WIGS HAD REALLY BEEN EVIE MCCARTHY’S SAVIOUR. THAT sounds shallow and silly, and yes, she believed she was a little bit of both those things. She had found it soul-destroying watching her hair thin out as she got older. She didn’t have the aches and pains that she heard other people her age moan about—she was in good health, never better really—but her hair, it was so … disappointing. Evie had stormed out of Klassic Kutz, the local hairdressers on the main street of Ballyhay, ten years ago when Carmel, her hairdresser of two decades, had suggested a perm, a perm, like an old lady perm? The rage had inflamed her and Carmel had witnessed Evie’s blind anger. How dare she? Her mother had had a perm. Evie was not an old lady, her hair was just failing her. Clearly Carmel needed to upskill if she couldn’t see this. Evie took matters into her own hands, and with the help of her granddaughter Rosie, found a very fancy website in America that sent her Lucille Ball–style wigs. As far as she was concerned, it took twenty-five years off her. Evie had built up quite a collection over the last decade. What she liked best, she supposed, was the consistency in the colour—a vibrant, luminescent titian and shades of auburn. She had been a natural red head, and then a bottled one, and now without her wig a balding one, but nobody needed to know that.
She hadn’t gone back to Klassic Kutz, but heard from her friend Maura that they’d opened a nail salon at the back. Maura’s nails were painted lilac with a shimmering silver, and they were breathtaking. Evie knew she wouldn’t be able to do that herself even with a YouTube tutorial. She just adored the practical advice those videos gave, but no, she may have to consider swallowing her pride and visiting the salon. Maura had assured her that Carmel didn’t do the nails, it was a young Brazilian girl who was very professional. She could just snub Carmel at the desk and storm on through. She’d have to think about it.
Tonight, Evie was wearing a loosely curled bob, with a medium bounce. As always, her lipstick was red, and she had applied pink blusher. Her nails were painted coral and every finger wore a jewelled ring. Her mother had taught Evie never to leave jewellery in a box, always wear it. What use was it in a box where you couldn’t show it off? Her charm bracelet hung off her wrist, and her neck was adorned with a collection of gold chains of various thickness. She was ten minutes early to the pub, McCarthy’s. She was always ten minutes early. It gave her time to relax, set the scene and most importantly be in control. The bar next door sounded quiet. She could hear the dull chat of some customers, the occasional clink of a glass hitting the counter—eight or nine people she reckoned. Occupational hazard. When you’d spent a lifetime behind the bar, it was hard not to tally the takings in your head. You didn’t even need to count, it was just there. McCarthy’s had been Michael’s father’s pub. It had stood in the town for over a hundred years, on a side road off the top of Main Street beside the supermarket. The building was painted white with McCarthy’s in bright red letters over the door. The sign had always been in red, as far back as Evie could remember anyway. There were flower boxes on the front wall just beneath the windows, which were shades of amber and sea-blue stained glass so no one could see in. Michael had to buy out his two brothers once his father had passed. It had caused no end of disagreement, but it would have always been his. He’d been serving pints, collecting glasses, charming the customers since he was knee high. It was fitting, she supposed, that her daughter Yvonne was back behind that same bar. It was her pub now. Evie had signed it all over, lock, stock and Guinness barrel for the princely sum of one euro. She was happy to, and there was no argument with her son in Singapore—he’d never shown a bit of interest in running the pub. She was a little surprised that Yvonne had wanted to take over McCarthy’s. Her life had been away from Ballyhay for so long, but of course Evie was glad to have her back.
Evie had done the hard yards behind the bar, too; and back in the day she’d also looked after the books. That was where she had really sparkled, keeping the figures in line, weighing them up and watching how they soared when she opened up a little sideline business—taking bets on the greyhound races initially, and then the horses. It wasn’t strictly legal but back then an awful lot of business was done with a wink and a nod and a handshake full of cash. The locals were delighted; it saved them taking a trip down Main Street to the bookies where they might have been spotted by their wives. This way they never had to leave the comfort of their pint and Evie was a model of discretion, especially as her side business grew more and more profitable.
Evie loved the snug. It was her favourite part of McCarthy’s pub. A little cosy section that played host to multi-coloured, stained-glass windows and pine partitions. The tiny room was completely secluded from the rest of the pub in a discreet corner and could fit eight people on its two wooden benches at a push. It still had access to the bar. Traditionally, snugs were only for women to keep them sheltered from rowdy menfolk, she supposed, or more likely to stop wives spying on husbands or vice versa. McCarthy’s snug had its own entrance onto the side street, so the wives could slip in and out unseen. It served as the perfect spot for Evie’s business where discretion was once again everything. She poured some tea from the pot in front of her into a delicate china teacup, enjoying the noise of the pub and soaking in the atmosphere. There was a small plate of biscuits laid out, Jaffa Cakes and Fig Rolls. She’d told Yvonne not to bother, that she wouldn’t touch one, but now she wasn’t so sure. She did love a Jaffa Cake and knowing what she now knew, there was very little point in worrying about her diet. Her blood pressure and her cholesterol could go to hell. She might as well die happy. If she couldn’t eat a biscuit now, when could she? Evie grabbed one, rammed it wholly into her mouth and bit down hard, enjoying the sugary explosion and sticky and sharp textures. There would be some perks to the next few months after all.
