Part 5 (1/2)

'They are, aren't they?'

'All your sisters are very impressed. And the house looks great.'

'Yes, we were right not to go meddling with the sitting room. It's perfect the way it is.'

'Why don't we join them there now? Everyone's looking for you, and Daddy's about to cut the cake.'

'All right, dear. You know, that dress or blouse or whatever it is you've on you is really quite nice.'

'Thanks, Mum. It's Lucy's.'

I don't think we've been that close in years.

After the cake-cutting, the speech-making (Keith acquitted himself very well) and the photograph Auntie Joan insisted on, everybody disappeared again. Even Keith. I had just located Mike sitting on his own by the window in the dining room and was making my way through the crowd to join him, when I heard Lucy's laughter coming from the study.

'Here you all are!' I said, almost accusingly, on finding Jean, Marion and Lucy in a huddle on the floor round a bottle of champagne. 'It's my party, you know.'

'That's why we didn't want to be stealing your thunder,' said Lucy. 'Oh, come on so,' she added, 'I'll pour you a gla.s.s. Where's Keith?'

'I don't know. Everybody's acting weird tonight.'

'No, honey,' said Marion. 'It's just you.'

'We were saying,' said Jean, 'that this is quite a good party. You have to hand it to Mum. She knows how to put on a spread.'

'Yeah,' added Marion, 'but do you remember how she used to be, when we were kids, before the cookery cla.s.ses? A dinner for every day?'

'Oh, G.o.d, yes!' shrieked Jean. 'A dinner for every day! Let me get this right now. Monday was bacon and cabbage, because it could be bought the week before and wouldn't go off.'

'Yes,' said Marion, 'and even though she hated it and never ate any of it, she cooked it every week because Dad loved it.'

'I remember,' said Lucy. 'She thought it was common and only for poor country people. It killed her to have to cook it. The smell of it stayed in the kitchen for ages. That's why she cooked it on Monday to get it out of the way for the week.'

'It killed her more that Dad liked it so much,' continued Marion. 'He didn't insist on much, but bacon and cabbage was sacred with him.'

'Do they have it any more?' I asked, not remembering the days of the set menu.

'Sometimes,' answered Marion, 'I can still smell it there the odd time, but Dad's watching his cholesterol now and he's less insistent than he used to be. To be honest, I think Mum's grown to like it and cooks it for herself.'

'So,' went on Lucy, 'what was Tuesday?'

'Right,' said Jean, getting back into her stride. 'Tuesday was steak, to make up for the poverty of the day before.'

'Yes,' said Marion, 'and she always went to town on a Tuesday.'

'Always, and stocked up at the butcher. But she wouldn't buy meat for too many days for fear of it going off.'

'Oh, yes! People were always getting food poisoning in those days. And Mum didn't believe in freezing meat. She said it ruined the texture.'

'Now, Wednesday was always chicken, roast or fried, and Thursday was lamb-chop night.'

'I remember the lamb chops,' said Lucy. 'They were lovely if she baked them but horrible if she grilled them. I don't know why she ever grilled them.'

'She grilled them,' said Marion, 'when she didn't have time to bake them. She was often out and about on a Thursday afternoon, visiting her friends or one of her sisters. Remember? She often got Doreen O'Doherty in from next door to mind us.'

'Ah, I remember Dopey Doreen.'

'She wasn't Dopey,' said Marion, mock-crossly. 'She was just a little too innocent for this world.'

'Whatever you say. I remember that she used to get really upset at Wanderly Wagon Wanderly Wagon. I don't know if it was the lost princess or Sneaky Snake, but something about Wanderly Wagon Wanderly Wagon had her in tears every evening.' had her in tears every evening.'

'Poor Mrs O'Doherty,' said Jean, then fell over herself laughing.

'Wait now,' Lucy broke in, between the tears of laughter, 'you haven't finished the week.'

Jean was trying desperately to pull herself together. I felt the tiniest bit peeved that I didn't remember the good old days according to bad housekeeping. By the time I was on solids three times a day, Mum was producing things like quiche and spaghetti Bolognese and coq au vin coq au vin. She was a regular Delia Smith.

'Oh, let me think,' Jean continued, 'that leaves Friday fish, of course, whatever was freshest in Saddlier's, but usually whiting. And never chips. We didn't know what a chip was. We thought chips were some delicacy you could only get once a year in Kilkee.'

'I'd forgotten about the chip embargo. Another nasty, fat-ridden item that only poor people ate.'

'That leaves Sat.u.r.day, which was either a mixed grill or shepherd's pie, depending on her mood, I think, and then on Sunday what we'd been waiting for the whole week the big, leathery, indigestible Sunday roast.'

'Oh, G.o.d, no,' burst in Marion. 'That was in the days when lamb was something you only got in spring, and the rest of the year you had mutton. Mutton! You couldn't chew it and it tasted of sheep literally!'

'Oh, yes, the overcooked meat because rare meat was something else Mum didn't believe in at the time piled up on your plate so you had no hope of finis.h.i.+ng it. Oh, wow, happy times.'

The three girls were exhausted and delighted with their reminiscing. While Lucy and I share a lot of memories, I sometimes wish I remembered things the others share. Ruth and I were around at the same time, experiencing the same things, but I spent a lot of my time avoiding her, pretending she didn't exist. I remember I had a friend in primary school who was an only child and I thought it must be the most glorious thing in the world. Whenever Ruth and I do reminisce we end up contradicting each other. It's like we grew up in different houses.

'So, were Mum and Dad really that different when ye were young?' I asked, curious for more tales of these people I didn't fully recognize.

'Well,' answered Marion, 'Mum was definitely a little more strung out then. I don't think the whole business of housekeeping and bringing up children came naturally to her. She'd probably have been better off working, but that wasn't an option. It wouldn't have occurred to her to get a job. And she would have been brilliant at so many things. It's a pity, in a way, she didn't work for Dad. She would have loved it and it would have made a big difference to him. One of his biggest worries, always, was getting people he could trust.'

'Really? I thought she liked swanning around in her expensive outfits, visiting her friends and organizing the school garden fete.'

'And what a fete it was! Its success was largely down to Mum, you know. When she finally retired from the parents' a.s.sociation they stopped running it.'

'Would Dad really have wanted her working with him?' asked Jean, dubious of Marion's take on things.

'I think so. He has huge respect for her, even though he doesn't always give that impression.'

'Do you remember their rows?' asked Lucy, full of interest again.

'Oh, you could hardly call them rows. They consisted of Mum banging round the house, huffing and puffing about not being appreciated and Dad just holing himself up in the study, refusing to talk.'

'Oh, yes! Then he'd go out for a walk or something and come back with flowers.'