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‘Oh, good morning, Miss Brennan. I trust you slept well.’ Aisling tried to keep the note of hope from her voice. She could hear Mammy’s voice in her ear, She’s the sort if you give her an inch, she’ll take a mile. Mammy might not be here, but she was right. Miss Brennan was a woman who’d sense weakness and exploit it and from the tight-lipped look Aisling was receiving now, it seemed she already had.
‘I didn’t as it happens. There was a dreadful carry-on outside my window in the small hours.’
Aisling silently cursed Mr Fox wishing he could have chosen to raid someone else’s bin last night. ‘I’m so sorry Miss Brennan. That would be our resident fox. He comes a calling from the Iveagh Gardens, they’re behind the wall to the rear of the house. She donned her brightest smile and told herself to rise above Miss Brennan’s pettiness and find something nice to say. She was going to have to dig deep.
‘That blue’s such a lovely colour on you.’ It was true actually. The pale blue blouse Una Brennan wore under her cardigan was the same shade as her eyes. She’d have been pretty once, but now her features were pinched. Her face spoke of an internal unhappiness, and the harsh line of her tight bun from which a few silver curls escaped did nothing to soften her appearance. ‘Are you on your way to breakfast?’ Aisling didn’t expect an acknowledgement of her compliment.
‘I am. I hope it doesn’t take as long as it did yesterday. I think the cook was waiting for the hen to lay the egg. I’ve an appointment at ten o’clock this morning.’
‘We do have the continental option available if you’re in a hurry, Miss Brennan.’
‘I prefer a cooked breakfast.’ And with that, the older woman marched off down the stairs.
Awkward so-and-so. Aisling would put money on her having been a headmistress or something of the like in her younger days. Her cardigan and skirt ensemble teamed with sensible shoes reminded her of the bad-tempered English teacher she’d had in secondary school. She stole a glance at her own impractical but oh so pretty Walter Steiger shoes as she recalled the awful woman. She used to frisbee the school books across the room to her students. She’d also had a habit of slamming her ruler down on the desk of any pupil who looked like they might be daydreaming about their latest favourite pop star rather than conjugating their verbs. Given Aisling had been smitten with Jon Bon Jovi that year, her desk had gotten a hammering! Now she poked her tongue out at Miss Brennan’s retreating back. Mammy wouldn’t approve but Mammy wasn’t here.
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There were a handful of people seated at the tables Aisling saw as she descended the stairs to the basement dining room. They were laid with white cloths and silver cutlery. Mr and Mrs Freeman from Australia with their teenage sons were tucking in to their breakfast. They’d obviously risen bright and early. The family had toured Britain and had tagged on Ireland for the last two weeks of their holiday. The younger of the two brothers had finished high school and this was a last hurrah before he too flew the nest and went off to university, Mrs Freeman had confided in Aisling.
The boys, who looked alike apart from their haircuts were seated at a separate table to their parents. Aisling watched for a second as they shovelled down their bacon and eggs like they hadn’t seen food since leaving Australia. It made her smile as she remembered Mammy going on about Patrick having hollow legs when he was a teen.
Her gaze flicked over to the young couple from Cork, the Prestons. They were seated in the far corner of the room beneath a large black and white print of Grafton Street in the twenties. Upon hearing they were from Cork, Aisling had been tempted to flash them a photo of Marcus. She wanted to ask if they’d seen him, and if so, how did he look? It was a crazy thought, but then sometimes where he was concerned, she felt as though she had indeed gone crazy.
She’d managed to reign herself in and had learned that the reason behind the Prestons’ visit was down to his being courted by the Dublin branch of the firm he worked at. The company had high hopes of tempting him and his wife to relocate to the Fair City. By the looks of their clean plates they’d enjoyed their breakfast and were savouring a cup of tea before getting on with whatever the day had in store for them.
The retired and portly Mr Walsh, who’d left Dublin for Liverpool many moons ago was seated at a table near the door to the kitchen. He was buttering his toast and casting about the table. He was missing Mrs Flaherty’s homemade marmalade Aisling guessed, and she ducked on through to the kitchen to spoon some into a dish for him.
