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

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.’

Chapter Seven (#ulink_14f6a5fb-678e-5f1e-ab19-733be30e65b1)

Evie was talking to herself. In the airport lounge, sitting with a caramel latte that tasted like creamy pudding. She decided that she was telling herself it was delicious and she liked this modern coffee. As she stared at the froth in the cup an hour later, a clipped voice announced over the speakers that the plane would be delayed for an hour.

She drank two more coffees, visited the toilet twice and, when she sat down again, she noticed her hands were shaking. She watched as other passengers picked up luggage and moved excitedly as if flying was quite normal. Her breathing had become shallow and she wondered if she shouldn’t buy herself a small brandy. When they called her flight number, she whispered to herself that people flew on planes every day and what on earth was she so worried about.

In the aeroplane, sitting by the window, lost in thought, she muttered to herself that flying in an aeroplane was quite safe, nothing bad ever happened, well, not often, only in the films. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, to take her life in her hands and fly in a plane, to do something she’d never done by herself, to be up in the air for over an hour and to go shopping with her winnings. She’d never been on an aeroplane alone before, but she didn’t regret it, no, not at all.

Other people were looking at her. She was becoming one of those mad old ladies who talked to themselves because they had nobody else to listen. The flight to John Lennon Airport would only take a short time, it would soon be over and she would touch down in England. The last flight she had made was with Jim to Majorca five years ago and she had squeezed his hand all the way there.

Jim. Evie shook her head; he had been alive last year, but gaunt and coughing in a hospital bed. The sheets were a shroud the day he died and when she returned home the house still smelled of stale cigarettes and the aftershave he wore, once warm and alive. It was a summer day but everywhere was filled with cold.

She fiddled with her safety belt. ‘Calm down now, Evie. There’s nothing at all to worry about. It’ll be grand once you get there.’

‘We’re sitting here, love – all right?’ A red-haired young man indicated the two seats next to her; one held her handbag. He had a Liverpool accent. Evie nodded towards him, wondering if he had heard her talking to herself. He sat down next to her with his friend, who was smaller and dark-haired. Evie huddled towards the window and stared out again. On the tarmac, some people in uniforms were moving luggage on a trolley. The young men slid down in their seats. The red-haired one in the centre next to her tucked his legs under the seat in front of him and withdrew them again, crossing them uncomfortably, and he gave a little laugh.

‘We’ll get a bevvy when we take off, Paul?’ He nudged his friend. Then he turned to Evie.

‘I’m Danny; this is Paul.’ The dark-haired one, Paul, bobbed his head at her.

‘I’m Evie Gallagher. I’m going shopping to Liverpool and I’ve never been on a plane by myself—’ The plane began to rumble and the vibrations rattled in her chest, making her suck in air. ‘Oh my …’ She felt the plane lurch and then the engine juddered. Her fingers twisted around the arms of her seat.

Danny gave his little laugh again, relaxing in his seat, the safety belt riding up towards his chest. The plane accelerated along the runway and she was forced backwards. Evie brought her hands to her mouth. Her eyes were wide.

‘This was meant to be a little break,’ she said. ‘I haven’t travelled by myself before. I believe Liverpool’s very good for shopping.’

The young men exchanged looks and glanced at Evie, who was pressing bloodless palms together. Danny gave another reassuring giggle. His eyes shone as an idea came to him.

‘Eh, Paul, tell Evie the one about that nightclub we were in, and you needed the toilet and you went outside, and that copper stopped you in the road …’