This Charming Man

  ‘Lola Daly.’

  ‘What’s it in connection with?’

  ‘Latrines.’

  Got put straight through. Knew I would. Latrines, magic word.

  ‘Everything okay, Lola?’

  ‘Oh yes, just ringing for chat.’

  But Treese also unable to chat.

  ‘Lola, sorry. Crisis here.’

  Lots of anguished shouting and howling in background. Every second word seemed to be ‘latrines.’

  ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘you should sleep with that surf boy.’

  Then she was gone.

  Deflated. Undeniably deflated. Stared gloomily at phone. Considered ringing Jem, but couldn’t take another rejection. Then phone rang! Was Jem!

  ‘Hear you are looking for a chat.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Is okay. Urge has gone off me now.’

  Kindly, though, very kindly.

  14.08

  Didn’t go to town. Loitering around house, half-heartedly looking for kicks. Jem had brought my post from Dublin: many, many look-books from designers but too painful to study them. At moment too sad to be reminded of non-working status. In desperation, made terrible error of looking through newspapers Jem had left behind. Shouldn’t have. Sure enough, on society page, was picture of Paddy and Alicia the horse at opening of some art exhibition.

  Terribly upset. Shaking, all of me – the obvious parts like fingers and knees and lips, but also the hidden bits – stomach lining and bladder and lungs. Ferocious pang of longing for my mother. Missed her with frightful hungry force. Wanted to visit her grave and have chat. But couldn’t drive to Dublin. Hands shaking too much. Besides was barred.

  Had idea. Would go to Knockavoy graveyard, would visit someone else’s grave, some woman of similar age to my mother, and talk to her.

  15.04

  Walking to graveyard in hope that physical activity might help – endorphins, serotonin et al. – but only on road few minutes when car pulled up beside me, lots of glassy clinking noises. Rossa Considine in his eco-mobile. Bad, burny feeling. What did he want?

  ‘Lift into town?’ he said. ‘Save you walking eighty yards?’

  ‘Not going to town.’

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Graveyard.’ Didn’t go into details. Why should I?

  ‘Can drop you there. Get in.’

  Bad, burny feeling. Didn’t want to get in. Didn’t want to talk other human being (not live one, anyway). Wanted be left with own bad, burny thoughts. But feared if snubbed him, he would know I suspected him of being kidnapper and goggles-wearing oddball, so got in.

  Nothing to say to him. Drove in bad, burny silence.

  ‘Why you going to graveyard?’ he asked.

  ‘To talk to my mother.’

  ‘She buried here?’

  ‘No. Is buried in Dublin.’ Didn’t feel like explaining.

  ‘Is that joke?’

  ‘No.’

  More silence.

  ‘Why you not at work?’ I asked, feeling obliged to be polite because had been offered lift even though didn’t want one.

  ‘Day off.’

  More silence.

  ‘Chatty,’ I said.

  He shrugged, as if to say, Kettle calling pot black.

  ‘Where you off to?’ I asked without warmth. ‘Or is that top-secret too?’

  ‘Recycling place. Bottle bank. Want come?’ Sarky smile. ‘Breaking bottles might help your mood.’

  ‘What mood? Am in no mood.’

  We approached fork in road and slowed down. ‘Decision time,’ he said. ‘What’s it to be? Graveyard or bottle bank?’

  ‘Graveyard or bottle bank? No wonder you’re such big hit with the girls.’

  His fizzog darkened – annoyance? – and quickly I said, ‘Bottle bank.’

  I mean, why not? What else was I doing? Could save visit to graveyard for tomorrow.

  ‘Spontaneity spice of life,’ I said.

  ‘Variety.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Variety spice of life. Not spontaneity.’

  Cripes above, what a smartarse.

  Sat with my back ramrod straight. Wouldn’t actually let it touch seat. Felt would be giving in to him if I did. Also keen to find fault with his car. But had to admit that car driven by electricity seemed to function just as efficiently as car fuelled by petrol.

  Countryside we drove through all wild and… yes, wild. To our left, frenzied Atlantic bashed living daylights out of coast; to our right, barren fields coughed up rocks and the occasional stunted tree.

  After while, without comment, Considine put on radio. Programme about Colin Farrell; apparently he used to be a ‘travelling line-dancer.’