‘Mrs McCarthy?’ A pink-faced man hurriedly removed his flat cap and bowed his head reverentially.
Evie had seen this before, sometimes people thought she was hallowed, or saintly or priestly even. She’d had women kiss her fingers and touch her feet. It depended on her mood really how she’d respond; occasionally it was nice to be treated extra specially. Tonight wasn’t one of those nights, though, and she felt matter of fact about the business at hand. ‘The very one. Paul, isn’t it?’
‘Aye, Paul Glynn, but people around here know me as Paul the pig farmer.’ He pulled at the edges of his ancient tweed jacket and shifted his large frame uneasily from side to side.
‘Take a seat, Paul the pig farmer.’ Evie gestured to the bench opposite her and smiled trying to put his nerves at ease. He was in his fifties, she guessed, never married. He had the ruddy complexion of a man who worked outdoors. His wide hands resembled a pair of shovels and were scrubbed clean, but the calling card of farm work left a dark sliver of dirt under his nails. He hadn’t needed to mention the pigs because she could smell the livestock on him. She’d try and keep this meeting brief.
‘It’s fifty euro up front for the first consultation, and one hundred and fifty when I match you.’ Evie clamped her lips shut. She wouldn’t utter another word until the fifty euro was in her purse. She’d been in this business long enough to have learned more than a few tricks.
‘Of course, of course.’ Paul rammed his hand into his trouser pocket and removed a wad of cash, folded fifties that almost made Evie speak. Almost. He slid a note across the table, nodding as if it were the fatted calf. ‘I’ve just come from the market, and well, we sold well, always do in the month of August for some reason.’
Evie shook her head dismissively, pretending not to be impressed by the money, and slid the note with great speed into her purse. ‘Now, Paul, tell me about yourself,’ she asked, but she already knew all about him. Or rather she knew all she needed to know. Evie had, what her mother had always called The Knowing. There was no voice speaking into her ear, telling secrets about the person in front of her, she just knew. She knew their essence. She knew who that person really was inside of that body they’d been put in. Underneath the layers and layers of labels they’d given themselves and the world had thrown at them, Evie knew their soul. Some were buried so deeply they were harder to find; people who lost themselves in trappings—too rich, too poor, too unhappy. The soul was always there, it could be a flickering ember or a roaring fire; regardless, Evie would find it. Like this man in front of her, Paul Glynn, he was easy to see. She knew he was a good man, a gentle, kind-hearted soul and that he was ravenous for love. He wanted to give his love to someone. He was brimming over with a pure, beautiful heart. Evie sighed happily, sometimes she loved what she did. She let Paul speak.
‘I suppose I always thought, I mean everyone always said, you know, the right woman will snap you up, she’ll be along in no time. And, I dunno, I believed them. I thought maybe she’d just knock on the door one day, or something. But I’m fifty-four, Mrs McCarthy, and she didn’t come along, and now I’ve no wife, never had one. And I’m too old now. I won’t be wanting children. I’d just like to have someone at home for me.’ He slapped a meaty hand to his forehead. ‘Oh no, not home waiting for me, I don’t mean that. She can work all she wants. I mean someone who cares if I come home, and I care that she does, and I’m happy if she’s happy. And maybe we could go to Rosslare for a weekend, if she’d like that.’ He never shifted his eyes from a spot on the table, the line of his mouth was downcast and serious. ‘I’ve plenty of money. I’ve seventy-five acres all me own, and no one’s coming to take it. After mammy died two years ago, I inherited the lot.’ He brushed at his cheek and Evie could see he was crying. It was hard for him to talk about himself. ‘Mammy took care of me my whole life. I minded her in the end, it was the least I could do, I didn’t want her in a home. But maybe, you know, maybe she minded me too well, you know, that I never had a wife.’
Bingo! thought Evie. Well, at least he can see it. Good that Mammy’s out of the picture, too, because Mammy is often the problem.
‘So, I like women with dark hair, and you know slim figures.’
‘I’ll stop you there,’ Evie interrupted in the manner of a strict schoolteacher. ‘That’s not how I work. You don’t give me physical attributes. You love the person for who they are, not for their hair colour.’
‘Oh yes, of course. I’m sorry about that.’ Suitably reprimanded Paul shrank at least three inches back into his seat.
