deeply and dreamlessly on the soft, often-washed cotton sheets and awoke to the sound of rashers and sausages spitting on a pan.
‘Come over and see the pups,’ Michael said, when breakfast ended.
In the porch there was a jumble of wellington boots. ‘Have a rummage around,’ Michael said. ‘Find a pair that fits.’
Outside, the day was bright and blowy and the air was thick with the smell of fresh earth. The pups were in an outhouse in the next field. Tiny little things, still blind, trying to suckle. ‘Only born on Thursday night.’ Michael smiled, looking daft with love.
‘Is there something wrong with that one?’ Johnny moved forward to take a better look at the puppy on the margin.
‘Yes. He’s the –’
‘– runt.’ Johnny’s heart twisted. ‘Will he be okay?’
‘Indeed he will,’ Michael said. ‘We’ll make sure of it.’
THIRTY-SIX
Extract from Irish Times theatre page. Timer, The Helix, 13 June to 11 July
Undoubtedly, the star of the show is Nell McDermott’s set. An immersive, imaginative, almost phantasmagorical experience results from an ingenious partnership of props and lighting (courtesy of Garr McGrath).
Thirteen giant clocks, from sundials to mobile phones, form the centrepiece but the audience are kept aware of the restless activity of time, thanks to unceasing ambient motion on stage: autumn trees shedding their leaves morphing into snowfall, which eventually becomes flurries of cherry-blossom petals as the lighting moves from russet through silver into pink.
Using mirrors, McDermott pulls off ingenious tricks with perspective, where water appears to flow backwards and rain falls upwards. What makes these feats more remarkable is that they are undoubtedly managed on a shoestring.
McDermott’s undeniable talent and commitment to resourceful work bode well for her future, perhaps in collaboration with Garr McGrath.
It was 7.32 a.m. and Nell was late. Her dad was waiting outside Johnny’s Baggot Street flat, surrounded by decorating equipment.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry!’ She cycled towards him at speed and hopped off just at the last minute.
‘Ah, you’re okay,’ he said. ‘You’d a big night last night. Will the van be all right there?’
‘Did you pay and display?’
‘I’ve a yoke on me phone. An app. I’ve to do it again in three hours.’
‘I’ll see you right. It’s enough you’re giving your labour for free.’ She put the key into the lock of the red door. ‘Here, I’ll take the ladder. In you go there, Dad. Pull everything into the hall.’
When all of Petey’s paraphernalia was hauled across the threshold, she shut the door to the busy street. Immediately everything quietened down.
Nell lifted her bike. ‘We’re going to the first floor.’
‘Careful on the stairs. They’re shocking steep, but.’
In two journeys, they hefted the ladder, their rollers and bags of equipment up the treacherous stairs to Johnny’s flat. The tenants had vacated it just the day before.
‘A cosy little spot.’ Petey stood in the living room and looked around. ‘Even though we’re right on Baggot Street. The fecking angles of the walls, but.’ Petey did a walk-through of the kitchen, bedroom and bathroom. ‘These old buildings are all on the slide. If you’d a’ been asking me to paper this place, I’d be on me way home now.’
‘Just painting,’ Nell said. ‘Freshen the whole place up.’
‘We’ll do a good job for Johnny,’ Petey said. ‘I like the chap. Are you still upset about the Airbnb business?’
‘Yeah, but it’s not Johnny’s fault.’
‘It’s the way of the world, Nell, the way of the world.’
Maybe. But if Liam had never suggested it to Johnny, some lucky local people would be moving in, delighted with their new pad.
That evening at Dilly’s first communion, confusion had been the first thing she’d felt when Liam had opened his mouth – why would he suggest something they were both so opposed to? But then to discover that, actually, he wasn’t opposed to it had led to further puzzlement. Then anger.
He’d apologized and apologized until her shock went away.
But he wasn’t exactly the man she’d thought he was and that scared her. Because they were married.
When she’d been persuading her dad to help with the decorating, a short, angry rant had burst from her. About a week ago, she’d blurted it out to Garr: ‘You’re a man, what do you think? Am I overreacting?’
‘Did he literally lie? Or just nod along with you?’
‘I can’t remember. Maybe just the nodding along.’
‘You set sorta high standards.’
‘I should change?’
‘No, but … So, I’m not married,’ he’d said tentatively, ‘but they say marriage needs work.’
What did that even mean?
‘I guess you have to forgive someone for being an asshole sometimes,’ he