14

‘Ninety-seven-point-six FM. This. Is. Solas. Eff. Em. I’m Skippy Brennan and you’re tuned into the home of the Mulcahy Feeds Calving Hour. Coming up between three and four, one lucky listener will be in with a chance of winning a year’s supply of home heating oil. I’ll be talking to a Knock butcher who found a hedgehog in his car engine – but don’t worry, folks, it’s got a happy ending. No hedgehog kebabs for dinner tonight. I’ll be talking to Councillor Lorraine Doran about planning pitfalls, and Garda Gerry Staunton will be in with his weekly Crime Callouts. Did you see a black Yaris acting suspiciously around the Mullybeg local information map? We want to hear from you. Before the news you heard 10CC and “I’m Not in Love” but I have to say …’ Skippy’s voice drops to a tone I assume he means to be sexy, ‘… I am a bit in love with what’s in front of me here in the studio this afternoon.’

I can see Mammy’s coiffed hair dip and bob through the darkened glass as she demures in the face of the Skippy Brennan charm offensive.

‘The business minds behind Ballygobbard’s brand new ShayMar Eco Farm and Yurt Resort – welcome to Solas FM, Constance and Marian.’

I’m watching them through the glass from a spinny chair in the Solas offices, granted access by Miriam Timoney to offer moral support and take pictures for Paul, who said he’d try to watch online. Mammy was right about the webcams and she’s been up to ninety about her first big radio appearance. She got it into her head that maybe they needed media training and asked me would Sadhbh or Elaine know anything about it. ‘Or Don, maybe?’ I begged her not to make me ask Don Shields for tips on talking about yurts on Solas FM. Luckily Miriam Timoney took it upon herself to come to Mammy’s kitchen and coach her and Constance on the best way to present themselves and the kind of chat Skippy might be after. I caught the tail end of the training session and witnessed Miriam very diplomatically tell Constance that she has a very ‘powerful voice’ and might practise making it a bit softer. Skippy is well known for having no time for poshos, so the last thing we need is Constance lifting him out of it honking about ‘Mongoooaaalian yuhrrts’ and the restorative power of ‘ashtaaawwwnga’. Constance has definitely become less of an enigma over the past year, but she’ll always be like BGB’s very own Celia Holman Lee, except with horse nuts in her pocket and straw all over the back seat of her enormous Range Rover.

Mammy and Constance bid their nervous hellos to Skippy and he launches right in.

‘So, an eco farm. But just how eco is it, really? How can we be sure it’s not just another Hackett’s Recycling con waiting to happen?’

Ron Hackett was shamed from a height last year when it emerged that not one bit of the ‘recycling’ he was charging the residents of BGB, Knock and beyond to collect was going anywhere near a recycling plant. He was dumping it illegally in a sandpit off the Garbally Road. And it later emerged he’d robbed the green bins on night-time crime sprees across two counties. The last thing BGB needs is another environmental scandal. Miriam had warned that with a light story Skippy sometimes likes to go for the unexpected jugular, but right out the gate seems a bit much. And him just flirting with them thirty seconds ago.

‘Well, we, eh, we …’ Mammy blusters for a second and I feel a sense of rising panic. I will her to pivot instead to her key talking points of solar-powered chick-hatching stations and Foraging Fridays, which they’re hoping will bring in school groups and I’m hoping won’t have someone in hospital after eating a dodgy mushroom. Bernard ‘The Bog’ Shefflin is coming in to do the foraging and he basically lives in a hedge so fingers crossed it will be fine.

My phone goes. It’s a text from Majella. She said she was going to hide in the toilets at school and listen in while marking spelling tests. ‘The louser. I’m boycotting Skippy Brennan from now on.’

That will be hard going. Shem Moran is devoted to Skippy.

Mammy trails off, but before Skippy can go again, Constance pipes up. ‘Well, you see, eh, Skippy.’ She says ‘Skippy’ like it’s the name of something hawked up by an alpaca. ‘You see, we’ve done our research. We’ve consulted with farms all over Ireland and all over the world, in fact, and we’re confident of our standards. Local farmer Muuursh Kelly will tell you just how rigorous we are.’

Go Constance!

‘Oh, I see,’ Skippy patronises. ‘But what’s this I have in front of me about imported wood for playground fixtures? An overpowering and unpleasant smell?’

Where is he getting this from? This is an ambush! I glare over at Miriam and she shrugs her shoulders apologetically.

‘He’s in one of his moods,’ she whispers. ‘The County Chronicle got a tip-off that he’s been getting Botox and really went to town on him this morning. How the hunter becomes the hunted.’

‘That smell –’ Constance has gone full honk and Skippy cuts her off.

‘Mrs Swinford, if we could keep the voices to a dull roar, please?’

