Imagine calling your son Jesus, Billy thought. It certainly wouldn’t work here. A Finglas Jesus wouldn’t dare to show his face outside the door.
In another part of the house, he could hear Granny Teresa crackling at something someone said on a re-run of The Golden Girls. Listening to her, Billy smiled. Granny Teresa was alright, actually. She was the only one in the house who liked Kung Fu films. And although it wasn’t really cool to admit that you loved your grandmother, in his secret heart, Billy glowed when he was around her.
He envied her in a sort of a way too because she was seventy and, therefore, everyone had to respect her. She didn’t have to give a sugar about his Ma’s moods or her PMT. And any time his Da got stroppy she’d shut him up with a look and ask him who did he think he was. That she used to change his nappy.
His Uncle Dick – now there was another kettle of kippers. Dick was the Black Sheep of the entire family on both sides. He was separated. He’d had to go back to live with Granny Teresa only four years after he was married. Then the two of them came to live with Billy’s family when Uncle Dick drank them both out of house and home and they had nowhere else to go.
The problem with having Dick in the house was that no one could sleep with him because he snored like an elephant. So he had to have a bedroom all to himself. But there were only three bedrooms in the house proper. So Dick got one. There was one for his parents and one left for Doreen. So Billy had to sleep on a sofa bed in what his Da liked to call The Conservatory.
For the next three weeks, Jesus was going to be in Dick’s room and Dick was going to be sleeping with Granny Teresa in the granny flat. The rules from the agency said that Jesus had to have a room of his own.
The Conservatory was a lean-to glasshouse. Billy’s Da had bought it cheaply from someone in Rush who was getting out of market gardening. His Da ‘borrowed’ a milk float from Premier Dairies and one Saturday morning, he, a mate of his, and Billy had gone to collect it. They had to hurry and get the float back to the plant before that shagger Moreno missed it.
Billy didn’t mind because, as a bedroom, it wasn’t too bad actually. Once he got used to the brightness, birds in the morning, that sort of thing, Billy got to quite like it.
He checked his watch again. Two hours and fifty minutes to go. He settled down with a dog-eared copy of Playboy magazine. His friend, Anthony, had got it from a bloke he worked with on the building site. Now that Billy was sixteen years old, his Ma and Da didn’t bother taking stuff like Playboy away from him any more. He hoped this Jesus was as into women as he was.
CHAPTER THREE
Sharon Gets a Puncture
‘Bloody hell!’ Sharon Bryne swore as the steering wheel of the Polo shuddered and then became heavy between her hands. (She had wanted a Golf but her Daddy wouldn’t rise to it. The old meanie.)
She had a puncture.
Of all the days!
Sharon had been driving down Monkstown Avenue in a thick stream of traffic. She heaved at the steering wheel to get the car neatly into the kerb. She glared at the furious face of the Beemer driver who passed her making rude finger signs. All right, so she hadn’t indicated. Big deal. She stuck out her tongue at him as she put on her flashers.
One by one, the honking cars swerved out and drove past her. Calm down, Sharon, she said to herself. Just ring the AA first. Then ring Jackie and tell her you’ll be there as quickly as you can.
Thank God for mobiles, she thought.
Making sure she did not break her fingernail, she carefully tapped in the AA breakdown number. She always kept it safely taped to the dashboard of the Polo. She was kept waiting, of course. She had to listen to bloody Enya. What was it about Enya? She was everywhere. Poodle music, Sharon called it. Sharon herself was into heavier music, like Blur.
After what seemed like a week, the AA woman came on. Took the details. Then – disaster! The wait would be an hour or probably more.
‘An hour?’ Sharon couldn’t believe it. This was an emergency. She tried to explain to the woman how much of an emergency this was. But the woman explained back to her that because this was a Bank Holiday Friday, there was murder on the roads. She’d do her best, the woman said, but she couldn’t promise help sooner than an hour. Click. The woman was gone.
Sharon thought for a moment. Then tapped again on her mobile.
Damn! Daddy’s mobile was off.
It wasn’t fair. She just felt like getting out of the Polo altogether and walking away. She felt like crying. She nearly did, actually, but then she pulled herself together. Stop this, Sharon, she said sternly to herself. Don’t be such a baby. You’re in a grown-up job. Behave like a grown-up.
She frowned. Sharon Bryne was not going to be beaten by this. She tapped in Jackie’s number
‘Oh my God – !’ Jackie’s voice could barely be heard above the noise all around her. She was in the arrivals hall at the airport. ‘Sharon, you can’t do this to me. You just can’t. You have to come immediately. Get a taxi, all right? The company will pay. Just come now. You should be here already – ’ The connection was broken and Sharon was left holding the stupid dead mobile in her hand.
This was dreadful. The silly woman was demanding that she should abandon the Polo? Just leave it here for robbers and lowlifes?
She took three deep breaths to calm herself down. Brigitte, who gave Sharon and her mother Ki-Massage, had taught the two of them how to slow the body down. It always worked. After the third breath, Sharon was no longer upset.
She tapped in Daddy’s mobile number again. Still off.
All right. She was on her own here. She would leave the Polo and get a taxi. But first she would ring AA and tell them they’d have to tow it for her to a garage. They’d do that. They’d have to. Sharon’s family paid squillions to them every year for the very top cover.
Twenty minutes later, Sharon was driven in her taxi past the Frascati Shopping Centre. She was quite pleased with how she had handled matters. She saw she was clutching her clipboard as though it was a life-belt. Tension. Brigitte certainly would not have approved of that! So Sharon took three more deep breaths and settled back in her seat for the ride to the airport. She wouldn’t think any negative thoughts. The Polo would be fine. She had put the light around it as Brigitte had taught her.
She didn’t remember that she had left a file on the Polo’s back seat.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jesus Flies In
Jesus leaned forward in his seat and stared through the oval window as the jet at last broke through the cloud cover. The fields around Dublin airport spread out beneath it like a bright green-and-white tablecloth. All around him was the excited buzz of chatter and loud talk. Jesus had no wish to be part of it. He had no friends on this trip and he was contented about that. Three weeks in Ireland with a family he did not know was fine with him.
To prepare for the visit, he had read a lot about Ireland. About Riverdance and Gerry Adams and Bono and computers. And most of all, about the craic and the Guinness and the little fairy-sized churches and the green, green grass.
And now here it was, all starting. Jesus, who never showed any excitement because to do so would be vulgar, felt a little flutter somewhere around his middle. He sat back. The flight attendant, who was passing along to check seat belts, shot him a big toothy smile. Jesus smiled back. It was good to be coming to Ireland, to escape the summer heat of Barcelona. All that endless, tiring, boring sunshine. It rained a lot in Ireland. Jesus liked rain, the way it rushed from the sky to cool the streets and freshen the flowers.
His Mama had not wanted him to come. Lately, Jesus had been finding that he and his Mama were not seeing eye-to-eye the way they used to. His brother, Jose Manuel, who was married and six years older than Jesus, had helped to persuade their Mama.