  ‘Is absurd!’ Rossa Considine suddenly broke silence. ‘Colin Farrell is hell-raiser. Hell-raisers don’t line-dance.’

  For once was in agreement.

  ‘And what exactly is travelling line-dancer?’ I asked.

  ‘I wonder.’ He sounded genuinely interested. ‘Does it mean he travelled across the dancefloor or travelled around the country?’

  15.24

  Bottle bank in place of extreme natural beauty. Can that be right?

  ‘Here.’ Rossa Considine handed me box of jingling bottles. ‘Start breaking.’

  Can tell lot about person from their rubbish. Rossa Considine drank beer, also red wine, but not worrying amount unless this was just weekend’s worth of stuff. He cooked with olive oil and soy sauce, took vitamin C supplements and wore aftershave (Cool Water). Mind you, saw nothing that gave any clue as to why he had mystery bride stashed in his bedroom or wore swimming goggles in his kitchen.

  Recycling surprisingly gratifying. Obviously is uplifting to help environment, but should never underestimate how enjoyable it is to break things. Flinging bottles into skips and hearing them shatter into smithereens on impact was exhilarating. Managed to smash away all the bad burniness.

  ‘Should have brought own bottles,’ I said. ‘Tons after weekend. Friends visiting.’

  ‘Will let you know next time am coming here.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Wanted to add something unpleasant like, ‘Big of you,’ but didn’t. No matter what way you looked at it, him offering to bring me to bottle bank didn’t count as sarky remark.

  18.33

  Car parked outside front door, practically beside front door. Almost no room for Noel from Dole to open car door without banging into house door. He emerged. Did furtive running-crouch from car to house. Keen not to be seen. Once in house, straightened up and handed over bottle of wine. Unexpected. Nice thought, even if it is rosé.

  ‘Lola, is beautiful boa you are wearing. What is it… ostrich feather? Oh is gorgeous.’ Taken aback. Not used to him being pleasant. ‘So where are they? Where are my babies?’

  ‘Here.’ Indicated box.

  He alighted upon it and reverently unwrapped pair of leopard-skin stilettos in size eleven. Cradled them to him, like newborn lambs. Rubbed them against his foxy face.

  I watched anxiously. Had almost irresistible urge to cover eyes. Feared he was going to do some sex act, like wank into them.

  As if he read my mind, he said – angrily – ‘Am not pervert. All I want to do is wear them.’

  He whipped off trainers and socks and rolled trouser legs up to knees. Removed tie and wrapped it around hairline, like scarf thespian lady would wear.

  ‘And for record,’ he added. ‘Am not gay. Am straight as Colin Farrell.’ Second mention of Colin Farrell in one day. What can it mean? ‘I have fine-looking wife, who has no complaints, if you get me.’

  Gak! Do not like to think of foxy Noel in that way.

  Slowly, respectfully, he placed shoes on floor. Sensuously slid one foot into them, then the other. ‘They fit! They fit!’ Cinderella moment.

  Paraded back and forth across slate floor. ‘Love the sound the heels make,’ he said happily. Further clattering ensued.

  ‘Oh there’s my bus! Wait! Don’t go without me!’ he sq
uealed, breaking into ludicrous ‘run’, kicking up heels behind him, as high as his bum. ‘Oh thank you, Mr Driver, for waiting for me.’ Hand placed at throat in coquettish fashion. ‘You’ve made this lady very happy.’

  Cripes.

  ‘Where can I change?’ he demanded, back to his man’s voice.

  Change?

  ‘Change into my dress.’

  Dress?

  ‘Yes, my dress!’ Tapped his briefcase in exasperated fashion.

  Oh God. ‘You have trannie clothes in briefcase?’

  ‘Cross-dressing, cross-dressing, I am sick telling you.’

  Didn’t want him to change into dress. Wanted him to leave. But couldn’t say that because feared he would think was judging him. But not judging him for being trannie. Simply didn’t like him.

  ‘Change in kitchen.’ Didn’t want him going upstairs. Boundaries already shot to hell.

  19.07

  He disappeared into kitchen, coyly shutting door. I sat on couch and waited. Quite miserable. Had got self into tight spot. Not sure how it happened.

