Moon Hook I - 10
Part I, Chapter 10 of an ongoing fiction series by Maura McHugh, published every Thursday, for subscribers of Splinister.
Read the first chapter in the series here.
Part I
Chapter 10
‘Huffy Goose’
Daria pulled her car into the small lot behind The Catch per Muireann’s instructions, and parked it next to Cathal’s. She’d made slow progress into the village due to the influx of sightseers for the parade. Streets were being cordoned off and cars parked higgledy-piggledy on every postage stamp of space. Daria had to sweet talk her way past a man in a high-vis jacket to gain access to the small street leading to the back of Cathal’s premises.
The weather was chilly and brisk, with clouds skating past, sometimes threatening rain, and other times separating to allow periods of sun. Purple and black bunting decorated Eite, along with banners featuring the mascot for the parade, Olivia the Sea Serpent: a serpent with tiny wings curled up in a spiral. It was a play on words since the Irish word, Oilliphéist, could be translated as the Great Sea Serpent. The decorations whipped and clattered in the wind, along with the dormant loops of Christmas lights, which waited their turn to shine.
As she stepped out of the car, Daria heard the distant muffled sound of a modern céilí band on the stage erected at the docks. She could discern fiddles, uilleann pipes, flutes, drums, a banjo, and perhaps a squeeze box, belting out a merry Irish tune to warm up the crowd. Some tech had done a super job miking them up, and her fingers began tapping to the infectious beat.
She’d Googled the festival earlier, and discovered there were events going on all day, including a puppet theatre, circus acts, and a massive ‘Snake and Ladders’ game for people to play, where sea serpents replaced their land-based brethren. There was face-painting, food trucks, and a competition for best costume before the parade began at twilight.
Daria rapped on the metal back door and noticed a couple of cigarette stubs on the ground. Muireann opened it moments later. Glittering purple and black dramatic eyeshadow decorated her eyes and she smiled with lips coated in black lipstick. She wore a vintage t-shirt with a faded logo of the original Beetlejuice film, a purple sequined miniskirt and black and purple striped tights under boots.
‘Blessings of the Great Serpent upon you!’ she singsonged and waggled her fingers.
‘Er, thanks. Is there some rote answer?’ And Daria thought of Yemm, and his followers, with their calls and responses. She’d only listened to a couple of short recordings that morning before she’d packed it in. Her dream from the previous night lingered like cobwebs in her hair, and she was unable to banish the voices of the deceased.
Revving up for the parade had been a difficult shift; her fun drive was stalled.
Daria flapped away the question, ‘Nah, but you are a bit underdressed. In Eite, this parade is bigger than Halloween.’ She pushed the door wide open and Daria walked past a tiny office, toilets, and storage space, through to the quiet, gleaming kitchen, and out into the restaurant with lingering scents of garlic mussels and coffee.
Cathal stood by a table wearing a faded Pharáid na Péisteanna t-shirt over black jeans and speaking to a short man with slicked-back black hair, wearing a skin-tight faux snakeskin jumpsuit and pointed boots that might be the real deal. He immediately sized up Daria and arched an eyebrow.
In a droll Spanish accent, he observed, ‘So you are the bird lady?’ He nodded, ‘I see it. Maybe it wanted to nest in your hair?’
She refrained from touching her wind-draggled hair, and replied with perfect charm, ‘Good job you weren’t about, it might have mistaken you for bait.’
He rolled his eyes at her efforts, ‘Honey, when I bait, I catch.’ He laughed, and gestured at his trim form, ‘Like tonight. They come to me. I don’t knock anyone down to attract attention. I am the knockout.’
Muireann stepped in, ‘Daria, this is Vicente Serrano, our chef.’
He nodded at Daria, in acknowledgement. ‘Cook. I don’t chef now. No more prizes or awards. Just fish and chips.’ He stressed and elongated the last word and glared at Cathal.
Cathal muttered, ‘This again.’
Muireann pointed to Daria, and added, ‘Meet Daria Shawe who doesn’t answer to bird lady, or birds nest, or any other cute phrase you come up with.’
Vicente inhaled sharply as if taking on a dreadful task. ‘Not even scarecrow?’
Daria gazed own at her usual boots, jeans and t-shirt garb: nothing was stained or shabby. ‘Hey!’
Muireann sidled up to him, and placed her arm around his shoulders; she was a head taller than him. Daria inventoried a selection of short arse insults for future use. Vincente immediately relaxed, patting Muireann’s arm with affection.
‘No, Vincente, be nice. Por favor.’
He sighed with exaggerated effect and waved at Daria. ‘You, we have a tart. You will want some.’
Daria bridled, ‘What do you mean..?’
Muireann scooped up a plate with a large slice of flat, moist cake that smelled of almonds. ‘Tarta de Santiago, it’s Vincente’s speciality.’
He looked annoyed, ‘Today it is Tarta de Serpent’, and he shuddered.
Daria noticed a serpent’s form in the fragile layer of powdered sugar on its surface.
