A Grand Old Time: The laugh-out-loud and feel-good romantic comedy with a difference you must read in 2018

She tugged open her top drawer, lifting underwear to find her purse, her driving licence, her cheque card. Below were more familiar things: her bus pass, a passport, some jewellery, a small umbrella. She touched the four-leaf clover that her father had given her so many years ago, still dried and pressed in tissue paper, now between the pages of her small photograph album that was crammed with pictures of a younger Brendan in shorts with his father Jim. She found the mobile phone that Brendan had given her for Christmas so they could keep in touch, still in its box. These items were no longer relics of the past – they were tickets to new freedom. Without thinking, she pushed them all into her small handbag. June in Dublin was always pretty, and the Monday morning shops would be full of people. She would spend time breathing fresh air; just a small scent of the real world was already in her nose. Evie knew the door codes and the schedules of Sheldon Lodge. Each day ran like clockwork. It would not be difficult. That night, she slept the sleep of the smug.

Chapter Four

The children swarmed across the pitch, some yelling, some pushing, some straggling behind. Brendan blew the whistle with a pheep so loud it hurt his ears. The kids buzzed around him, their voices a cacophony of complaints.

‘Get yourself changed now.’

‘Mr Gallagher, that last ball was a penalty. Dennis brought the striker down.’

‘Did not, you gobshite.’

‘And you did so.’

‘I’ll give you a fat fucking lip.’

‘Yeh? Yeh? Come on, then.’

Brendan blew the whistle again. The kids’ faces were red with sweat and effort.

‘In the changing rooms: showers, now. Go on.’

The kids sloped off, shoulders down. One of them muttered, ‘Twat.’

Minutes later, Brendan sat in the staff room, clutching a coffee. He looked down at his muddy shorts and saw two pale booted legs dangling. He gazed around the office; piles of paper meant piles of report writing. More evenings at home in front of the laptop. The coffee tasted burnt. The door swung open and Penny Wray came in, her shorts pristine, her ponytail bouncing. She put a hand on Brendan’s shoulder as she passed.

‘Was it murder?’

‘That group is always murder.’ Brendan took another mouthful of coffee as punishment. ‘I spend all Sunday night dreading the little beggars.’

Penny sat down and crossed perfect legs. She pulled a bottle of water from her bag and unscrewed the lid effortlessly. ‘I just had Year Seven girls doing performance on the trampoline. I have some great little gymnasts in that group.’

Brendan thought that Penny didn’t look like she had been on the trampoline. She smelled of something sweet, something fresh, and Brendan sighed. Then he remembered. ‘It’s the Class From Hell next for English.’

Penny laughed, a sound soft with sympathy and warmth, and she touched Brendan’s arm. ‘I don’t know why they make you teach English, Brendan. You are a sports teacher.’

He shrugged. ‘I am thirty-nine, Penny. That is what they do with old PE teachers – farm them out to the classes no-one wants to teach. The losers in front of the losers.’

‘I will be a head teacher by the time I am your age.’

Brendan did not doubt it, and that made the prospect of teaching poetry to the worst class in the school almost unbearable. Twenty years to retirement. Years of teaching kids who disputed penalties, who hated Yeats’ poetry, who hated him, then home to Maura in the evening to write reports while she grumbled about how they needed a new car and how he didn’t have time to take her out in the evenings. Brendan swallowed more coffee.

‘I’m running my kick-boxing class tonight.’ Penny looked at him and smiled. ‘Why don’t you come along?’

Brendan pictured Penny in her boxing kit, throwing punches and kicks, touching his arm, his waist, as she helped him do the same, their voices loud in one groan of effort. ‘Wish I could.’

‘You could bring your wife?’

He thought of Maura in her jog bottoms, kick-boxing, and pushed the thought away. She’d never shared his love of sport. The klaxon sounded and Brendan rose up like a trained pigeon and grabbed his battered briefcase, heading for the door. He heard Penny call:

‘Good luck with the evil ones, Brendan. I’ll get you a baguette for lunch when you’re back.’

In the corridor, a sudden gust of wind blasted through the banging door and gripped him by the throat.

An hour later, the klaxon screeched and room E5 was empty again. Brendan put his head in his hands. The silence rang in his ears, more deafening than the shouting and banging on desks that had filled the room minutes before. His head hurt, a dark throbbing behind his eyes. When he opened them, the room looked back at him, a panorama of upturned chairs and screwed-up paper. Brendan picked up the bin and began to fill it with litter. He held a paper ball in his hand, squashed to fist-size. He opened it, with slow care, and read the words:

I have spread my dreams under your feet,

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

He bent again and picked up more paper.

