At least, the rest of the village aged over 30. Younger people go to the Tennyson’s, where the landlord accepts a library card as a valid form of ID. The grown-ups go the Farmer’s, which is all olde-worlde stone floors and exposed brick walls and a blazing fireplace, like something out of Emmerdale but with more adultery.
I could have gone to the Tennyson’s. There would still be people I knew there – but it felt wrong, somehow. The thought of seeing people from school again made me feel melancholy.
Either they’d have fab careers and exciting prospects, which would make me jealous, or they’d be taxi drivers or working at the poultry-processing plant down the road, which would make me depressed. All that gilded youth now elbow deep in turkeys would be too much to handle.
New Year wasn’t quite the same without Rose, who was at some super-duper party in Scouseland, but it was fun – especially the part where Mum led a conga round the bar to the soundtrack of Prince singing ‘1999’.
Now it’s the first week in February, which I always think is a totally shitty time to have a birthday. Everyone is skint after Christmas, the weather is always crap, and there’s nothing in the whole month worth looking forward to. Unless you count Valentine’s Day, which I don’t, as I’ll only get one card this year. It will be signed ‘from your secret admirer’, and it will be from my own mother.
Rose coming back for the weekend is the only thing I’ve had to look forward to for ages. We always spend the nearest weekends to our birthdays together, even when we’ve been living in completely different parts of the country. Rose would come to my college bar and get drunk, or vice versa. Or sometimes we’d just meet at the cottage, which was kind of in the middle, and Mum would do jelly and ice cream and tell us both how splendid we are.
I roll over so I can play Snake on my new Nokia, and jump when the phone actually rings. I see that it is Rose, and answer it immediately. Happy time is here.
‘Hey Dr Rose!’ I say, sitting up, cross-legged, absent-mindedly sticking down the corner of that Doors poster as she talks. Poor Jim has enough problems without losing a leg. ‘How’s it hanging?’
‘It’s hanging well, thank you,’ says Rose, slightly crackly over the phone lines – the reception is pretty rough out here in the middle of the arse end of nowhere.
‘In fact, it’s hanging in a decidedly Irish way. You won’t believe this, sis, but I’m in Dublin. Sitting in a pub in Temple Bar, pint of Guinness in front of me, and a band playing “It’s A Long Way To Tipperary” in the background. Can you hear them?’
I can hear them. It sounds like a god-awful racket to me, but that might be the poor phone reception. Or the lack of Guinness.
‘That sounds like a most excellent adventure – what are you doing there?’
And why aren’t I with you, I think but don’t say, instead of slowly vegetating in a village where watching two sheep-dogs try and hump each other in a field is considered entertainment?
‘Oh … I’m with Gareth. You remember, I told you about him? From New Year?’
‘I remember you said you’d met someone, which wasn’t very specific – I assume you met a lot of people while you were out at a do in Liverpool city centre. Last time I was there, I met about 7,000 people, including several who wanted to open a bar in Tenerife with me. It’s that kind of place. So who’s Gareth?’
I’m trying not to sound annoyed, but I am. I’m bored and lonely and my whole life feels like some big loose end. And it’s my birthday – which Rose seems to have forgotten.
‘He’s … God, Pops, I don’t want to sound like something out of a Meg Ryan film, but he’samazing. I mean, getting off with someone at a New Year’s party is no big deal, right? You probably snogged loads of people that night, didn’t you?’
‘Erm … no. I was at the Farmer’s with Mum, remember? I would’ve been snogging pissed-up granddads wearing their best cords.’
‘Oh yeah! I’d forgotten that’s where you went … Anyway. New Year was when we met, and we’ve been seeing each other ever since. I’m sure I told you … well, I don’t suppose I’ve called that much recently, have I?
‘So, it’s all been going ace, and then yesterday, he surprised me with this trip. He has family here, and he knows all the best pubs and clubs, and he took me to this brilliant coffee shop, and we saw this brilliant live band at a venue about as big as Mum’s kitchen, and we’re staying with his friend who has this brilliant flat near St Stephen’s Green.’
‘Wow,’ I say, wondering if I sound as sarcastic as I intend to, ‘that sounds … brilliant? So, what does he do, this Gareth? Apart from whisk you away on romantic breaks?’
‘He works in banking, on a graduate trainee scheme. It’s just a stepping stone, he says – what he wants to do is move into investment. I know it sounds really boring, but you’d have to meet him – he can even make finance sound interesting, honest!’
My interest in finance extends as far as rooting round in the sides of the sofas to see if I can scrape together enough spare change for a packet of fags, so I seriously doubt this.
‘Well, I hope I do meet him then,’ I say, actually thinking, ‘I hope you dump him before I have to.’
There is still no sign of Rose wishing me a happy birthday, or talking about our plans for the weekend, and I suddenly feel very aware of the fact that it’s already Thursday.
‘How long are you in Dublin for?’ I ask.
‘Until Monday night,’ Rose answers, sounding distracted. There is a scuffling sound and then the noise of glasses tinkling. Sounds as if somebody has just bought another round in. Probably the financial whizz-kid, who is undoubtedly absolutelybrilliantat getting served at a crowded bar. Tosser.
‘I wish we could stay longer,’ Rose adds, after a slurpy pause, ‘but I have to be back at work by Tuesday. Anyway, look, I’d better go. Gareth’s back. Poppy, I can’t wait for you to meet him, and he’s really excited about it too – aren’t you, Gareth?’
‘Yes! Hi Poppy! Cheers!’ shouts a man’s voice down the line. I immediately hate the sound of him, and wish a severe case of Guinness arse in his direction. He deserves the Curse of the Black Poo for ruining my birthday weekend, even if he did know nothing about it.
I mean, it’s not that I don’t want Rose to be happy. Of course I do. But … well, couldn’t she have held off on being quite so happy until after the weekend? And even if she’s not coming home, couldn’t she have at least remembered it was my birthday at all?
