CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT THEM
Oblivious to my facial-hair dilemma, Martin was still sitting in the bath, and had crumpled up his plans for the pop-up popcorn maker. He then forced himself to think about pigeons so that he wouldn’t imagine me. Even though I’d only been gone a few hours, this was proving to be quite the challenge, and he’d hoped that a good soak would help him forget all about his absent IF.
Martin loved baths – the suds, the calming effect of water on skin, the fun bubbles that came from submerged farts – the whole kit and caboodle*. But he had one gripe with the bathing experience: the lack of available food. He’d be happily floating or scrubbing when his tummy would rumble, or even call out ‘Hey! What about me? I’m starvin’ down here!’
Reluctantly he decided to abandon his cosy water hole and get himself a sandwich.
In the kitchen, he found Fidelma and his mam having a bit of a barney* about some boy.
‘The big dork from the school choir?’ Debra enquired.
‘He’s not a dork, Mam. His name is Dessie and he’s lovely.’
‘The holy Joe with the keyboard?’ scoffed Trisha, who was making tea nearby.
‘Shaddup, Trish, you’re just jealous!’
‘Ah, boys, boys, boys . . .’ Martin nodded sagely. ‘Can’t live with them. That’s what they say.’
The women stared at him briefly before returning to their squabble.
During Martin’s short but eventful life, he’d seen this kind of thing many times before. One of his silly sisters would fall in ‘love’ with some Spanish stable boy or waxy-haired drummer or (in Sinead’s case) a local farmer’s nephew who dressed like a scarecrow. Martin had learned it was best not to get involved, and would usually just offer wise, pointless titbits like ‘Ah yeah, love is strange’. Or ‘What’s good for the goose . . .’ Or ‘Nothin’ like a good chat’.
‘Mam, do we have sandwich bread?’ he asked.
‘Or dead batteries?’ enquired Trisha.
But Debra was still getting to grips with the ongoing Fidelma situation.
‘Delma, this is not a good time to be gettin’ involved with some fella – check the flippin’ bread-bin, Martin – you’ve got your exams coming up, you need to stay focused right now – most of the batteries in the press* are probably dead, Trish – and if your head drifts from your books to some piano-playin’ plonker, you might never be the first female Taoiseach.’
‘Well, maybe that’s not what I want, Mam. Maybe . . .’ Fidelma was getting a bit emotional now, as she gathered her books into her chest. ‘Maybe that’s just what you want!’ she blubbered as she stormed out, leaving her mother at a loss for words.
Taking the difficult situation into account, Martin turned to Trisha and asked the important question: ‘Why do you need dead batteries?’
‘I’m making a necklace out of them.’
‘But . . . they’re rubbish, Trish.’
‘Well, yes. And you’re the one who gave me the idea for that – thanks, Martin!’
‘You’re welcome?’ he replied uncertainly. ‘But are you not worried that people will look at you and say, “Ah there’s Trisha Moone, wearing a big head of garbage again”?’
Trisha thought about this for a second. ‘The thing is, Martin, I like my face, but I also like to have fun with it. Sometimes you can make a good thing even better.’
‘Like baths!’
‘What?’
‘I love baths, but I wish I could make my bath even better.’
‘Why do you keep saying “baths”?’
‘I’d nap in a bath if it weren’t so dangerous – ya know what I mean, Trish?’
But Trisha was already gone. It seemed whenever Martin was closing in on something brilliant, the ladies in his life would desert him. He turned to his mother.
‘Mam, do you know how to make a waterproof sandwich?’
‘No, Martin, it seems I don’t know anything.’
She shook her head sadly, before deserting him.
Martin retreated to his bedroom and tried again not to imagine me. But as he lay his dopey head on his pillow for a nap, there was another rumble, and this time it wasn’t his empty belly. His wardrobe shook, and he sat up.
‘Sean . . . ?! Wilbert . . . ?!’
Suddenly it burst open and the Wonkey bounded into the room. He looked relieved to be back, and even more relieved that he no longer had a bulging milk-belly. But Martin was too startled to notice this as he watched me tumble out after Wilbert and fall flat on my battered back. I was exhausted. I stank of adventure. And I was completely beard-less.