‘Brendan. Ah. Here you are.’

Nancy Doyle pushed her glasses up from her nose and showed him her practised lipstick smile. He looked around at the mess in the room and noticed Nancy surveying the space: a professional head teacher’s assessment of his lesson, based on the amount of discarded detritus.

‘Brendan, can we sit down a minute? I need to have a little chat with you.’ The smile again; Brendan assumed the worst.

‘Of course, Nancy.’

He moved his chair to look at Nancy; the dark suit, silk shirt, hair swept up. She drew a breath. ‘Look, Brendan, I’ll cut to the chase. I’ve just had a call from Sheldon Lodge.’

Brendan sat upright. ‘My mother?’

‘They’d like you to phone them. As soon as you can. It appears your mother left the home first thing this morning, and she hasn’t returned.’

Brendan saw an image of his mother in her coat, her shoulders hunched against the cold. It was her back view as she walked along crowded streets. In his mind she was frail, and passers-by bumped her out of their way as they rushed in the opposite direction.

‘I’m sure everything is fine. Your mother does seem to have taken quite a few of her belongings, though. I think you should go and ring Sheldon Lodge now. Do you have a phone on you?’

He did not move.

‘Go and sort it out about your mother. Give me a call at the end of the day, will you? Let me know she’s safe and sound.’

Brendan felt energy rising through his legs; he was up and grabbing at his briefcase, walking frantically to the door, calling over his shoulder:

‘Thanks Nancy. Yes, I will. I’ll be sure to get back to you later. Thanks.’

He was through the swing doors and moving towards the yellow Fiat Panda, parked between white lines in the car park; his mobile was in his hand, searching for the number of the care home, as he muttered, ‘Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams? Oh, Mammy, what in hell have you done now?’

Chapter Five

On the crowded bus to Dublin, Evie sat low in her seat and hugged herself. It was as if eyes were focused on her back, as if she was constantly being watched. She stared through the window, thinking she could be recognised at any moment, identified and apprehended. The idea came to her: she would buy a hat, one which would update her appearance and cover her hair at the same time: a disguise. Her fingers fiddled in the little bag; they were all there, all of her things. Clutching the bag to her chest, she shuffled to the front as the bus slowed.

In a department store, she tried on the whole range, looking at herself in the mirror wearing floppy hats, wedding hats, fur hats, fascinators. Finally, she decided on a red beret. It had panache; it covered her hair completely and she thought she looked like an intelligent outdoor type who might be independent and take walks with a dog. She bought sunglasses, a huge handbag and a jaunty coat in a lightweight fabric and she saw herself in the mirror: a middle-class lady of leisure, or a stylish Parisian tourist. She paid with her card and headed for the chip shop, her old coat and bag in plastic carriers banging against her legs. Fried food was frowned upon in Sheldon Lodge. Evie bought chippers, battered cod and four pickled eggs and settled down on a bench to enjoy them. The chips were hot, mouth-burning, delicious with the forbidden tastes of fat and too much salt and vinegar. The batter crunched perfectly, releasing a stream of grease onto her tongue. It would all go down well with a nice glass of Prosecco, she thought.

A man sat on the bench next to her. He was middle-aged, hunched over, and wore an old overcoat; his face was a dark rash of stubble. Evie offered him a pickled egg.

‘And I don’t mind if I do,’ he told her, pushing the whole egg into his mouth and swallowing it in a gulp.

She offered him another.

‘Thank you kindly,’ he said and, like an anaconda, opened his mouth into a broad yawn before the egg disappeared.

Evie imagined his neck becoming egg-shaped for a moment before it made the downward plunge. She ate her chips one by one. A pigeon fluttered by her feet, its beak jabbing at scraps, and she almost flicked her foot at it. She thought again; perhaps the pigeon was in need of a chip too. She dropped a couple by her feet and the pigeon pecked, its wings folded behind its back like a dapper little man.

‘You’re in Dublin on holiday, then?’ asked Anaconda Man.

Evie considered her reply. ‘Ah, I am a crime writer. Doing research.’

‘Oh and what are you researching?’

‘Good fortune.’

‘Then I am your guy,’ said Anaconda Man, licking egg from the corner of his mouth.

‘Indeed?’ Evie was intrigued. The pigeon fluttered away.

