Authors: Grace Wynne-Jones
I search and search – but the night is cloudy and I can’t
see them.
‘Look, I told you
I don’t want to be in charge of the p
ig.’
‘I know. I know. I’ll be back in a minute. I’m just going
for a pee,’ says Charlie, leaving me under Clerys’ clock with
Susan and Rosie, who is grunting excitedly and straining at
the leash.
Susan’s come along because she rang me up this morning
saying she was lonely. She’s been away so long she doesn’t
know many people here any more and wanted company. Still, I doubt marching down O’Connell Street with a pig
was quite what she had in mind.
‘He’s quite dishy, isn’t he?’ Susan is munching a Yorkie
bar and eyeing the lingerie in Clerys’ window.
‘Who?’ I ask.
‘Charlie – he’s quite handsome.’
‘I dunno, I suppose he is in a hippy sort of way.’ I sigh.
‘Look ,Susan, I know I roped you in at the last moment but
I need some help here.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Help me hold on to this pig for one thing – she’s incredibly
strong.’
‘My God she really is,’ says Susan as we both try to prevent
Rosie from darting across the road. Her nose is quivering in
the direction of Moore Street market.
‘She smells the fruit.’ I’m panicking a bit now. ‘If she makes
up her mind to go I’m not sure we can stop her.’
‘I know what I’ll do. I’ll sit on her,’ announces Susan who’s
always been a woman of action.
‘Don’t sit down too hard.’
‘No – no – I’ll just sort of straddle her and hold on.’
‘Good idea.’
Rosie is squealing with frustration now and we’ve got
a small audience. They’re gawping at us and some are
laughing.
‘Giddap there horsey,’ a man calls out.
‘Hello piggy piggy,’ says a toddler who is herself on a leash
and being dragged away by her mother.
‘Is this a bacon promotion?’ asks a woman in a headscarf.
‘Because if it is I’d like a coupon.’
‘No, this isn’t a bacon promotion. This is a demonstration against factory farming,’ I reply grimly as Rosie’s trotters
slither and dance with impatience.
‘Is this something to do with the Orwell adaptation at
the Abbey?’ asks a young man with a ponytail who’s just
joined us.
I’m about to explain again when I see Charlie. He’s talking on his mobile
across the street. He’s frowning.
‘Well this is a fine time to make phone calls,’ I snap as
he returns and Rosie gazes up at him adoringly. She starts
snuffling at his pockets and he produces a carrot which
she munches happily, thoughts of escape now obviously
postponed.
‘And where’s everybody else? I thought there were going to
be at least twenty people,’ I continue irritably. ‘Someone was
going to bring placards, weren’t they? Where are they?’
Now that Rosie has calmed down the small crowd has
begun to drift away.
‘Sorry, folks.’ Charlie gives Susan and me a wry smile.
‘There’s been a mix-up. Sarah thought the march had been
moved to next Monday so that’s what she said when she
phoned round. I should have phoned her myself to confirm
things. We’d best call it a day and go back to the van.’
‘But I can’t understand it.’ I’m almost bursting with indignation. ‘I specifically phoned Sarah myself to confirm th
at the march would start at 11 a.m. – under Clerys’ clock
– on Monday, the 17th.’
Charlie and Susan look at each other.
‘I did,’ I insist. ‘I really did.’
‘This isn’t Monday the 17th,’ Susan breaks the news
gently.
‘What?’
‘This is Monday, the 10th.’ Charlie looks me straight in
the eyes so I can tell he isn’t lying.
‘It can’t be. I checked my diary.’
Charlie will not be swayed. ‘You must have been looking
at the wrong page.’ Charlie’s trying to look solemn, but I
know he wants to laugh.
‘Oh my God, what a mess!’ I moan. ‘This isn’t funny
Charlie!’ I glare at him indignantly.
‘I never said it was.’
‘I know, but your eyes are smirking. Don’t tell me they’re
not, ’cos they are.’
‘When you two have finished, can we get out of here?’ Susan pleads. Rosie is getting restive again.
‘Oh bugger it anyway!’ I moan.
‘Oh shit!’ exclaims Susan, because Rosie has just crapped
on the pavement and she’s been splattered.
‘That’s the word for it all right,’ says Charlie, grimly
pulling Rosie towards the van.
