Friday Reading

Deb meets Rose's friends and feels like she's stepped through the looking glass

I wasn’t sure what to expect from Rose’s friends because she herself was so different from anyone else I knew. The few of her friends I had met in Dublin were kinda like her, artists and writers, all broke and talking of emigrating.

First off, I expected we’d meet in a pub but no, Rose brought me through the warren of the Underground plunging onto crowded escalators (I couldn’t believe the way everyone stood in to one side leaving the other side free for us to run up and down) and switching platforms till I was dizzy. When we did surface we were in a dockside wasteland. It was dusk and the only light came from a few pale streetlamps. Above us loomed abandoned factories and warehouses. Small occasional glimmers in the windows that remained intact weren’t enough to convince me that there was anyone there.

I stopped in the middle of broken footpath, feeling the chill of night close in around us, and pleaded with Rose. Where are we going? This place gives me the creeps.

Sorry, she said taking my arm. I should have warned you. I’m so used to it now I don’t take any notice.

What is it? Where is it?

Just the old docklands. Slated for demolition.

And your friends? Are they here? I looked around for some kind of life. Nothing. A vandalised telephone box stood off to one side, a boarded-up chipper to the other. Not even a mangy rat for company. Was this another trap?

It’s all right Deb, trust me.

Again. I was beginning to feel my capacity to trust ebb away. Please Rose. I can’t do this. Let’s just go back to Mark’s place. The trouble was I would never find my way out of the place alone.

Five minutes, Deb. Give me five more minutes and then we can leave if you insist. Rose’s voice was getting tetchy.

Ok, I mumbled and allowed myself to be led on through the desolation.

Maybe it took a little more than five minutes but I hung in and was glad for that when we arrived at Rose’s friends’ place. We had rounded yet another corner and entered a cobbled street. More dereliction and decay, and, from somewhere nearby, the hollow slap of water on stone. A moment later Rose stopped and diverting through an alley came to entrance where she pushed a heavy door that creaked and scraped across a flagged floor.

Jesus, Rose, I whispered. Is this safe?

Come on scaredy cat, she laughed. Take my hand.

I gave her my hand, like a trusting child.

Up we went by a spiral staircase until we came to landing with an open door in front of us. Golden light, a hubbub of voices and a mix of strange scents spilled from the door, enticing us in. Rose dropped my hand and moved ahead into the room.

I paused at the threshold, taking in the scene before me. Surely I had stepped through the looking glass. The room was a wide roof space, the floors spread with an assortment of worn old rugs, makeshift curtains with exotic patterns formed room dividers, a half-finished painting adorned the walls, lamps and lanterns and torches hung from the beams and about a dozen women occupied the place. One stood on her head in a corner, another nearby sat in a contorted position, a few more lounged on two beat-up old sofas watching a tiny crackling TV, while others clustered around a deal table and a makeshift kitchen. The women greeted Rose like a sailor come from afar. Even the one balancing on her head dipped a leg in her direction.

This is my friend, Deb, Rose announced. All the way from Dublin.

Or Dub from Deblin, grinned one. You’re welcome to our penthouse. Best views in the city.

Any friend of Rosie’s is a friend of ours, said another.

Here, Friend, a third passed me joint.

I inhaled greedily and held it as long as I could. When I exhaled I let all my fears of the evening go with the blow, and gave way to a spasm of coughing.

Are you ok? Said the one who had given me the joint, looking up anxiously at me. Sit here, she patted a space on the sofa which I sank into with relief.

Drink this, a woman with springy blonde hair and a gold ring in her nose, handed me a mug of scented brew.

What is it? I peered into the straw-coloured liquid.

Camomile tea and honey. Very soothing.

I glanced at Rose who nodded reassurance. Deb was scared out of her wits coming here, she explained.

The tea was nice – it’s still one of my favourite bedtime drinks – and I gathered my breath and my nerves and my distracted wits after a few sips.

Are you just visiting from Dublin? Asked the one who had shared the joint.

Not really, I shrugged. I’m looking for my father.

Whaaat? Screeched a woman seated at the table, chopping onions. Are you mad? Forget the patriarchy. Abolish the Pa.

He kind of abolished himself, I said. That’s why I want to find him.

One of those sprawled on the other sofa gave me a thumbs up and asked, Does he have money?

I don’t think so, I said. That’s not what I’m after.

So what are you after? Asked the onion-chopper, her face now streaming with tears.

I thought for a moment, warming my hands on the half-empty mug. The truth?

Ha ha! That’s rich, cackled someone in the corner. Last thing you’ll get from a man is the truth.

I bowed my head over the mug. I felt Rose’s hand on my neck.

No reason why we shouldn’t go on looking for it, said the woman with the nose-ring.

The onion-chopper rose and scraped the onions into a pot where they sizzled and spat.

The joint came round again and I took it, more gingerly this time.

Once the spotlight moved off me the mood relaxed. The two doing yoga in the corner untangled themselves and came to join us, sitting on cushions on the floor.

Hi, said the one who had been upside down. I’m Moyra, my Mum is Irish. She’s from Athlone. The dead centre of Ireland.

I laughed, feeling instant kinship with her.

Belinda, said the other, reaching out to take my hand. Instead of shaking it, as I expected, she turned it over and traced the lines in my palm. I’ll read your cards later, she said, looking up at me with a frown.

Ok, I tried to smile unable to hide my nervousness.

Nothing to be afraid of, she said. Isn’t that right, wimmin?

No, they all shook their heads. Bell is good with the cards.

It might be helpful, Rose agreed.

Cool, I said, trying to muster some confidence. Thank you.

Soon, rich smells began to rise from the tiny gas cooker and the women who had been busy around it set the table.

Do you like chilly? Asked the nose-ring woman, whose name I now knew was Emily.

No, I’m quite warm, I said. Thanks. Which of course made them all laugh.

Come on, said Rose. Come and taste Daphne’s cooking.

Well, Sis, it’s a long way from chilli sin carne and brown rice we were reared isn’t it? As for kidney beans, they didn’t resemble any beans I’d ever seen. Starting from my first mistake over the name I gave them another laugh again at my surprise that the dish was so hot. Three glasses of water later I was ready for another mouthful. It was quite tasty, once you got used to it. (Although I have to confess I threw it up on the way home, put it down to my stomach being trained to eat overcooked vegetables, meat and chips.) And yes, now I’m vegetarian, and Pearl will be too. At least that’s my plan. I suppose her rebellion will be to eat burgers on the sly.

---

I hope you’re still enjoying Family Lines! Share your thoughts on the story so far, right here: