townie girlfriend called Noeleen. Virginia says she would prefer to be a buried alive in quicksand than settle on a smelly manure farm. Lorraine imagines marrying a farmer like Frank, only with Adrian’s face, and wearing her jeans tucked into wellingtons as she herds cattle down the lane. At night they signal messages with their torches towards Adrian’s caravan window and he answers – dots and dashes, short flashes, long flashes, see you tomorrow, girls.
In the evenings the adults gather around the campfire to sing the same songs they sing every year. They grow noisy and drink from long glasses then order the children to perform their party pieces. They won’t take no for an answer, even when Edward hides his head in his knees and curses softly, chanting each word like a slow litany. When Adrian plays guitar and sings “Puppy Love” he sounds far better than Donnie Osmond.
“Young ladies! Don’t hide your lights under a bushel. Virginia! Lorraine! On your feet immediately.” Aunt Josephine encourages them forward. They sing and dance, swaying together while the moths spin crazily above the campfire flames and the vampire bats with blood in their eyes flit between the trees.
“Time for sleep, young ladies. Tomorrow is another day,” Aunt Josephine shouts when she hears them giggling. On alternate nights, the girls sleep in each other’s caravans. Lorraine lies under Virginia’s bunk and thinks about tomorrow, imagines it waiting outside in the darkness, a closed flower preparing to open yellow petals and release the sun. She knows exactly what the next day will bring: games of hide-and-seek, treasure hunts, picnic dinners on the caravan steps, the shivery ache of sunburn, the soothing touch of calamine lotion on hot skin.
On Friday night there is music in O’Callaghan’s pub. Aunt Josephine calls it “our night out on the red hot tiles of sin”. She snaps her white handbag closed and herds them down the caravan steps. The seats in O’Callaghan’s remind Lorraine of church benches. Those who come late have to sit on beer barrels. They arrive early to avoid the beer barrels and Mr O’Callaghan shouts from behind the counter where he is pouring pints; “Begob! It can’t be that time of the year again. The Cheevers have arrived.” He wears a beige cardigan with leather patches on the elbows and calls Lorraine and Virginia “the lovely little girleens from the big smoke”.
Musicians with beards and peaked caps play endless tunes that all sound the same to Lorraine. Her father recites a funny version of “Galway Bay” and everyone laughs, no matter how often they hear it. Uncle Des puffs out his chest, raises his fist and sings “A Nation Once Again”. Someone always shouts, “ Tiocfaidh ár lá ,” which, Uncle Des explains in his loud bossy voice, is Irish for “Our day will come”.
Aunt Josephine’s face turns bright red. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Des Cheevers, or your boat may rock in mid-ocean.” She has a proverb for all occasions. If she can’t think of a suitable one she invents her own.
Virginia and Lorraine clap each other’s hands in the clapping game and chant, “ My mummy told me if I was goody that she would buy me a rubber dolly. But when I told her I kissed a soldier she wouldn’t buy me a rubber dolly .”
As the night wears on Mr O’Callaghan’s cheeks turn puce and his eyes disappear into narrow slits. Lorraine thinks his face will explode and his skin shrivel like a burst balloon.
“Blood pressure, poor man,” says her mother.
“Drinking the profits, more likely,” insists her father.
“Drink and be merry for tomorrow we fall upon the sword of Damocles,” intones Aunt Josephine.
Uncle Des says nothing. He is gazing at Roisin O’Callaghan’s bosom. She is Mr O’Callaghan’s wife and whenever she leans over their table to place a glass of whiskey before him, his hand brushes against her knee.
Virginia swears Lorraine to secrecy. She
In the evenings the adults gather around the campfire to sing the same songs they sing every year. They grow noisy and drink from long glasses then order the children to perform their party pieces. They won’t take no for an answer, even when Edward hides his head in his knees and curses softly, chanting each word like a slow litany. When Adrian plays guitar and sings “Puppy Love” he sounds far better than Donnie Osmond.
“Young ladies! Don’t hide your lights under a bushel. Virginia! Lorraine! On your feet immediately.” Aunt Josephine encourages them forward. They sing and dance, swaying together while the moths spin crazily above the campfire flames and the vampire bats with blood in their eyes flit between the trees.
“Time for sleep, young ladies. Tomorrow is another day,” Aunt Josephine shouts when she hears them giggling. On alternate nights, the girls sleep in each other’s caravans. Lorraine lies under Virginia’s bunk and thinks about tomorrow, imagines it waiting outside in the darkness, a closed flower preparing to open yellow petals and release the sun. She knows exactly what the next day will bring: games of hide-and-seek, treasure hunts, picnic dinners on the caravan steps, the shivery ache of sunburn, the soothing touch of calamine lotion on hot skin.
On Friday night there is music in O’Callaghan’s pub. Aunt Josephine calls it “our night out on the red hot tiles of sin”. She snaps her white handbag closed and herds them down the caravan steps. The seats in O’Callaghan’s remind Lorraine of church benches. Those who come late have to sit on beer barrels. They arrive early to avoid the beer barrels and Mr O’Callaghan shouts from behind the counter where he is pouring pints; “Begob! It can’t be that time of the year again. The Cheevers have arrived.” He wears a beige cardigan with leather patches on the elbows and calls Lorraine and Virginia “the lovely little girleens from the big smoke”.
Musicians with beards and peaked caps play endless tunes that all sound the same to Lorraine. Her father recites a funny version of “Galway Bay” and everyone laughs, no matter how often they hear it. Uncle Des puffs out his chest, raises his fist and sings “A Nation Once Again”. Someone always shouts, “ Tiocfaidh ár lá ,” which, Uncle Des explains in his loud bossy voice, is Irish for “Our day will come”.
Aunt Josephine’s face turns bright red. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Des Cheevers, or your boat may rock in mid-ocean.” She has a proverb for all occasions. If she can’t think of a suitable one she invents her own.
Virginia and Lorraine clap each other’s hands in the clapping game and chant, “ My mummy told me if I was goody that she would buy me a rubber dolly. But when I told her I kissed a soldier she wouldn’t buy me a rubber dolly .”
As the night wears on Mr O’Callaghan’s cheeks turn puce and his eyes disappear into narrow slits. Lorraine thinks his face will explode and his skin shrivel like a burst balloon.
“Blood pressure, poor man,” says her mother.
“Drinking the profits, more likely,” insists her father.
“Drink and be merry for tomorrow we fall upon the sword of Damocles,” intones Aunt Josephine.
Uncle Des says nothing. He is gazing at Roisin O’Callaghan’s bosom. She is Mr O’Callaghan’s wife and whenever she leans over their table to place a glass of whiskey before him, his hand brushes against her knee.
Virginia swears Lorraine to secrecy. She
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