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CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

        There are those who have nervous breakdowns and lay in darkened rooms in the process of their recovery. But what nobody seems to realise is that my life is punctuated by a series of little mini breakdowns, the worst one occurring today. I know this is a fact because I feel paralysed and remote both from myself and from my surroundings.

        I frantically scan the bedroom and try to mentally calculate if I can turn it into a bedsit. Yeah cooker in the southeast corner. Fridge south west? Would a chemical toilet fit in the wardrobe? You see how can I ever set foot outside this room again. I can’t face Elliot.

        Elliot, my house mate, best friend, ally. Four reasons why I tried to snog him

        "Anna, telephone, its your mother," shouts Cecil.

        I try to feign sleep but the insistent fucker keeps shouting that it’s an emergency. Move body move, one step at a time.

        "Anna dear is that you?"

        "Just about," I croak.

        "Anna I’m afraid I have some bad news. It’s your Uncle Jimmy. He died last night."

        Instant postponement of nervous breakdown. I now have no option but to become organised and focused to return to Dingle. Thank you very much Uncle Jimmy.

        Thankfully I don’t bump into Elliot that day. I think he was playing in some music festival in Gorey. I could apologise later but as they say, first things first on the conveyor belt of urgency. Like what will I wear? I have to buy either a nice black jacket or coat to match my black satin pants and maybe some knee high black boots and a new black bag. Christ sake funerals are almost as expensive as weddings these days.

        Connor offers to accompany me to the funeral. We hadn’t spoken since the Nuala hair business so he’s still a bit peeved with me. Now when I’m nervous I either like to crunch or chew and preferably not my nails. So I buy some crisps and a drink for the journey south and without thinking, I throw the empty bag onto the floor of the car. Aaah. Surely Connor is over reacting when he nearly has a fit and all but screams at me not to put the crisp packet on the floor, in the rubbish bag for Christ sake, did I not have any regard for his car, his things. I’m dumbstruck.

        That’s the trouble with short engagements, when you have to get to know one another in instalments and is this Connor? Me being Anna asks him if he any regard for my feelings and he says that I’m too self indulgent and reactive, that I need to develop more pragmatism and detachment, that every little setback shouldn’t be of mammoth importance. Well excuse me for feeling and breathing and for disposing of my crisp packet on the floor of the car. I tell him that he may as well tell me to cut out my heart and he says that there I’m off again making mountains out of mole hills. I sit in stony self- indulgent silence for the rest of the journey.

        Uncle Jimmy has been laid to rest in the Mc Carthy funeral home in Dingle in a delux top of the range coffin, no less, according to my mother. Jimmy looks much better as a corpse than he’d ever done in real life, less jowl like and younger. Death surely becomes him. I bend over and give him a kiss and wish him well in his journey to the land where the dead people go.

        My relationship with him was always one of love and hate. I loved him as my uncle and ‘cos he was a decent person but I hated him for robbing a huge chunk out of my childhood. While other children played I was either sorting out fish or serving customers. Still I bear no grudges. I ask Uncle Jimmy what with him being a new arrival to heaven if he could put in a word with the big boys and ask them to make sure I didn’t do anything to fuck up my wedding to Connor ie delete all thoughts of other men, snoggable or otherwise and to concentrate on Connor’s good points.

        So what if there was no great passion. I’d had my sexual experimentation days so its not like I’m deprived or that I’m in training for a sexual acrobatics award. I want marriage and babies and everyone knows that when babies come along that libido levels drop what with the sleepless nights and raging colic.

        The funeral cortege follows the bag piper up the hill to the cemetery, his notes scattering grief to the wind as he shuffles along. What with the mists rolling in from the Atlantic I think this was an appropriate ending for my dear old melancholic uncle. There had been no time this time to banish Gran Aunt Molly to the back of beyonds. She had now taken the role of chief mourner at the graveside festooned in a black velvet cape and matching hat with this wonderful little veil shielding her eyes and oh my God a pair of red trainers.