  Had all started when he said to me that night in pub in Miltown Malbay, ‘Can you keep a secret?’

  I had answered, ‘No. Cannot keep mouth shut. Am famous for lack of discretion.’

  Not true. Simply didn’t want to keep his secret. Whatever it was, it would bind me to him in some heinous fashion.

  But he didn’t care. He needed confessor. ‘I like wear ladies’ clothes.’

  Hadn’t known quite what to say. Settled for, ‘I like wear ladies’ clothes too.’

  ‘Yes, but you are lady.’

  ‘So you are trannie?’

  ‘Cross-dresser.’

  Trannie, cross-dresser, is all the one, no?

  ‘You don’t really have girlfriend?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Those size eleven shoes for you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  (Had known he couldn’t have both wife and girlfriend. Lucky to have even one woman.)

  Over course of next hour, got his life story. Had lusted after women’s clothes since late teens. When he had house to himself – only happened rarely – he tried on wife’s make-up and underwear. But not her clothing – ‘too dowdy.’

  Over the years he had assembled one outfit of his own – dress, accessories, wig, make-up but no shoes – was making do with open-toed slingbacks in size 8, biggest he could get, but toes and heels stuck out over edges and were painful to walk in. He kept outfitin bag in boot of his car. Lived in terror of wife finding it.

  Then watershed: went to Amsterdam for stag weekend. Slipped away from companions. Found trannie shop. Had time of life trying on shoes that fitted him, wide choice underwear, negligees, frocks. ‘Never knew it could feel so wonderful!’ Bought large quantity of merchandise, but after leaving shop, lost his nerve. Feared airport customs man might do random search on his bag – in front of all his pals. Shame would kill him. Decided dispose of stuff. Walked around Amsterdam for hours. Eventually threw purchases into canal – littering. When got back to hotel, mates demanded know where he’d been. He had to lie and say he had gone with prostitute. Mates scandalized. Atmosphere strained for remainder of weekend.

  Back home, Noel couldn’t settle. Friends giving him wide berth for prostitute offence. But far worse, couldn’t shake memory of how he had felt while twirling before mirror in trannie shop. ‘For that short time I was my true self. Awoke something in me. Tried bury it, but couldn’t. And then you walk into office and say you are stylist!’

  ‘… Er… yes… but you don’t need me. I’m sure you can get trannie clothing on internet.’

  ‘Can’t get it on internet. Can’t look at sites at work. They could check. Even if erase, it stays on hard drive. And even if could look at sites in anonymous internet café far from Ennistymon hinterland, cannot have stuff delivered to home. Wife would see. Would open parcels.’

  ‘Even though addressed to you?’ His wife has nerve.

  ‘Well, maybe she wouldn’t open, but she would drive me up wall, asking what was in parcel, who was it for, could she see it… She would break me down.’

  I had sudden thought. ‘Would it be so bad if she knew?’

  ‘Jesus!’ He buried fizzog in hands. ‘Don’t even want to think about it! No one must know! I have three young children. I am respected in community. I am taking massive risk telling you all this.’

  ‘All right, keep pants on.’

  Then thought, Pants. Wonder what kind he’s wearing right now. Gak! Gakgakgak!

  Somehow ended up agreeing to order trannie catalogues for him. When first one arrived – for specialist shoes – he got me to order pair leopard-skin stilettos. ‘Cannot put it on my credit card. Dervla will notice.’

  Dervla (wife) sounded like absolute harridan.

  Had to pay with my credit card – frankly, lucky it didn’t get declined, considering state of finances – and delivery address was Uncle Tom’s cabin. In fairness to Noel from Dole, he reimbursed me in cash on the spot.

  (Hard thing to admit, but not keen on transvestism. Don’t want to stop them doing it, not at all, but find it a bit… Put it this way, wouldn’t have liked if Paddy did it. The thought of him in women’s underwear and lipstick, trying to be alluring… He’d look… Actually feel sick thinking about it… Oh no. Now am trannie-hater as well as racist. Am learning all kinds of unpleasant things about self since came to Knockavoy.)

