This Charming Man (38 page)

Officially in grip of paralysing fear. Do not want regular arrangement with Noel from Dole! ‘But this is not my house! And I could return to Dublin at any moment!’

He frowned. Not happy with that. ‘You will have to report change of address immediately. As soon as leave jurisdiction, no more payments from County Clare.’

‘Yes, know all that.’ Had been explained to me until was blue in face.

‘Anyway you don’t look sane enough to return Dublin yet. Look at cut of you.’

Yes. Favourite outfit. Pyjamas, wellingtons, feather boa.

Regretted feather boa. Feather boa gives people wrong idea. Feather boa is badge of true eccentric.

‘From now on, Friday night is girly night!’ he decreed. ‘Okay, Lola?’

‘Will have to square it with Tom Twoomey, owner of this house.’

‘Square what? You are simply having friend over for drink.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Simply having friend over for drink,’ he repeated. ‘Okay, Lola? We agreed about that?’

Miserably nodded head. No choice. Looks like relationship with Noel from Dole set to run for some time. Unhappy. Really don’t like him.

But – as already observed – he has expedited welfare payments with unprecedented speed. He owns me.

As soon as sound of Noel’s car had died away, I decided I didn’t care if he owned me. I rang Bridie and explained trannie situation. ‘Uncle Tom needs to be told,’ I said. ‘Is violation of his home. Is likely he’ll put foot down and insist on immediate cessation of trannie activities on these premises.’

‘Uncle Tom very easy-going.’

‘Is likely he will be scandalized,’ I said.
‘Scandalized!’

‘Isn’t,’ Bridie replied. ‘You sleep with surf boy yet?’

Message on phone. SarahJane Hutchinson. Sounded hysterical. Has had ‘disagreement’ with Nkechi. SarahJane had given in, and tried Nkechi, but now worst fears realized.

‘Is just not working!’ she screeched. ‘Nkechi not nice, not nice like you. As for that Abibi…’

Couldn’t help warm glow.

‘I can’t cope! Going to four charity balls. Can’t do it on my own! Those charity-circuit bitches will be looking and laughing at me!’

Sadly, is true. SarahJane not paranoid or with overinflated sense of self-importance. True, true, true.

‘Lola, I need you. Am flying to New York to see you. Where you staying? The Pierre? The Carlyle?’

These rich people! Even nice ones like SarahJane! They haven’t clue.

Could not afford single night at either those establishments, never mind open-ended stay.

Rang SarahJane. Knew shouldn’t. Part of bargain with Nkechi. But common decency dictated that should.

‘Lola, oh Lola, you are lifesaver!’ Pitifully grateful to hear from me. ‘Cannot work with that Nkechi! And cannot get other stylist to take me on at such short notice. Am coming to see you.’

‘Am not in New York.’

‘Wherever you are, will come. Will come to Outer Mongolia.’

‘Is further. Am in County Clare.’

‘In Ireland? But that is no problem. Will drive to you.’

‘But it’s on west coast, you live on east.’

‘With Kildare bypass it takes no length of time.’

Another Kildare bypass person! Should put her in touch with Bridie. They could set up a club.

Talked through SarahJane’s needs. Promised would call in gowns, shoes, jewellery, evening bags. Would have to blow my cover, but what the hell? What is so bad about being in County Clare as opposed to New York?

Nkechi, paranoid.

Rang Marilyn Holt, lovely buyer in Frock (best shop in Ireland, in my opinion).

She exclaimed, ‘Is that Lola?’

‘Yes, yes.’ Briskly explained my situation – to wit: living temporarily in Knockavoy.

‘Thought you were in New York.’

‘Yes, well, am in County Clare now.’

‘Of course,’ she said discreetly, ‘of course. No need for details.’

Marilyn Holt, very kind woman. Very kind.

Obvious that everyone knows my tragic story. No secrets in this small country. Brief bad, burny feeling.

However, when ended call, with Marilyn promising to send tons stuff, felt quietly pleased. Just goes to show, can still pull rabbit out of hat. Am still force to be reckoned with.

Knockavoy graveyard
After much searching and tripping over slabs obscured by rampaging weeds, and reading of headstones, found perfect one. Katie Cullinan, died 1897 at age of thirty-nine, same age Mum had been. Would do nicely for while I was in Knockavoy. Pulled up couple of weeds – grave overgrown and mossy, and headstone patchy with discoloration – and had lovely little chat with Mum. Lovely little chat in my head, not out loud, I should add. No one there to see me, but not taking chances.

