Got the call to go down to Marian. She wanted to sign up. I was in the area. How am I fixed?
This was good news on a bad Friday. Needed a fast sale and get home. Marian sounded the type that could just sign up, tick all the boxes, and the weekend could sing.
Got there and she invited me in with a flurry. ‘Come in! Come in….come in. I’ve been waiting for ye!’
‘Great.’
‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘This other crowd are robbin me.’
‘That’s what we like to hear.’
‘And I have a wedding you know?’
‘You do?’
‘I do. Tomorrow. A wedding. And I got this bill in the door – how am I supposed to pay it?’
‘Tis high alright.’
‘And I’ve no work.’
‘No?’
‘No. I used to have a great job but it closed down. I was a manager in a shop.’
‘Which shop?’
‘It was a high end clothes shop. Really expensive stuff. Someone like you probably wouldn’t know it.’
‘You’re probably right.’
‘And then it closed and I have zero. Zilch. Nothin. And a wedding tomorrow.’
‘Who’s getting married?’
‘Oh it’s a distant cousin on my husband’s side. But you have to go. Show face. We’re not paupers. You know?’
‘What’s the address here so?’
She gave it to me, I typed it in. She made herself a coffee. Didn’t offer me one. Sat back down, asked: ‘Are ye cheaper?’
‘We are.’
‘That’s good. I have to put €200 in a card this evening.’
‘For the wedding?’
‘Yeah. And we had to tax the car, pay for the holiday and I have to get my hair done yet.’
‘Flat out.’
‘I’m telling you. And by the time you buy a few drinks, pay for the hotel, and the day after, and all the rest of it. Oh my God….’
‘And no sign of work at all?’
‘Not a thing. I’ve been looking and looking and looking and asking everybody. It’s terrible.’
‘Tis. What’s your bank details?’
She called them out, went on with: ‘This government is a disgrace.’
‘That’s one word for them.’
‘The economy is supposed to be booming. Jobs everywhere. Where are they?’
‘Hard to know. Sign there.’
She signed. I told her about the contract, all that. She waved her hand, said: ‘Yeah…go on go on…do you like this job?’
‘I do.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh.’
A knock on the door. Then a woman entered. Brazilian. Two kids. Big smile. Marian said: ‘Hi…Sonza…’
‘Hi, Marian.’ Said Sonza. ‘Do you still have…’
‘Oh yes. The bag, the bag. Of course. Hang on….’ She looked at me. ‘Are you alright there for a second?’
‘Sound.’
Marian went off. Came back with a black bag full of clothes. ‘Here you go, Sonza. Lovely to see ye. Are you calling around for lunch on Monday?’
‘Ok…’
‘That’d be lovely….please do.’
‘Ok. Bye. I see you.’
‘Bye…..’
Sonza left. Marian sat down. Rolled her eyes, conspiratorially, said: “Poor craytures.’
‘How do ya mean?’
‘I do give them all the old…crap we don’t want. Stuff I’d never use and can’t rid off. It was either that or dump it. Sure what can you do?’
‘What can you do?’
‘It’s the likes of all them refugees that are taking the jobs anyway. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a racist or anything…’
‘Sign there again so and we’re finished.’
‘Oh great. Thanks. Then I’ll go and start getting ready for this bloody wedding.’
‘Do. And if you’re still looking for a job next week give us a shout. We’re hiring.’
‘Doing what? Your job? This?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t be seen dead doing your job.’
‘
‘
Mick Donnellan 