        Molly claims she loves funerals as long as they’re not her own. She has this special funeral face, lips turned downwards, eyes downcast and she sheds the occasional theatrical tears. She and I share a similar sense of drama. I’d remembered not to put on any mascara so that I can manage to look every bit the tragic heroine as I dab my eyes with a dainty embroidered handkerchief Cost me a fair bit to play this role £250 but I think I got great bargains.

        Nuala, minus the hair extensions is the epitome of grief, head bent piously, hands joined together in prayer, face pinched and white. Pretentious cow. Now if she moved a fraction further over the mud she might...I have to quench my evil sisterly thought and try to replace it with love and forgiveness. It’s impossible.

        At the graveside Father Horgan says the final prayers of the dead. Uncle Jimmy would have been so proud of the turn out for his funeral. Almost the entire peninsula have come to pay their respects to Jimmy their obliging fish monger, who knew most of his customers by name and was the confidant of many. Some of the begrudgers here prefer you best when you’re dead ‘cos that’s when they start to say nice things like you’ll be sorely missed, sure weren’t you the kindest finest person that ever was.

        I can see Assumpta, looking fabulous in a long black coat her hair tied in one of those je ne sais quoi chignons with a few wisps hanging down for effect. She’s also wearing dark glasses as in she doesn’t want to recognised by the community down here in Dingle. I think she looks like a film star, the way she stands, all regal and totally composed. Sweet fuck when Mr Foley shifts to the left there’s Elliot. What’s he doing here? Probably accompanied Assumpta ‘cos she hates to come here on her own without a man. I hardly recognise him dressed in a navy suit with a shirt and tie? She probably made him get dressed up cos she could only be seen with a successful man of the world. I try not to stare at them and to focus on what the priest is saying.

        The words "Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust" start me obsessing about my own mortality, like what if I’m next? The thought that poor Jimmy was going into the ground as worm fodder didn’t bear worth thinking about. Poor Molly is coughing and spluttering . It later turns out that her false teeth had become dislodged and were making her gag. I watch her as she struggles to remain silent while Uncle Jimmy’s body is being lowered into the ground by the grave diggers, two wizened up men with faces set in permanent grief. I place a single red rose on his coffin. It later turned out I wasn’t the only one.

        My Mother suddenly announces to all and sundry that there’s to be some light refreshments available at the house if people want to drop by, spot of smoked salmon and chablis or... Just at that moment the heavens open and begin to release torrential rain. Suddenly there’s a massive exodus into cars, people running in all directions.

        "Whatever you do Anna. Mind me. Where’s my teeth? Where’s my false teeth? I can’t afford to loose this set. Be a good girl and find them," shouts Molly as she practically runs after Uncle Albert to take refuge in his car. I ask Connor if he’d mind staying back to help me find her teeth but he refuses saying his new suit would get wet and there’d be no point in both of us getting soaked now would there? I guess not but I’ll get drenched and yes I know its my Gran Aunt but leaving me here in a grave yard on my own with cadaver like grave diggers is like asking me to play leading role in the "Return of the Undead".

        It takes me twenty minutes to find those stupid teeth, there they are lodged behind a dilapidated gravestone of a Mrs West, dearly beloved wife of Donal and mother to Mary and Padraig 1931-1962. I’m so dripping wet I no longer care about the rain. Hah! See if you can beat me rain. If I’m going to get wet its best to get totally drenched. It’s a lot more liberating than trying to avoid it. I love being like this, defying the elements while the rain even tries to crawl up my nose and into my ears.

        The wettest rain must be right here on the Dingle Peninsula all them clouds right in from the Atlantic. The two grave diggers who’re waiting for me to leave before they can bury Uncle Jimmy watch me as I raise my arms upwards and laugh towards the heavens twirling around as in manner of Winona Ryder in Edward Scissorhands, only this is rain and not snow Well its not everyday you get to dig for teeth in a graveyard in Dingle.