Walking home from graveyard
Phone rang. It was Bridie.

‘I spoke to Uncle Tom about your trannie,’ she said.

‘What he say?’ Was agog. ‘Was he
scandalized?’

‘He says so long as no one breaks the toaster again, he doesn’t care what you do.’

‘But did you tell him Noel is wearing women’s clothing and make-up and… and… underwear and everything?’

‘Yes, yes! He doesn’t mind! He says let he who is without sin cast
the first stone. He says trannies are miserable poor divils and what harm are they doing.’

‘… I see, I see, I seeeeeee… Uncle Tom very kindly man…’

Unwelcome news.

Had strangest dream. Was line-dancing with Rossa Considine and Colin Farrell. We were in front row, many, many other line-dancers behind us. We were demonstrating because we were the best. Heel, toe, heel, toe, skip to other foot, heel, toe, heel, toe, thumbs stuck through belt loops. Could even hear song in dream: ‘Achy Breaky Heart.’ Wearing red stetsons, embroidered shirts and cowboy boots. In dream I was
brilliant
line-dancer, knew all the moves and traversed floor on winged feet. Then it became competition. (Dreams no respecter of believable plot-lines. Like soaps in that respect.) Rossa Considine won first prize. Colin Farrell poor loser: accused him of cheating. Accused him of doing wrong kind of ‘travelling.’

Internet café
Miracle! Place open. Cecile within with Zoran, her ‘little turtle dove’, and Jake the Love-God.

Cecile leapt up when saw me. ‘’Allo, Lola, by gor but you’re thriving. Zoran, come wiz me. We ’ave to see man about a dog.’

She whisked Zoran – dark-haired, dark-eyed, good-looking boy – from premises, leaving me alone with Jake.

He watched them leave, then said, ‘Lovely girl but has subtlety of elephant.’

His voice so low that had to study his delicious mouth as he spoke, almost like lip-reading. But charmed by his observation.

Realization: had decided that, as result of extreme good looks coupled with surf-boy lifestyle, he might be bit stupid. Perhaps had judged too hastily?

Question for him. ‘Jake, why you called Jake?’

‘Short for Jacob.’

‘Jacob? You Jewish?’

‘No.’

‘From strange religious family where you all named after biblical characters?’

‘You mean like Dingles in
Emmerdale?’
(Dingles, family in soap opera where all members named Shadrack, Cain, Charity and similar.) ‘No. My mum ate lots Jacob’s cream crackers when pregnant with me. For months couldn’t keep anything else down. Out of gratitude, called me Jacob. Says I wouldn’t be here if wasn’t for them.’

You see? Too much information. Already Love-God myth dissolving. He watches soaps and his lovely sexy name has been inspired by cream cracker!

Took delivery of big box of beautiful clothes from Niall, the heavy-set, chatty DHL man. Thought would never get rid of him.

Gazed at box. Excited. Full of anticipation. Old juices flowing.

Tore open box. Sudden rush of bad, burny feeling. What were these rubbish dresses? Marilyn Holt sending me dregs! Am not a force to be reckoned with at all! I am joke of stylist, fit only to receive non-couture, man-made-fibre rubbish!

Devastated. Frankly devastated.

Took second look. Not lovely dresses from Frock, but tacky trannie things for Noel. Phew!

Walking into town for evening’s activities
Passing Rossa Considine’s gate. He was putting something in his eco-swot car. Gave him curt nod. Received curt nod in reply.

Then remembered my dream. ‘Hey,’ I said, word out of mouth of its own volition.

Considine looked up. Approached me at gate.

‘Just remembered,’ I said. ‘Had mad dream the other night. Dreamt you and I were line-dancing with Colin Farrell.’

‘Oh? Oh! Must have been after thing on car radio!’

‘Yes. And we were brilliant.’

‘Were we?’ Looked very taken with this.

‘You won first prize and Colin Farrell very sore. Accused you of cheating. Said you did wrong kind of travelling.’

‘What is right kind of travelling?’

‘Don’t know. It was only dream. Not mystic line-dancing lesson. But, all same, very real dream. Could even hear the song: “Achy Breaky Heart”.’

He winced. ‘Will hear that song in head for next week. Thanks, Lola.’

So
cranky
.

Next time I dream about him, will not let him win any prizes.

Niall from DHL – again. This time delivering real dresses. Cripes, the beauty, the beauty, the unbearable beauty. The fabrics, the cut, the detailing. Billowing yards of ivory silk, as lustrous as water; layered skirts in crunchy taffeta; black satin bodices, winking light.