Cathal’s stooped shoulders hinted at a beleaguered man. ‘Forty islanders pre-ordered entire cakes. The tourists can’t get enough of it!’
As Daria tried a mouthful, Vincente snapped, ‘It’s embarrassing. Profitable? Yes.’
Citrus-sweet with a bite of liquor, the confection melted away her aggravation, and she recalled a long-ago escapade when she was nineteen years old in A Coruña in Spain. It reminded her of drinking glasses of Estrella Galicia, luminous beaches, and the sun upon her skin.
‘It’s delicious,’ she admitted, finally, reluctantly. Genius should be acknowledged, even when wrapped up in ego and vanity.
‘Of course,’ Vincente stated.
The old phone in her pocket buzzed in a funny way, and Daria realised she hadn’t checked it in days.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, and moved away from the trio. She fished the phone out of her jacket pocket. A sliver of battery flashed, and Daria realised it had been over a week since she last charged it.
It rang, surprising her. The word ‘Mam’ flashed up, and it immediately died.
A cannonball of dread lodged in her gut. The last time her mother rang her was five years ago after a charity had placed her in a shared home for people with a history of mental health issues.
Fiadh had barely communicated her details to Daria before she launched into one of her rambling monologues.
‘My roommates are nice, but Benny keeps eating my yoghurts. I write my name on each pot in marker, but at the end of each week there’s always one missing, and I have a journal where I write down everything I eat, so I know, I know there should be eight, and instead there’s seven, and I’m sure it’s Benny, because he’s got a yoghurt-stealing face, and I’ve told Christobel, and she recommended I let it go, and so what if Benny eats a yoghurt, after all, I always take one of his tangerines, and I told her that it’s not the same, because the tangerines are in the communal bowl, and my yoghurts are in my space in the fridge, and then she laughs and sings that silly song she made up for me ages ago:
Huffy goose With ruffled feathers, Stay loose It’s just the weather, Make a truce Don’t get lathered, Happy geese Glide together.
And I say to her, as I always say to her, Christobel, I’m not a fucking fowl, so of course she jokes about me being foul-mouthed but I set the joke up for her, you know, it’s our little repartee.’
She went on for some time before Daria could intervene to wind down the call, and it descended into the usual story of Fiadh blaming Daria for abandoning her, even though Fiadh had been committed to a mental health facility when Daria was seventeen, and if it wasn’t for Rita, Daria’s reluctant grandmother, Daria would have been homeless or in foster case.
On the day she sat the last exam of her Leaving Cert, Daria skipped off to Europe with fellow rebel, Bríd Ryan, on a nomadic quest that led to a series of adventures, parties, misadventures and eventually crewing for a succession of music bands and finding and splitting from little tribes of people.
The past invaded Daria’s mind like a conquering army, and for a while she stared at the dead phone in her hand while summoning up defences to deflect regrets.
‘Daria?’ Muireann had called her named several times. ‘Is everything okay?’
Daria conjured her copacetic self, the one where she became loosey-goosey, agreeable and up for anything. All it needed was the enchantment her mother sang to her throughout her childhood.
Huffy goose With ruffled feathers,
‘My phone died, that’s all.’
Stay loose, It’s just the weather,
Muireann pointed to her bag behind the counter, ‘I have one…’
‘No, it’s an antique. The charger’s at home. It’s not important.’ She played up savouring the last of the cake and watched Vincente’s attitude shift down a notch.
Make a truce, Don’t get lathered,
Cathal nodded at the door. ‘We best get going, if we want to see the parade.’
Daria’s irritation dissolved as she remembered a bright day with Bríd, where no troubles existed under blue skies, and they sauntered arm in arm, confident in their youth, charms and the ability to turn every situation to their advantage.
Happy geese, Glide together.
‘Maybe I’ll get my face painted, and buy one of those terrific t-shirts,’ chill Daria said, pointing at Cathal.
Muireann squinted at her. ‘They’re hardly terrific.’
Cathal glowed. ‘Go n-éirí sin leat! This is an original, from the first parade, they don’t make them anymore.’
The group gathered their belongings and headed for the door, and Muireann fake-whispered to Daria, ‘He designed that one. The parade committee were desperate.’
Cathal put the keys in the front door. ‘They were inspired, Muireann. Just like I was.’
The door swung open. Outside, crowds of people milled about, sporting serpent motifs, and some dressed in extravagant outfits. The céilí band, at full throttle, played a fast tune, whipping spirits into a happy froth. An ice cream truck hummed close by and children shrieked their orders. Lookout Gulls cried out the locations of stray food to each other, while hovering on winds sweeping dark clouds out of sight.
Muireann turned to Daria, beaming and cheerful. ‘This is my favourite day of the year!’
Daria, tasting hops and sunshine, suggested, ‘Let’s get some beers. I’m buying the first round.’
With that universal gesture of bonhomie, she was accepted.
Read all published chapters here.
Well said
Just catching up on the past two installments! 😻 Looking forward to next week's!