‘Yes, I like to take a chance myself. I am on my way right now to place a bet on a certain horse. And why not come along for the fun of it? To find good fortune.’

Evie thought for a moment. Sheldon Lodge seemed a long way away. She smiled.

‘I would be delighted,’ she said, throwing her warm chip paper in the bin. ‘I have never seen inside a betting establishment before.’

They passed two betting shops, both with big double-fronted windows with posters offering luminously coloured deals for bets and odds. She expected him to pause, but Anaconda Man plodded past, his eyes focused ahead. Evie was just behind him; she was about to snatch at his arm, but thought better of it. Both betting shops were names she had seen many times advertised on the television.

‘We have missed it …’ she panted. ‘That was a betting shop. Where are we going?’

‘Not far now,’ he grunted. He’d broken into a sweat, which sat in seamy creases that folded across his forehead. He walked on quickly, Evie trotting behind.

‘What was wrong with that betting shop?’

‘Nothing.’ Anaconda Man was determined and focused. ‘Just not the right betting shop, that’s all.’

Evie hesitated for a moment. Perhaps he was a deadly and dangerous character like Sweeney Todd or the Ripper, leading her into a dark alley. He might mug her, or worse.

‘Come on, nearly there,’ he grunted. ‘They’ll be off soon and there is a particular hot horse I need to back. Are you with me?’

Evie wondered if she was being unwise. They turned the corner into a dim street where the brick buildings had started to crumble. They stopped at a little shop with dark windows and a creaking door that had probably once been green and, before that, painted yellow – Evie could see patches of it showing through the faded green.

The betting shop was fluorescent bright inside and smelled of dust and sweat; it was a furtive gamblers’ lair, sheltering little men on stools huddled over newspapers. At the far corner was a counter where two men were whispering and exchanging money. The place was full of people eyeing her suspiciously. She was thinking about walking out again when someone spoke.

‘Ah, Memphis. Good day to you,’ called the man behind the counter.

Evie watched her smiling companion; so then, Anaconda Man was called Memphis.

‘Hello there, brother.’

Memphis looked unlike the man at the counter: she assumed their fraternity was based on the betting.

‘I’d like to introduce my fair companion. She is a crime author. Her name is …’

‘Agatha,’ said Evie, holding out her hand and deciding that lies were the safest way forward.

She pulled the red beret down on one side, and glanced over the top of her sunglasses. She would make an excuse in a minute and leave. Memphis raised his arm, holding out money.

‘I want to place a bet on the one-thirty. Twenty each way on number fifteen, El Niño.’ Memphis shared the newspaper he had just picked up with Evie. ‘There you are – El Niño – he’s a good hot horse for you, and no mistake, if you want to make some fast money.’

She studied the newspaper. A name in print and the number four caught her attention at once. She looked at the door; she could stay for a few minutes more. Evie bit her lip and thought.

‘I want to bet on number four – Lucky Jim,’ she announced.

The counter man smiled, his lips a thin U-shape. ‘Rank outsider, lady.’ Two men behind her guffawed.

‘A hundred to one,’ agreed Memphis. ‘But who are we to stop a lady having a little flutter? After all, you’re seeking your fortune.’

‘Be quick,’ grimaced Counterman. ‘Betting closes soon.’

Evie reached into her new bag and pulled out a roll of notes, withdrawn from the bank as contingency earlier. Money just sitting in the bank, doing nothing, which would cover her spending spree with plenty left over. Her hand shook: she remembered selling their home, the place she had lived with Jim and Brendan, then just with Jim, for so many years, and tried to recall her husband’s face.

‘My bet for number four – Lucky Jim.’

Counterman counted silently, Memphis watching every movement.

‘How much do you want to bet, missus?’

Evie nodded her head. She thought of Sheldon Lodge, of Mrs Lofthouse and her pink prawn lips, then she thought of her husband Jim, his flat cap pulled down over serious eyes, a cigarette squeezed between his lips. For a moment, she hesitated, but wasn’t four her lucky number? She’d never proven it to herself properly and this was her big chance. She didn’t understand odds, but this horse had to win. It had Jim’s name and her lucky number. And Jim had been such a good man. Her voice was faint. She crossed the two fingers on each hand. Four fingers. ‘All of it.’

‘Five hundred euros?’ asked Counterman, his eyebrows shooting upwards.

Evie breathed in. ‘Number four. To win.’

