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