        Back home I go to have a soak in the bath while well wishers and nosy parker come to share in the feast in honour of Jimmy. I can hear my mother in the distance drooning on about her sponge cakes and how they’re much richer now that she’s stopped using margarine and has started to use real butter instead. I wish, how I wish with all my heart that I could share her simplistic world vision. I could focus and attach myself onto outside things and not be too bothered about whether I following my destiny or was fucking it up. My life would be so much easier.

        I see Elliot and Assumpta at the bottom of the stairs and my heart does a U turn. I will only mention the kiss if he does. Anyhow no big deal. What’s in a kiss or a snog?

        "Listen you two, thanks a lot for coming down. I really appreciate it you coming all this way," I say in as cheerful a voice as I can muster.

        "Anna darling so sorry to hear about your Uncle Jimmy. I personally think we come with a sell by date so there’s not a lot anyone can do. Still he was a nice man. Never said a bad word about anyone, was always generous..."

        Oh my Gawd. I hoped that she and Jimmy had never… Well you know, like done it. I know Jimmy liked Assumpta but... Shut up Anna. It’s not good to think ill of the dead.

        "Dingle will miss him, that’s for sure. Do you know I was just saying to Elliot that Josie Donaghue has swollen up since she got married. She’s like a tank. It’s terrible the way women let themselves go like that. We don’t want you doing that now do we. Listen we must dash. I’m on an early shift in the morning. See you when you get back."

        "Sorry about your Uncle Jimmy," Elliot mumbles without looking me in the eyes, as in zero eye contact. No brotherly bear hug or kiss on leaving. Nothing. Probably thinks I’d get too carried away and shove my tongue down his throat. Fuck I feel like I’ve lost my best friend. I want to die.

        Every square inch of the house is invaded this evening. Mother stuffing people whether they want them or not with her buttered sponges, and introducing Connor to her friends like an angler with a prize catch.

        "I'll have two daughters in Dublin, you know Grace married to Marcus she’s had another baby, a boy, sure he’s the picture of Marcus."

        I had joined the league of her successful daughters, a daughter that she could now be proud of. I had waited for this moment all my life but now that it had come I felt numb as though it was happening to someone outside of me. Is this a sign that not enough oxygen is getting to my brain?

        But where did this dream come from. The suitable husband, the house, the babies, the happy ever after ending. Was it really mine or did I pick it up in utero?

        Perhaps it was at this point that the music stopped and the dream died. I had unwittingly sown the seeds of my own destiny but had paid little attention to their growth. I had let myself get carried away with the idea of finding a husband and I found one alright only I tried so hard to make this special magic feeling between us only it wasn’t there. And I thought that didn’t matter.

        I’d chosen Connor as a suitable husband and convinced myself that he was the right one for me without thinking of the repercussions of that choice. And then suddenly we were engaged and now the wedding that was looming in the distance is hurtling full speed towards me and I can’t cope. Can’t cope at all. Not with this forever and ever, ‘til death us do part bit. It’s too much like a life sentence Yes I love Connor and I feel comfortable with him but there’s no passion, no real spark. He has a fabulous body perfect in fact, and one I lust after but passion can only ignite when two people are truly in love.

        I can see him now chatting away to Nuala. They’re talking about Curriculum development and the speech she has to give at the next general meeting. As their voices gradually fade into the background I enter Armageddon, the final conflict between my mind and my heart. My mind says I’d never again get anyone as suitable as Connor for a husband. It also says it’s too late to back out, the band has been booked people told, some already having bought presents. Six stupid kettles from unimaginative relatives. It also forewarns me of the possible reactions of my mother- nuclear war heads right on target and heading in my direction.

        But from deep inside my heart I scream that I’m not in love with Connor and that by choosing to go ahead and marry him I would be accepting a lesser form of love. I am aware that other women compromise and that they grow to love or at best tolerate their partners. Tolerate as in endure, put up with, suffer! My heart quite simply wanted more. I wanted that one magical relationship, to be able to see myself in my lover as if in a mirror and actually like what it spat out. How could I go through with a marriage based on suitability and reason rather than feeling and passion. How could I when my heart’s final resting place was not in Connors and could never be.