Counterman winked at Memphis. ‘Lucky Jim to win – a hundred to one. Here, lady, and best of luck to you.’ And he handed her a slip of paper in exchange for her money.

Evie could see the men’s faces staring in disbelief. She was the centre of their attention, an anomaly, a rank outsider, just like Lucky Jim. She suddenly wished she had left the betting shop when she had the chance.

The tinny voice on the radio announced the start of the race and Evie was aware of the scent of anxious bodies crowding around her. A short man in a cap smirked at her through sparse teeth. Evie tried to move back but she was cornered. A huddle of men gathered around her, all with the same expression, worry mixed with hopefulness as they clutched their betting slips.

‘And they’re off,’ announced the lilting voice on the radio.

Evie breathed in as the mass of bodies came even closer. El Niño was in the lead, closely followed by Steam Packet and Argonaut: no mention of Lucky Jim. As the pace increased, the men around Evie seemed to do an imperceptible jig with their knees. The voice became quicker; the knee jerk turned into a bounce, their backs bobbing, quickening with each furlong. Evie smelled the anxiety of the betting men and she turned her nose as far away as she could, hoping the race would soon end. The five hundred euros had not been a good idea at all. Evie almost wished herself back in Sheldon Lodge. Almost.

‘And it’s number fifteen, El Niño … El Niño followed by Argonaut and they are turning into the home straight, El Niño, he is a neck in front but Argonaut, ridden by Paddy Mills, is giving it everything he has; now it is El Niño …’

Evie thought about dropping her betting slip and running out of the shop but she was hemmed in by the fretting throng who started to cheer. Memphis clenched a fist; he began to pound the air; spittle escaped from the side of his mouth. The voice shifted up a gear, the radio rattling with each consonant. The men’s eyes were glazed with some kind of religious entreaty and she felt that she was the only sane person in the shop. Her own eyes closed in prayer.

‘El Niño has it in the bag but oh, look, now, now on the outside coming up, it’s Lucky Jim, number four, his rider is really urging him forward, with less than a furlong to go; he’s passed Argonaut but it is El Niño, El Niño, El N— no, Lucky Jim has forced a nose in front, and it’s Lucky Jim, Lucky Jim, Lucky Jim. And Lucky Jim wins it by a neck.’

Memphis brought his fist to the counter with a crunch and his fingers splayed, releasing the betting slip. Eyes turned on Evie as if she were an angel. There was no movement, no noise. A strange sensation was seeping into her skin. Lucky Jim had passed the post in first position. She broke the silence. ‘Well …’

The men responded by clapping their hands; Evie was patted, cheered. The little man with a few teeth grasped her arm. ‘Can you tell me a good one for the two-thirty, lady?’

Counterman was calculating her winnings, over fifty thousand euros, as the men watched her, their mouths open. She asked for the cheque to be made out to Mrs E. Gallagher. He handed it to her, shaking his head. She put it carefully in her handbag.

Memphis rubbed moist hands together as he spoke: ‘Would you believe it?’

Evie took a deep breath to steady her nerves. She pushed her sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose, held out her hand and took his, her eyes benevolent and gracious.

‘Thank you so much for your help today, Mr Memphis,’ she cooed. ‘You have brought me good luck. Who knows? Perhaps we will meet again. I will certainly mention you in my latest novel.’

She heaved her carrier bags in one hand and swung her handbag in the other. With the men’s eyes on her, she swept out of the betting shop, feeling like Marilyn Monroe.

Evie blinked as she came out into the brightness of the Dublin streets. She paused, adjusted her beret and looked about at the shoppers moving up and down on the pavements.

She thought about how Jim never had any luck in his life.

Purposefully, she dumped the plastic carriers containing her old coat and handbag on the top of a brimming bin.

‘Holy shite,’ she breathed.

Chapter Six

Dublin city blurred outside the windows: clusters of shops, then houses, then roads passed by. Evie was in a taxi, and the driver was turning corners, making her lurch to the sides in her seat. She was rummaging in the bottom of her bag: the new handbag was huge and her few possessions were hiding in undiscovered corners. Her fingers touched the folded envelope in which her winning cheque was hidden. It was empty now that she had deposited the fifty thousand euros at her bank. She could feel the thudding of her heart, pulsing in her throat, beneath the folds of the new coat.

