Paddy notices and takes the phone from me, pushes me in beside her and I awkwardly pose against the door, beside her, wondering how she manages to hide the fact that the rusted hinges hot from the sun are searing into her skin as it is with mine. She examines the photo, with a grimace.
Paddy has set up a small BBQ covered by a golf umbrella, which is dangerously balanced between two TK Red lemonade bottles.
It’s just us and Paddy.
Is anyone else coming, Daisy asks me.
My best pal Decko is in the loo, Paddy answers. Mammy is coming. Out for the day. And I invited Fidelma, he says, moving the sausages on the grill. She works with us. She’ll drop by later.
I’ve never seen Paddy out of his work uniform. He’s wearing a Dublin football jersey, a size too small and that’s being kind, with a sweat patch across his back and under his moobs. His glasses steam up over the barbecue and sweat drips down his face. His sandals are Birkenstock. I’m afraid to look at his toes. There’s no shade in this space, only the sizzling meat has the benefit of the umbrella’s shade.
Decko steps outside, head down, eyes on the ground, hands in his pockets then out again, then in again, then scratches his face, then his head. Fidgety, nervous. Paddy introduces us and he nods, howya, barely able to look us in the eye. Not rude, but achingly shy. I try making small talk with him, and he’s nice, he warms up a little, but Daisy is just achingly rude.
Ah here’s Mammy now, Paddy says, as an old woman in a wheelchair is pushed to the door that meets the patio area and is left there, as a woman, presumably her carer, faintly visible in the darkened house, lifts a hand and leaves.
Thanks, Cora, Paddy calls. See you later.
So now it’s me, Daisy, Paddy, Decko and Mammy. I look over at Daisy. Maybe yesterday I would have felt embarrassed by this party in front of her. But I don’t today. She’s texting, not paying the slightest attention to anyone around her.
Hiya Mammy, Paddy says, kissing her. Mammy says nothing but her jaw works left to right as if she’s a cow chewing on cud. Wiry hairs on her wrinkled chin and lips all pulled in as if a drawstring around her lips. Looks like she has no teeth. We’re having a barbecue, Mammy, you like sausages don’t you, he asks.
She looks up at him then, a flicker of recognition in an otherwise confused state. She either recognises him or sausages. I think of Pops and his mice and hope it doesn’t come to this. It would hurt me, scare me if Pops didn’t recognise me. He’s all I have. What happens when the person who knows and loves you the most, the number one of your five, no longer knows who you are. Would it mean I’m erased.
The doorbell rings. I know who this is, Paddy announces again, genuinely excited at the guest arrival part of his day.
When I hear the voice at the other side of the door my stomach flips. Georgie.
I look at Daisy, open-mouthed. How did he know we were here, I ask.
I texted him the address, he’s going to drive me home, she says, and I feel relieved that she’s going to leave and not at all insulted.
In Georgie strides, in his tight shorts and T-shirt, body popping with muscles, thick neck from his rugby days, if he ever played. Collar up on his pink polo shirt. Slip-on shoes. Boat shoes. In case he’s going to be hopping on a yacht here in the Liberties. Plastic bags clinking in his hands.
Good afternoon all, he says confidently. What a smashing day. It smells good, Paddy, he says as if he’s known Paddy forever. I brought the Heino.
He doesn’t work here. His confidence, his accent, his voice, his posture, his energy. It doesn’t fit into this small yard, or this neighbourhood. The perfect gentleman, he thinks, as if butter wouldn’t melt, but to me he’s all rotten inside. All private school politeness, all dirty spoiled privileged cock on the inside and he shouldn’t be here with real honest to goodness people.
The doorbell rings again and I offer to get it, to escape the maddening sense of anger that’s rising in me for this guy I barely know. If Decko doesn’t give him a hiding, I will.
I open the door and Fidelma’s there with her daughter in her Holy Communion dress, hands pressed together in white-gloved hands in prayer, a position she’s been no doubt forced to take for every door they knock on. Decko, Georgie and Daisy, Paddy, me, Fidelma and her daughter Matilda all stand around sweltering outside, not a spot of shade in sight, not a bit of breeze. Mammy’s in the kitchen wearing a heavy cardigan and drinking water through a straw.
Time for food I reckon, Paddy says. He hands the food around on kids’ paper party plates. I try to make polite chit-chat with Fidelma who works in reception in Fingal County Council. I ask one question about the Communion and she goes through the entire Communion ceremony for me, from prayers to songs. Matilda spills tomato ketchup on her white dress and cries. Decko doesn’t want anything with lettuce, peppers or onions. He doesn’t eat vegetables. He tries the burger and won’t eat it because there’s something on the meat. Paddy tells him it’s been marinated that’s all, but he won’t finish it. He lights up a cigarette instead. The lack of breeze keeps the cigarette haze trapped in the hot square and at some stage we all cough. Paddy makes a joke about opening the gate and letting the heat out but that’s as far as he goes to complaining.