Talent Show.’
Other mothers were clapping now. Even Christine was impressed. The Big Children’s Talent Show might be the only thing her kids watched on telly that was actually made for telly.
Everyone was talking at once and several women were making the case for why their child should be in the show. She heard Auburn Bob reminding Lorna how she’d canvassed for her husband Bill’s councillor bid, while Beth was frantically offering the woman the use of their holiday home if she ever fancied a trip to Tuscany.
‘People, people! The leads have all been cast. We only have smaller roles left to fill.’
‘Lorna!’ shouted Christine, hoping the woman had never figured out where the Lick-Arse nickname came from. She pulled her chair in towards Lorna, who was basking in the scramble for her attention. ‘Can you give Maeve a job on costumes, please? She really wants to be involved.’
‘I see she registered her interest with Mr Cafferty, all right,’ said Lorna, glancing down at her notebook. ‘Has she any experience?’
‘She’s eleven. So, no.’
‘Well, Shona Martin’s already down to do costumes and her mother’s a buyer for Brown Thomas so …’ The woman shrugged apologetically.
‘Oh, come on, Lorna. Two people can work on costumes. Isn’t it the taking part that counts? It’s a children’s play.’
‘A children’s play that’s going to be on national television,’ she corrected. ‘I’m sorry, Christine, but I don’t think we can fit her in. We do have an opening if she wants to sell raffle tickets at the interval …’
Auburn Bob was pulling her chair into the circle now, blocking off Christine and nearly stomping on her foot. ‘How much are they going to film, Lorna? Will they be talking to parents, or just the children?’
‘Lorna?’ Claire interjected from across the circle. ‘Max and Geoff are down to play Munchkins, yes? I know they’re selecting a few extras from fifth class. I’m not sure if Beverley confirmed that.’
‘I have their names here, Claire. No problem at all.’
Another woman arrived into the middle of the circle in what was turning into a rather aggressive game of bumpers.
Christine stood, so she could be seen in the growing bottleneck, but she was knocked off balance by Auburn Bob. Then her mobile started to ring. Christine stepped out of the scrum, her left leg almost getting caught between two seated women hopping into the centre.
‘Derek, hi,’ she said before her boss could get a word in. ‘I know I’m running a bit late, but my source has some good information. I’m hopeful I can get a decent story out of it.’ She could find her way out of this white lie later. The more pressing issue was that Lorna was scribbling down names, and Maeve’s was not among them.
‘Drop it,’ came the thick Dublin croak. Derek had swapped his sixty-a-day habit for thirty-a-day as part of his post-heart-attack life overhaul, but his vocal cords were fried long ago.
‘Sorry?’ Christine swapped the phone to her far ear and edged back towards the Lakers. She had to get back in there.
‘Drop whatever it is you’re doing,’ barked her editor. ‘I’ve got a scoop, Christine. I’m talking front-page material, and I want you on it right away.’
..................
Garda Joey Delaney
How would you describe the atmosphere at the school yesterday evening?
Claire Keating, parent
I fail to see what that has got to do with a beloved member of our community being found dead in a river.
Delaney
For now, everything is relevant.
Keating
Bustling. Everyone was busy. Some were busybodying, but one way or another, we all had something to do. I, personally, was proofreading the programme notes.
Delaney
A few people have mentioned that tensions were high.
Keating
This was going to be on national television. So yes, tensions were high. I wouldn’t read anything into that, though. It’s Glass Lake. Tensions are always high.