Could have wept for their beauty.

Have missed work more than realized.

Phone rang. Noel from Dole. Why was he calling? Could only be to cancel!

‘Will be over around seven,’ he said. Not cancelling! ‘Don’t forget snacks. Set up mirror in kitchen and put my new clothes in there. And I have little surprise. Am bringing friend.’

‘Friend?’

‘Yes, found him in internet chat room. He lives only nine miles away. Told him about you and the safe house –’

Safe house!

‘Noel, you cannot bring other trannie!’

‘Why not?’

Spluttered, ‘
Why not
? This isn’t even my house.’

‘Is your address for welfare purposes. Anyway doing nothing wrong. Just friends calling round for little drinky. See you at seven.’

Paced. Actually paced. Very distressed. Would have wrung hands if I knew how. Wondered if this was actually illegal? Do you need licence to have gathering of trannies?

Noel whipped past me, pulling other man into the kitchen. Brief impression of rough-hewn mortification, then the door slammed shut. Much chat and giggling from behind the door.

Noel emerged looking pretty slinky in his new finery – black spandex tube dress – but other bloke – Blanche – could
never
pass for woman: a big, solid lump with mile-wide face; mouth a red gash; thick swipes of foundation; visible stubble; Margaret Thatcher wig; old-fashioned mauve tweed suit (at front of skirt, his man-bump clearly visible) and pale pink blouse – exact colour of band-aid – with pussy-bow tied crookedly, just underneath super-sized Adam’s apple.

Shook hands with me – his paws enormous and rough as sandpaper. Some sort of manual worker?

‘Am grateful to be welcomed into your home,’ he muttered, with shy smile and thick, thick culchie accent.

‘Not actually
my
home,’ I said quickly.

‘Is for moment,’ Noel threw over his spandex-covered shoulder, lady-walking back to kitchen to open wine. ‘Is where dole money sent.’

Rubbing nose in it constantly!

‘Take seat, please.’ Indicated couch to Blanche. ‘Snack?’

‘No,’ he whispered to the floor. He sat with legs wide apart, shovel-sized hands hanging over his knees.

Felt uncomfortable. Blurted out, ‘Where you get your suit?’

‘Me mother’s, God be good to her.’

‘Is gorgeous… um… colour.’ I mean, had to say
something
.

‘Time for little drinky!’ Noel dispensed glasses of rosé. Couldn’t help but notice mine had far less than theirs. Was not worthy of full drink because was not trannie.

‘Cheers, m’dear,’ Noel said, clinking glasses with Blanche. ‘Bottoms up, girls.’

Bad, burny feeling. Felt like telling Natasha that no woman I know would ever say, ‘Bottoms up.’

‘That’s a mighty frock you’re wearing, Lola,’ Blanche said shyly. ‘… Is it Dior?’

Actually was! Vintage, of course, could never afford first-hand price, but impressed.
‘Is
Dior!’

‘’Tis a work of art,’ he muttered. ‘A work of art.’

‘Mint dress,’ Natasha agreed, trying to muscle in.

‘How you know it’s Dior?’ I asked.

‘Just knew,’ Natasha said.

‘Not you!’ Couldn’t hide irritation. ‘Blanche.’

‘Read a lot of books about style. In secret, of course.’

‘Really? And have you been… dressing… in ladies’ clothes… for long?’

‘All me life, Lola, all me life. Since I was a gorsoon.’ (‘Gorsoon’ culchie word, means ‘little boy.’)

Fascinating. ‘And did your parents know?’

‘Oh yes. Every time they caught me, my father’d belt me black and blue.’ Curiously upbeat delivery. ‘But couldn’t help meself, Lola. Tried a million and one times to stop. Have suffered desperate shame.’

Chattier than he’d originally seemed.

‘And what are your current circumstances… er… Blanche? Married?’

‘I am indeed.’

‘And does your wife know?’

Heavy pause. ‘I tried telling her. She thought I was trying to tell her I was homosexual. She reared up on me. ’Twas easier to leave it be… But it’s been hard. I’ve been living a lie, Lola, living a lie. Then Natasha told me I could come here. ’Twas a lifeline, nothing less than a lifeline. I was thinking I couldn’t go on. I was thinking of putting a rope around me neck.’

‘You mean… you were going to kill yourself?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m terrible lonely.’

Oh cripes! Feared I might cry.

‘I love beautiful things,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I want to wear them. Does that make me a beast?’ (Pronounced ‘bayshte.’)