She rummaged again and found the mobile phone that Brendan had given her. It was unblemished and filled her hand. She would phone Brendan and tell him her plans. She would tell him it was only for a few days. She would phone Sheldon Lodge, apologise for any trouble. She squinted at the phone, touching the screen, and pushed the buttons on the side. The screen stayed blank. Evie squeezed the sides again more firmly. Nothing happened. She banged the phone on her handbag twice, and then pressed the square thing on the back above the word Samsung. The taxi slowed down. The screen remained blank.

‘Smart phone, my arse.’ She cursed to herself.

As the taxi-driver turned round and asked for the fare, Evie stared up at a modern building with glass windows looming in front of her. She read the words ‘Dublin Airport’ and felt a shiver clutch at her body.

Brendan was in a queue. Three people were in front of him. He could hear Maura’s voice at the reception desk, the familiar tone of chirpy flirtation she used with all her clients, as she called them, and he gave a little cough. He leaned to one side of the queue, waving for her attention. In front was a little man in a mac, bent over, a cap squashed down on his head between pink ears. Over his head Brendan saw a woman’s bony back, her pale hair pulled in a knot. As she turned slightly, he could see the huge swell of her belly and the small child she held to her chest. At the front of the queue there was a young man, a skinhead with tattooed arms. He was arguing at the desk. Brendan rocked forwards and backwards on his heels.

‘Dr Palmer can’t see you today, Mr Lawn. Not even with your bowels being so critical, as you say. Not without an appointment.’

‘But I have to see the doctor today, Missus. It has come on bad, and I need something to calm the guts. It’s urgent.’

‘There are no appointments with Dr Palmer today. He’s away on his holidays.’

‘But I need—’

‘Why don’t you pop to the chemist over the road and buy something to sort it out for the time being? Will I make you an appointment with another doctor for tomorrow morning?’ She dropped her voice conspiratorially. ‘Dr Singh. She’ll sort your diarrhoea out for you, sure enough. Nine sharp. Will that do?’ Maura smiled prettily, all teeth.

The young man’s shoulders slumped. He moved away from the counter and the pregnant girl with the child started to whisper something about painful piles. He saw Maura flash a warm smile and he couldn’t remember when she had last turned the same smile on him. Brendan strained up on his toes and wiggled his hand.

‘Maura?’

She was writing something down. He shifted from one foot to another and looked behind him. He was the last in the queue. Almost two o’clock. The old man in the mac took his place at the front of the queue. Maura raised an eyebrow at him.

‘Yes? How can I help you today?’

Brendan marvelled at how she dealt with the public with such genuine warmth. The man took off his cap and leaned against the reception desk.

‘Good afternoon to you, my lovely. I have an appointment with the nurse. Ten to two.’

Maura’s tone brightened. ‘You’re looking a million dollars yourself, but you’re still late, Mr O’Malley. The nurse is ready for you. Will you go to the top of the stairs, turn right, and wait?’

Suddenly it was Brendan’s turn, and he wanted to tell her his news so that she could sort out the problem. Maura met his eyes and her brows crossed. Her hair was pulled tight to the top of her head; she had combed it smooth and the strands separated into tramlines, the curls pinned and sprayed like a brittle golden crown. Her suit was blue and firmly buttoned across the chest, and the blouse collar stuck over her jacket like twin rasping tongues.

Brendan drew his breath to speak but she was there first.

‘Brendan, why in heaven’s name are you—?’

‘It’s my mother, she’s gone!’

‘God rest her soul.’ Maura did not seem unhappy; her face did not move.

‘No, Maura, she’s not dead, she’s run away. Left the home.’

At first, Maura did not speak. Her mouth was open; red lips, the beginnings of wrinkles around the corners. ‘Well, she’s really lost the plot this time.’

‘Jenny Marshall at Sheldon Lodge rang the Guards. They are keeping an eye out for her.’

‘And there’s a good thing.’

‘I’ve the afternoon off. I’m going to fetch her back. Come on.’

Maura stared at Brendan as if all this was his fault. ‘I don’t finish till four.’

‘The car’s outside.’

A loud beeping came from Brendan’s pocket and he pulled out his mobile.

Maura frowned. ‘The Garda, maybe? Perhaps she’s been on the brandy again and they’ve found her drunk in a ditch.’ She smiled at her own joke but Brendan was absorbed with his mobile.

‘Hello? Yes, this is Brendan Gallagher … Yes, she’s my mother. What?’

Brendan listened. His fingers fumbled as he put the phone away in his pocket.

Maura rolled her eyes. ‘Well?’

‘That was the Guards. They’ve found Mammy’s coat and handbag. In a bin.’