Mammy pipes up. Her head had sunk so low I was afraid she had slipped off the chair and under the desk in fright and mortification. ‘That smell,’ Mammy repeats slowly and calmly, ‘was from Engers’ pig farm two kilometres away. We get it whenever the wind blows just so and it’s been coming and going since long before our eco farm was even a glint of an idea.’ She’s right. Many’s the line of perfectly good washing has been ruined by the stench. ‘The wood for the playground came from a sustainable forest in Wicklow and those alpacas belonged to Murt Kelly. Now, have you another question for us, Skippy, or can we tell you about the cabbage samosas?’

Through the glass I can see Skippy holding his hands up and he laughs on air. ‘Okay, okay. Just doing my job, holding people to account. The fourth estate never sleeps.’

My God, he thinks he’s on Channel 4 news. It’s far from Channel 4 Solas FM was reared.

‘Okay then, these yurts, tell me about them. Why would I sleep in one and not, say, a lovely hotel?’

By the time Skippy has to take a break for the death notices, Mammy and Constance have covered the yurts, the nature trails, the farm shop and the hen-party packages. Skippy had some questions about the compostable willy straws, and Miriam Timoney nearly choked on her tea when Constance called them ‘startlingly realistic’ and Skippy cut her off and threw to an ad break. I can see the three of them chatting through the window as one of the four death-notice broadcasts of the day goes out.

‘Solas FM has been informed of the following deaths. Terrence Foley, The Hastings, Knocknamanagh. Reposing at his home from this evening until 10 a.m. tomorrow. Removal to St Brigid’s Church …’

‘They used to read them out live, the death notices.’ Miriam places a cup of tea in front of me with two Good Biscuits on the saucer beside it. I suppose it’s all about the glamorous biscuits in the world of radio and showbiz. ‘They pre-record them now, after … the incident.’

She’s only dying to tell me, and I’m dying to hear it, of course. I lean forward and give her an encouraging nod.

‘Poor Susan was in there in the studio reading her death notices live, doing her best sad voice when …’ Miriam clutches at her craw. ‘Someone here in the office said, “Can anyone else hear that?” And sure enough, there was a song playing over her. Soundtracking her, almost. Live on the radio. While she read funeral arrangements.’

‘Was it supposed to be there?’

‘Jesus, no. Some clod was in the other studio getting songs ready for his show and he was somehow broadcasting at the same time as Susan.’

‘What was the song?’

Miriam looks at me, tragedy in her eyes. ‘Chris Rea. “I Can Hear Your Heartbeat”.’

James is disbelieving when I relay the story to him that evening as we drive towards Knock. Rumour has it they’ve finally changed the film at the cinema and I’ve two share bags of Maltesers from Filan’s in my handbag.

‘Hang on. So they read out who’s dead. On the radio?’

‘Yes, James.’ I’m exasperated. He keeps focusing on that rather than the catastrophe of the song and that Susan had just announced that Jill Noonan had died ‘suddenly of a heart attack in her home’ when Chris Rea started warbling.

‘And then just anyone can go to the funeral? Because it’s announced, live, on the radio?’

‘Well, it’s not live. Not any more.’ Was he even listening to my story?

‘But it went well anyway? I’m sorry I didn’t get to listen. I was battling three very loud power drills and an architect with a very particular opinion about an archway.’

‘It did, in the end. Skippy went hard on them at first but they knew their stuff. It will be great for booking, I think. John …’

I falter over his name a bit and James looks over at me and squeezes my knee. ‘It’s okay, Aisling. You can say his name. I don’t mind.’

Now that we’re a proper couple I’m trying to be more sensitive around John and our past together, and I still haven’t told James about John doing the website for Mammy. Here goes.

‘John has been helping with the website and is monitoring the bookings for the time being, just to make sure it all goes smoothly. There are two groups booked in for March and April already, and loads of emails asking about the Santa experience.’

James doesn’t skip a beat but his voice changes ever so slightly. ‘Brilliant! And how was work today?’

It was busy. Mad busy. By the time I got back from the radio station Carol was already behind on some catering orders for tomorrow, and for some reason the electricity bill hadn’t gone out of the account. But I just want to relax and enjoy the evening. ‘Grand. Actually, if we stick on Solas we might catch Mammy and Constance on Playback. It’s ninety-seven-point-six.’

James flicks on the radio and twists the knob to tune it in, but we’re just approaching Knock so we might not catch it after all. The news is still on as James slows down to look for a parking space. We’re not the only ones who heard about the new film.

‘And finally, on Solas Showbiz, could we be welcoming a Hollywood celebrity into our midst to celebrate a very important birthday? A source has told the County Chronicle that –’

James brakes suddenly and exclaims, ‘There’s one!’ And my bag falls forward, packets of Maltesers spilling into the footwell in front of me. I catch it before I lose the two tubes of Fruit Pastilles as well.