‘Good morning,’ she greeted Mrs Flaherty, whose cheeks were even pinker than usual thanks to the heat from the frying pan, and received a nod in return. Aisling wasn’t offended, one didn’t disturb Mrs Flaherty when she was near a hot stove. She set about scraping the chunky orange marmalade from the jar into a dish and, leaving the cook to her bacon and black pudding, she carried it through.
‘Here we go, Mr Walsh. I think this is what you were missing.’ She set the dish down.
‘Aisling, pet, you’re a wonder.’
‘Well now if I didn’t know how partial you were to Mrs Flaherty’s marmalade after all the years you’ve been coming to stay, I’d be a poor hostess indeed.’ Mr Walsh had been booking in to his favourite room on the third floor of O’Mara’s for five nights in the first week of September for as long as Aisling could remember. He had a standing order to come back each year to visit his older sister who lived in Rathmines. She’d never married he’d told Aisling once and had never moved from what had been their family home. He refused to stay with her despite her living in the house he’d grown up in because he said she drove him batty!
‘Will you join me?’ He gestured to his teapot. Mr Walsh liked her to sit down and share a cuppa with him of a morning. He reckoned her and Bronagh were the only sane people he spoke to once he left O’Mara’s for the day.
‘Give me two ticks,’ she smiled. It faltered as she spied Miss Brennan. She’d settled herself as far away from the other guests as she could manage. Aisling wondered what her problem was. What made a person so cantankerous? She was spared from pondering her question by Mr Freeman waving her over.
‘Good morning, Mr Freeman, what can I do for you?’
‘So you really don’t say ‘Top of the morning to ye’ then?’
‘Only in the films, Mr Freeman. Do you say, hmm let me see—strewth?’
He winked. ‘Fair dinkum, I do.’
Aisling laughed, ‘Your gas.’
‘Gas! I shall add that to my repertoire of Irish sayings.’ His eyes twinkled as he went back to dipping his toast in his egg.
‘Aisling,’ Mrs Freeman said. ‘We’re going to see Riverdance tonight.’
It amused Aisling hearing one of her sons groan at the thought of an evening watching Irish dancing. His mother ignored him. ‘We thought we’d have an early dinner before the show. Is there anywhere you recommend?’
‘There is actually. I know of a lovely place just around the corner from here where the craic is great.’ She grinned, seeing Mr Freeman sound out the word. ‘It’s called Quinn’s and they serve traditional Irish fare in a cosy setting. The food’s delicious. Would you like me to make a reservation for you?’
‘That would be wonderful, thank you.’
‘Say five-thirty? Would that give you enough time before the show?’
‘What do you think, honey?’
Mr Freeman nodded. ‘Bang on.’
It was funny hearing Irishisms in such a broad Australian accent Aisling thought giving him a thumbs up.
‘Five-thirty would be perfect.’
‘Five-thirty it is, Mrs Freeman. Mr Freeman, hoo-roo.’ He roared with laughter. ‘You got me with that one.’
She left them to get back to their breakfast, heading over to clear the Cork couple’s plates. ‘How was everything?’ she asked stacking the two plates.
‘Lovely, thank you. Mrs Flaherty’s soda bread is better than my nana’s but don’t tell her I said that,’ Mr Preston chuckled.
As she carried the dishes out to the kitchen, Aisling hoped Miss Brennan had overheard his high praise. She stacked the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and then retrieving an extra cup and saucer, went to join Mr Walsh, hearing Mrs Flaherty muttering behind her as she did so.
As she sat down opposite him, the cook pushed through the swinging door. She wiped her hands on her apron, her buttonlike blue eyes narrowed and her ample bosom heaving as she drew breath. She looked as though she were going into battle, a plump Boudica as she strode fearlessly across the dining room. Her voice rang out loudly as she asked Miss Brennan what she would like this morning.
Aisling turned her attention to Mr Walsh who set about pouring the tea as he told her all about his mad sister’s refusal to throw anything out. ‘She’s got that much gear piled up in there she could open a junk shop because most of it is rubbish.’
Aisling relaxed listening to his banter, she liked his Liverpudlian accent. Mrs Flaherty was more than capable of handling the likes of Una Brennan.