The fingertips from my right hand move gently over my scars. Five-star constellation. Five people. The phrase comes back to haunt me.
Pops comes inside, takes his shoes off, as I’ve warned him to do.
No sign of the little lamb, he says.
Was her fleece as white as snow, I ask.
It was, smarty-pants, and I hope that’s not her in the oven. He looks at me. He sees me at my arm.
Five, I say, the number of the human being. Four limbs and the head that controls the limbs. Five digits on a hand, five toes on a foot.
He sits down, interested. Five, he says, joining in. Five senses; sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch. Five, he continues, the number of Mercury.
Leo is the fifth astrological sign in the zodiac, I add.
We both think. He gets there first.
Five vowels in the English alphabet, he says.
High five, I say holding up my hand, a gesture of celebration.
He high-fives me.
Five lines in a limerick, he says, five arms on a starfish, an earthworm has five hearts.
I laugh. Five team members on a basketball team.
Five musicians in a quintet, he counters.
Five Olympic rings symbolising the five continents.
He sucks in air. Nice, Allegra.
I’m on a roll. Five was Coco Chanel’s favourite number. She always launched her collection on the fifth day of the fifth month.
I didn’t know that, he says, sitting back and thinking. For dinner, he says finally, I will eat five potatoes.
I smile.
I notice Pops watching my fingers moving over the w-shaped scar on my arm. I name the stars aloud as I move from freckle to freckle. Segin, Ruchbach, Navi, Shedar, Caph.
Which one is that, he asks.
Cassiopeia, I say. The seated queen. In Greek mythology she was the Queen of Aethiopia. She was the mother of Andromeda, who boasted that she and her daughter were more beautiful than the gods of the sea. As punishment for her vanity she was chained to her throne in the sky by Poseidon.
Harsh, he says. He leans forward, elbows on his knee. He looks away from my arm. Maybe it’s distressing him to see me distressed. He knows I am when my finger traces my scars but at least it’s better than making new scars.
Are you going to tell me why we are discussing the number five, he asks.
I stop rubbing my skin. This fella, I say with a sigh.
He smiles. A-ha!
No not like that. He was rude to me. I gave him a parking ticket and he lost his temper. He said to me, You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with.
And this was rude, he asks, confused.
He didn’t mean it in a good way, Pops. Called me a loser, ripped it up in my face.
Ah. That’s Dublin for you, he says and goes silent.
So what do you think, I say.
I’d say the fella who said that to you is an odd sort.
We’re all odd sorts.
True. You are the average of the, what now, he asks.
The five people you spend the most time with, I say.
He mulls it over. That’s an interesting one, he says. A game of law of averages.
The oven beeps, the lamb is ready. I take the lamb out. It fills the kitchen with even more delicious smells. The skin is bubbling, the juices run to the bottom of the tray. Perfect for gravy. Sprigs of rosemary and shards of softened garlic protrude from the punctured meat. I leave it to rest. I empty the water from the new potatoes, the steam giving my face a treatment, slather them with Kerrygold butter. I mix the mint sauce into the green peas, carve the meat and immediately eat the delicately tender parts that fall off.
What do you mean law of averages, Pops, I ask.
A kind of a mumbo jumbo Murphy’s law that has no mathematical principle whatsoever.
He sees my face fall and backtracks.
No that’s cynical of me. I can tell you’re serious about this, Allegra, I’m sorry. Perhaps it’s more along the lines of the laws of attraction, the power of your thoughts to manifest your desires, he says. That the environment we live in affects the person we are, the characteristics we portray and the way we behave.
Yes, Pops. That’s it, I say, stirring the gravy and watching him intently. That’s what he meant when he said it to me. That I was surrounded by … by losers, which makes me a loser.
Pops shakes his head and carries the bowl of vegetables to the table. Why would you entertain a philosophy such as this, he asks.
I have to. It’s in my head.
He ponders this. He loves a good crossword puzzle. Who are your five, he asks, going for more of his home brew.
No not that, please, I say with a wince, still feeling it in my head. I bought red wine.
He examines the label and searches a drawer for a bottle-opener.