  19.22

  ‘Da-dah!’ Proudly and shyly Noel emerged from kitchen, wearing short, stretchy, orange and black leopard-skin dress, elbow-length leopard-skin evening gloves and – of course – the leopard-skin shoes. By look of things, he likes leopard skin. (Have often found that redheads do.) Fishnet tights, Tina Turner wig, badly applied make-up. His look quite trashy. All a little obvious. Less is more, often find. But say nothing. He has his look, is working it.

  Also do not want to engage with him and prolong his presence here.

  ‘I’m Natasha,’ he said, in ‘lady’ voice. ‘Do you have my new catalogues?’

  ‘… Er… yes… here.’

  ‘Let’s have little drinky. Little tipple.’

  Stared at him. Did not want to have little drinky. Apart from being poisoned after weekend, this was veering further and further into realm of nightmare.

  ‘The wine I brought,’ he said impatiently. ‘Open the wine.’

  Oh. Was not gift for me. Was for him. Well, for Natasha.

  Opened bottle. Poured him glass. He sipped at wine and perused new catalogues in leisurely fashion, legs crossed, as if at hairdresser’s. Shapely pins. Long, slender, not very hairy and what hairs there were, were pale ginger-coloured. Many a woman would be proud.

  I watched. Anxious. How much longer was he going stay? I had plans for evening. (Sea wall, Mrs Butterly, etc.)

  He looked up. ‘Have you any snacks?’

  ‘Snacks? Like what?’

  ‘Cheese straws.’

  ‘Cheese straws? Where would get cheese straws in Knockavoy?’

  Okay. Any crisps? Peanuts?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Check.’

  Grumpily went to kitchen. Located half-bag of greasy peanuts in back of press.

  ‘Found peanuts, but God knows how long they’ve been –’

  ‘Put them in bowl – nice bowl – and offer them to me.’

  Muttering to self, ‘What your last slave die of?’ returned to kitchen and tipped them into dish, but not very nice one, just out of spite.

  ‘Peanut, Noel?’

  ‘Natasha.’

  ‘Peanut, Natasha?’

  ‘Oh cannot! Watching figure!’

  ‘But you just asked for them!’

  Then understood. Was fiction. Obliged to join in. ‘But you have gorgeous figure, Natasha. You did not have dessert all week and you did Bums, Tums and Thighs class this morning.’ Getting carried away. Feeling mildly hysterical. ‘Be naughty girl. Have peanut. And another little drinky!’


  Sloshed more rosé into his glass.

  ‘Oh! You are very bold! Will have another drink if you will join me.’ Wicked twinkle in his eye – so much blue eye shadow! ‘Go on, Lola, one little drinky won’t kill you.’

  Is this way girls behave? Is this what he sees?

  Accepted little drinky. Quite grateful for it at this stage.

  ‘Okay, Lola, can you order me these two sexy frocks – I have ticked them. Also baby-doll negligee, in black and in pink.’

  Heart sank. Relationship not at an end. Also, he has such terrible taste.

  ‘Can leave my new shoes here?’ he asked. ‘Too good to throw into boot of car.’

  ‘But what is use of them if they live here?’ Anxiety ratcheting up!

  ‘I can visit them. We could arrange regular time. Like every Friday evening. Wife thinks I go out for few jars after work. Could come here instead.’

  Officially in grip of paralysing fear. Do not want regular arrangement with Noel from Dole! ‘But this is not my house! And I could return to Dublin at any moment!’

  He frowned. Not happy with that. ‘You will have to report change of address immediately. As soon as leave jurisdiction, no more payments from County Clare.’

  ‘Yes, know all that.’ Had been explained to me until was blue in face.

  ‘Anyway you don’t look sane enough to return Dublin yet. Look at cut of you.’

  Yes. Favourite outfit. Pyjamas, wellingtons, feather boa.

  Regretted feather boa. Feather boa gives people wrong idea. Feather boa is badge of true eccentric.

  ‘From now on, Friday night is girly night!’ he decreed. ‘Okay, Lola?’

  ‘Will have to square it with Tom Twoomey, owner of this house.’

  ‘Square what? You are simply having friend over for drink.’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘Simply having friend over for drink,’ he repeated. ‘Okay, Lola? We agreed about that?’

  Miserably nodded head. No choice. Looks like relationship with Noel from Dole set to run for some time. Unhappy. Really don’t like him.

  But – as already observed – he has expedited welfare payments with unprecedented speed. He owns me.