In the van I burst into tears. ‘Now, now,’ says Susan. ‘I o
ften mix up dates myself. We’ll just come back next Monday
– my new job doesn’t start for a while, so I’ll be free.’
‘My life’s a mess. I don’t even know what day it is.’ I’m
weaving a soggy Kleenex round my fingers. ‘They should
fatten me up and sell me as Pedigree Chum.’
‘What sort of talk is this? I thought we were supposed to
be against factory farming,’ says Charlie who’s exchanging
concerned, puzzled glances with Susan as he manoeuvres Rosie into the back. She’s snorting with excitement at the
prospect of a drive.
‘At least battery hens produce eggs!’ I wail. ‘At least they
do something useful.’
‘And in completely inhumane conditions,’ says Charlie,
who has written numerous articles on the subject. ‘Free range
is much more You, Jasmine. Really.’ He’s trying to cheer me
up. It usually works – but not today.
‘You’re not taking me seriously!’ I wail hysterically.
‘Yes, I am.’ Charlie sounds a bit exasperated now. ‘But
you really are over-reacting. It’s only a march, Jasmine. We
can come back next week.’
‘I’m nearly forty and what do I have to show for my life?
Nothing!’ The words are coming out between sobs and I
can’t seem to stop them. Charlie stares at me thoughtfully
and then looks at Susan. She takes the cue.
‘Now, now,’ she soothes.
‘It’s all right for you.’ I look at her tetchily. ‘Your life is
straight out of the Rose of Tralee.’
Susan decides not to be offended. ‘Now, now, Jasmine,’
she says. ‘What about the poor little animals you’ve been
helping? What about adult literacy? What about Katie – not
to mention your marriage?’
‘Yes, it’s best not to mention my marriage.’ I’ve stopped
sobbing and am looking at a man who’s selling brightly
c
oloured scarves from a pavement stall. The kind of scarves
Katie sometimes ties round her hair.
‘And why is that?’ asks Charlie, who’s now seated.
‘Because’ – I pause for dramatic effect – ‘because my
husband’s having an affair with Cait Carmody.’
‘Do you mean the actress?’ asks Susan.
‘Yes, yes – her.’
‘Ah, so this is what it’s all about,’ sighs Charlie. ‘I think
this calls for a cuppa at my place.’
‘Yes,’ agrees Susan. ‘But let me buy some Bewley’s cherry
buns first.’
Charlie’s house is a bit past Bray and is big and messy,
rather like himself. It’s in good repair because Charlie is a
practical sort, but apart from the expensive hi-fi system by the large sitting-room window, it’s pretty bohemian. There
are lots of large cushions around the place, but they are not
plumped up. There are lots of posters too, but they’re not
framed. If Charlie had to leave this place with one suitcase he
could do so because Charlie knows what he loves. The rest of th
e stuff would go back to the charity shops and second-hand
stores where it came from, apart from the hi-fi system which
he’d probably sell, and his tapes and CDs which he’d take
with him.
Most of the music Charlie plays is afficionado stuff – l
ots of jazz by people with weird names. He will grudg
ingly admit to having once had a crush on that blond
woman from Abba – Ag something or another. He still
occasionally puts on ‘Dancing Queen’ to cheer himself
up.
Charlie’s a freelance recording engineer. He’s forty-seven
and is, as Susan said, quite handsome, only I’ve known
him so long I don’t really notice it. He’s tall and rangy
and has thick brown hair that covers his ears but doesn’t
r
each his shoulders. I suppose his outstanding feature is his
eyes. They’re blue and very intense.
I met him through animal rights five years ago and, frankly,
I think he’s the reason I’m still involved in it. I’m not as
passionate about it as he is. I care, but that’s not quite the
same thing.
Charlie’s solid, kind and fun to be around. When we’re
photocopying fliers, or gumming down envelopes, we get to
talking about all sorts of things. We’re not in the least bit
romantically interested in each other, which really helps.
‘You can have camomile, rosehip, fennel, mango and peach or just plain tea,’ Charlie calls out from the kitchen.
‘Just plain tea please,’ Susan and I answer loudly.
‘Gosh, he’s into aromatherapy too,’ says Susan, who’s
looking at the burner on the mantelpiece. ‘I thought I smelt
something when I came in.’
‘Ylang-ylang with a drop of geranium,’ Charlie calls out.