        I know that I’m prone to some awful deliberations but that’s usually with only insignificant things like choosing which brand of shampoo or what video to watch. But the earth shattering decisions I make just like that. And just like that I decide to call the whole thing off.

        I break it to Connor as gently as I possibly can. I tell him that although I love him and think he’s a wonderful guy, I can’t marry him. He just stares and asks me if there’s anyone else involved and then he says it could well be pre wedding jitters, happens to lots of people or maybe my hormones are acting up. So I have to say that he doesn’t have the key to my heart and he says that me being over emotional has made me become decidedly unbalanced after all. I am accused of trying to manipulate him and shame him in front of his family and friends. Not once did he say that he loved me and would do anything to keep me, absolutely anything. Now I have to ask myself if I had truly imagined a connection between Connor and I. I really don’t believe him capable of loving the real crazy zany me. As tactfully as I possibly can, I wrap the engagement ring up in tissue paper and hand it back to it’s rightful owner.

        My mother thinks I have taken leave of my senses and says I’m having a commitment crisis, a lot of brides to be go through this but there’s no need to call the whole thing off. She sits with me, cajoles me, even tries to humour me but I tell her that although I felt I loved Connor I was not in love with him.

        "Do you think I was in love with your father when I married him? she screeches. He was the only guy with a half- decent car round here and he had his own site for a house Look around you Anna. What about Mrs Baker or Mrs Gorman, do you think they bothered themselves with all that nonsense? They just got married and made the best of what they had. If anything they worked at their marriages to make them what they are today."

        "That may well be but don’t you think that if you have to make the effort of working at something, that it isn’t natural, it doesn’t flow," I said trying to make her get a glimpse about what I felt.

        "Marriage Anna is a contract and not some starry eyed fairytale. Do you know what I blame, that degree of yours in college. All that mythological and philosophical jargon has obviously deranged your reasoning powers, making you dissatisfied with what you have. Now look you take a rest and you’ll see a lot clearer in the morning."

        Nuala of course takes my mother’s side in all of this. She tells me that I’m an ungrateful horrible cow and that Connor was too good for me anyway. Maybe he was. Then when she thinks she can influence me to change my mind she suggests me going away to a retreat centre in Kildare for a weekend to tap into my inner peace. I have to tell her I’ll think about it to get her off my case.

        I go to sleep that night and if anything my dreams confirm that I had made the right decisions in not marrying Connor. I have absolutely no regrets.

        Connor went back to Dublin the following day without saying a word. My mother when she was fully cognisant of the enormity of what I’d done took to the bed for a week and lived on a diet of raw vodka and pills. She claimed that her poor heart had gone back into her lungs. I had disgraced her beyond belief. She informed me that I had lost my insurance policy for the future. She told me I could forget about being able to retire, that I’d have to work for the rest of my life now and what about babies, didn’t I want the joy of holding my own baby?

        I know my mother meant well in her own way but us girls can exist in our own right. Not in my mother’s eyes. According to her we’re designed to be with a partner, the animals in the ark and so forth and how could she go to her grave knowing that her daughter was on her own. When I told her perhaps I didn’t need a man she said that she knew me more than I thought she did and that I was like her, that I needed a reason to get up in the mornings and that it was ok now when I was young but what about when I was fifty and had nobody. I often wonder if my mother wanted me married so that I could legally have sex without anyone judging me as immoral. I was of course abdicating my rights to legal screwing and was now freely available to other men. Back on the scene so as to speak.

        And poor Connor, how could I do that to such a lovely lad. Maybe I needed treatment, it could well be a chemical imbalance, something missing, she always knew there was something faulty with the Moran genes…My status was now reduced to an amoeba and a very squashed amoeba at that.

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