Not able to peg this apparition opposite her as a simple head case, or a case of mistaken identity, for the Red-Nailed Twit has used her full name and there is only one person who could have told her. Only Our Woman’s husband calls her by her full name. Nobody since 1956 has used it, other than him. She’s been Phil, but today she’s Philomena. Philomena, Our Woman, who braces for the gush of what Red the Twit is about to sell her.
Red began the best way, describing her communion with God.
Hear me out, for you’ll hear how I was touched by the hand of God, and I am here because he sent me. It was an ordinary Thursday, I had caught the seven o’clock train from Ballina to Dublin, you know the one that has you in town by eleven, and you’ve just to jog down to Henry St and the Jervis Centre and you can have a lovely lunch or go and visit someone in the hospital and then back down the Quays to Heuston, the traffic is awful and the pollution catches you in the throat, but as soon as you’re on the train like you know, a cup of tea from the cart and all’s well like you know. On this day I have no idea why or what took me that bit further down to Capel Street, I always used to be afraid you know, I’d get mugged or beaten if I went that far down, but something pulled me there and I can tell ya, hand on my heart, I won’t tell you a lie, it was the hand of God. I was pushed by his palm. She paused, lifted the manky tea cup full of water, took a swig, and returned her hand to Our Woman’s forearm. Have you ever had that happen?
Our Woman confirms she has not.
Well please God you will. And I walked down there, imagine, I’d never put a foot on that street in all me life, and I passed the sofa shop, nothing, and I love sofas, but nothing and on a Polish food place, Polish Skelpi … you know phone card posters on the window do you know the place?
Our Woman confirms again she does not know the place with Polish phone cards. Nie do Polski Skelpi.
And on and on I walked for I was worried, the anxiety lifted in me as I passed Naughty Knickers, it almost had me off me feet and there was a good reason why but I had to go on and then, at the door, it came again, try as I might I could not go past, not able, would you believe my feet would not move, I swear to Jesus it was paralysis. I began to call out, my feet, my feet, my feet will not move and people stared and one woman asked: What’s wrong wit ye? But I turned to the building and saw the words Calvary Christian Centre and it was like walking inside the warmth of a hat, or the holy house on Achill. I was hot by the time I reached the door, my face flushed, I turned the handle and in I stepped. The first thing I remember is the blue doormat, blue what a strange colour for a doormat. I mean have you ever seen a blue doormat?
No, Our Woman confirmed, no blue doormat.
It was a small room, only a few wooden chairs and cheap carpet, but the bible was there and I sat into one of the wooden chairs and the voice came to me that I had to come and find you and admit. Taste and see that the Lord is good it said on the wall, and I realized the Lord was speaking to me of that what I had tasted and I must come and confess to you or I’d never be saved. And I can honestly say, and this I say for I hope it will make you feel better, I can honestly say that what I tasted did not taste good.
And she paused, which gave Our Woman opportunity to explore her face. For clues, for identity, for, well, anything. She was a woman hinging her way towards her mid forties perhaps, she had years of advantage on Our Woman, but the smokes had crinkled her. Cheapened by a floral whiff and unfortunate nails and she must excuse herself a moment to have a cigarette outside, would she, Our Woman, join her?
No, no, Our Woman speaking, I’ll wait.
Our Woman remained at the table and thought, she thought hard. What news could this woman be bringing her? Why had she pinned her at this table?
And when she returned, her hand forced Our Woman’s forearm back to the table where she continued to pin her. She asked questions. Has she got a continental quilt or a clock radio? Our Woman admitted to neither. I’ve an electric blanket and a dring, dring wind-up clock, why?
Well it’s just on this day that I am telling you about, the day that has forced me to come and find you, I had set out with the intention to buy both, probably at Argos for they’ve the best prices, do you’ve any idea how hard it was to find you, he doesn’t say much about you, he wouldn’t tell me anything when I told him I had to come, he said I was a messer and I wouldn’t do it and that you wouldn’t believe me. But you will believe me won’t you? You will or the good Lord would not have sent me to you.
For her own private reasons, Our Woman agreed yes, she would believe her. But, unusually for Our Woman, she interrupted. It wasn’t her usual polite interruption, which would’ve been I don’t mean to cut across you but, or Come here to me a minute there’s something I must ask you before I forget. Our Woman was direct.
— How, she said of her husband, then how does he start? Where does he begin?
The Red-Nailed Twit lifts her right hand and indicates her left nipple.
But missing the cue, the cue to plead for forgiveness, excuse herself to the toilet, to allow Our Woman a dignified exit, Red the Twit carried on.
But … that didn’t bother me, it was his other business. At this she passed a hand around the back of herself, maybe heading lower than her kidneys, Our Woman is not entirely sure.
The licking!
She sucked air in, an astonished respiration, and gave a cherry-giggled smile. I’ve never met one of those before! A licker! Another cherry glint in her eyes. I thought he was doggy at first, ’til it started. At first I was shocked, but I grew used to it. And here. She indicates her armpit. He was always hosing me here.
Our Woman has sunk into perplexity. She tries to visualize her husband at the back of this woman conducting himself in this manner. Our Woman examined the new exhibit before her, the crinoline armpit.
She was practical, Our Woman.
— Sorry, exactly what was he putting in your armpit?
His thing, she giggled. His dirty thing, of course.
Our Woman tried to calculate how it might fit: oblong, side or straight.
At first I thought he was going for me mouth … and I am fussy about me mouth.
Red ceased, praise the Roman soldiers she ceased. Realized from Our Woman’s face that shock had been absorbed. Our Woman had begun her lift from the table, but the twit entreated her,
What I done with him was wrong — very wrong. But I want you to know it was all me, all me, not your husband. Except the first time. It was him the first time, of course it was him the first time, but every time since it was me, me, me. I want you to know the Lord has taken me in and I am working hard for him and I am atoning. I volunteer. I do the flowers and the hoovering. I wash the tea towels and I want you to do me a favour.
Our Woman offered only silence.
Would you please forgive your husband? I want you to. He doesn’t deserve it. It was all me.
Mere seconds and there was a rustle. The tablecloth dragged suddenly away from Our Woman. Instinctively she lifted her hand as it pulled, to let it go, and thus the table cloth and the Red Twit flopped back, chair sideways over and to the floor. The attention of the room turned to the table because the pot of tea was all over Our Woman’s lap, but the focus was on the Red-Nailed Twit, she had passed out. The eejit was out cold.