‘Now, I’ll get you to put your name in the book.’ Slowly and with a certain degree of ceremony, Evie unzipped an oversized tote bag on the chair to her left. She placed two hands around a large leather-bound tome and heaved it onto the table. The dark brown leather was worn at the sides with a shiny smooth cover where bumps and ridges had been faded away by caressing fingers. The pages inched out unevenly, jutting forward through the edges of the front, showcasing their heavy cream colour and thick texture. The book must have been one hundred and fifty years old. It had been handed down from Evie McCarthy’s grandmother, an original town matchmaker. The first few pages of names were barely legible, some signed with Xs, as a lot of people wouldn’t have been able to write back then.
‘Just here.’ Evie pointed to an empty space and watched as Paul excitedly lifted his biro and scrawled his signature. She closed the book. ‘If you can just place your two hands on the cover for a few seconds, please.’
Paul took a deep breath, closed his eyes and hovered his hands over the battered old book as if he were preparing for a séance. ‘Like this?’ He peeped at Evie through one narrowly open eye.
‘On the cover.’ She let maybe thirty seconds pass. ‘That’ll do.’ Evie slid the book into her tote.
Paul looked brighter, happier somehow than when he’d walked through the doors of McCarthy’s. This often happened, people were so delighted to unleash their heart’s desire. ‘So, how does this work? Do you set up a few dates?’
‘No, there’ll be one date, one woman. I’ll get her for you. And I’ll keep you informed.’
He looked confused. ‘Will it be this Saturday? The sooner the better.’
‘It won’t be that quick. Be patient. Paul, you’ve waited fifty-four years for the right woman, so give me a bit of time.’ Evie knew you always had to set parameters for people. ‘And I’ll call you, don’t call me.’
‘Right so.’ He stood to leave, adjusting his cap back onto his wiry-haired head.
Evie crossed her arms and leaned further onto the table. ‘And Paul, with that money in your pocket, get down to the leisure centre in town. Use the steam room and the showers in there and then go to Fallons menswear tomorrow and buy yourself some new clothes, top to toe, shoes, socks, underwear—the works.’
‘For my date, like?’
She nodded.
‘Hang on a minute, you said she’s to love the real me, not the physical attributes.’
‘True, but women have certain expectations.’
‘I can’t say that I like girls with dark hair, but I have to get new clothes.’ He looked genuinely confused.
Evie sighed. ‘It’s very hard to find the real you to fall in love with, Paul, underneath the smell of pig shite.’
His faced crumpled, and he released a soft noise and nodded slowly. His mouth rose to a half smile. ‘You’re some woman, Mrs McCarthy, that’s for sure.’
She smiled back and waved him off, laughing quietly to herself as the door shut behind him.
Her phone buzzed in her bag. She pulled it out and saw it was a message from Rosie.
I’m a YouTube sensation Gran.
Evie clicked on the link which took her to YouTube. She could see her gorgeous granddaughter sitting on a couch with a blonde-haired woman with big lips.
‘Yvonne.’ Evie knocked on the bar counter and shouted into the bar, ‘Come have a look at this!’
Yvonne turned at her name, her blonde hair tied up in a loose bun at the top of her head, her make-up applied perfectly around her large almond-shaped blue eyes. Hearing her mam calling, a warm smile spread across her face to reveal straight white teeth. She marched up the long counter, pulling at the denim shirt that stretched across her middle. Evie knew her daughter was beautiful, but she wished Yvonne could see it for herself and understand that carrying a bit of extra weight didn’t suddenly take that beauty away.
‘Come on, let’s watch this. It’s Rosie.’
Yvonne clapped her hands together with excitement and held them up to her face. ‘This is the sofa thing, Mam, that I was telling you about. She’s launching the app on this.’ She grabbed the phone from Evie and held it up to her nose. ‘Doesn’t she look amazing? Oh, she’s a beautiful girl, I’m so proud.’ The tears welled up in Yvonne’s eyes.
‘Would you stop with the tears. She might fall off that sofa, for all we know. Play the damn thing.’
And for two minutes and twenty-four seconds they watched in awe as Rosie O’Shea knocked their socks off. They stared at the screen in stunned silence.
‘Well, she’s a natural,’ Evie said resolutely.
Yvonne’s eyes had fully misted over. ‘You got a mention, Mam.’
They both laughed. ‘Sure, I’m famous, too.’
‘She gets it from me. I’m sure of it,’ Yvonne giggled.
‘And me. Don’t be selling me short.’
Evie leaned across the counter and grabbed her daughter’s hand, squeezing tightly. ‘Our Rosie’s a wonder.’
‘Isn’t she?’
‘Now hook that thing up to the TV and play it in the bar. Let’s tell the world about our girl.’ Evie heard a catch in her voice.
‘Are you okay, Mam? You’ve gone all teary.’
‘Have I?’ Evie patted her cheeks and lifted her eyes to heaven. ‘It’s wonderful for Rosie, I’m thrilled to bits for her.’ And she was, she absolutely was, but she also had a horrible realisation that she wasn’t going to be around to see what happened next. Time was passing far too fast and she did not feel one bit ready for what lay ahead.