I frown. “Who’s Henry O’Henry?”
“He’s a matchmaker,” explains Erin, “who comes from a long line of matchmakers.”
“Seriously?” I look around at everyone, trying to figure out if I’m being mocked somehow. Maybe this is part of Erin’s past too.
“Oh, yeah,” says Aunty Ger, levering herself up off the couch to go over to the appetizers. “You can look it up on The Google if ye like.” She pops one of those round balls in her mouth.
I stare in fascination as she chews. Is it crunching? Is that a crunch I hear? Do eyeballs crunch?
“It’s not Theeee Google, Aunty Ger,” says Erin. “It’s just Goooogle.”
“Well it’s a silly name, whichever it is, isn’t it?” She swallows her mouthful. “Mmm, delicious toad testicles, Una. You’ve outdone yourself.” She winks at me as she grabs another from the bowl.
“Toad eyeballs, Aunty Ger. Eyeballs. Not testicles.” Erin drops her chin to her chest. “Why, oh why, did I decide to fly into Dublin?” She looks up at the ceiling. “God? Are you there? It’s me. Erin.”
“So, what’s the deal with this matchmaker guy?” I ask. “Is it like a real business?”
“Oh, absolutely it is,” says Erin’s father. “Founded on hundreds of years of tradition.”
Erin takes over the explanation. “Years ago, after the harvest, farmers would come into town looking for a bride. They’re too busy at other times of the year or locked in with the weather to manage it. So the matchmakers would have a book of willing gals and a book of willing lads and put them together.”
“And that worked?” This is fascinating to me. I’m on the edge of my seat. Ireland is so different from home.
“Of course,” says Uncle Miley. “Why wouldn’t it?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. It just seems … too difficult to do with just a couple books of names.”
Erin takes over again. “The matchmaker knows everyone. He talks to them. Gets into their lives, their heads. He can see, because he has a special talent, who’s a good match for who. They’ve put together hundreds of families.”
“Check it on the Internet,” says Aunty Ger. “The Google can tell you everything you want to know about the whole process.”
Erin rolls her eyes again.
“And what’s that got to do with the festival?” I ask. Erin told me we would be arriving in town during a matchmaking festival, but I had no idea what she was really talking about. I’m not sure I understand now either.
“Well, ye know, it got all commercial like these things tend to do in this modern age,” says Uncle Miley.
Erin’s dad is grumbling about something, but I can’t tell what it is with his accent.
Erin sighs loudly and gives him a glare.
Uncle Miley explains further. “And now, yeah, the farmers they come, but so do all the other single lads and lasses and they all have a big party, going from pub to pub, all looking for love.” He sighs. “If I were single again, it’s where I’d be goin’.”
Aunty Ger throws a toad testicle at her husband’s head. “Watch it there, Casanova. I’ve got ears on over here.”
Uncle Miley ducks as the ball bounces off his shoulder and lands in Erin’s dad’s pint glass.
We all watch as it sinks to the bottom and then floats up to the top.
“Huh. Whatddya know?” says Aunt Ger. “Toad testicles float.”
I have to hold my legs together with all my might to keep from pissing my pants.
CHAPTER FIVE
ERIN
WINDING THE SNAKING SHOWER HEAD back between my legs, I try to regain my balance. How did I ever live like this? This thought crosses my mind not for the first time over the weekend. There is no shower to speak of in the family bathroom, just a stubborn shower head that insists on twisting its coiled hose round to drench you, no matter at what angle you stand. I say ‘family’ bathroom, but really it’s just for me; Mum and Dad have what was known as an ensuite when they bought the house way back when. They’ve had a power-shower recently installed, but the ensuite was always off limits to me.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” I scream in frustration.
“You okay in there?” It’s Ridlee at the door.
“No.” I sound like a petulant child.
She comes in and stops to take in the ridiculous sight of me, shower head coiled around my legs and water spraying my eyes, desperately trying not to lose my balance and hit my head on the side of the pink porcelain bath. I have already put the shampoo in and now it’s stinging my eyes.
“Turn it off Rid, please.” I feel her lean in and then the water goes icy cold. “Arggghhhhhhh! Ridleeeee! What the fuck?”
I try to cover my face with my hands, dropping the shower head. It snaps and weaves like a live wire, sending freezing cold water everywhere. Frantically, Ridlee twists the tap back in the other direction until she manages to shut the water off.
“Oops.” She doesn’t dare laugh, but I can see that it’s costing her not to.
I have a mega ice-cream headache. “What the hell, Ridlee? Did you do that on purpose?” I reach for something to wipe my eyes.
“No, I swear I didn’t.” Ridlee passes me a minuscule facecloth.
“Cheers,” I say, standing in the bath, starkers, dripping with freezing cold water and sarcasm.
Opening my eyes, I find my friend looking much better than she has all weekend. She hadn’t faired well with the corned crubeens and tripe that Mum had prepared for our first meal, ‘to give Ridlee a taste of traditional Irish fare.’ It was the first time that crubeens had been served at our table, though I did suffer tripe as a kid on more than one occasion.
“Everything but the grunt,” declared my father tucking into one of his crubeens.
Mum passed a plate to Ridlee with a huge grin on her face.
It was obvious that my friend, whose idea of adventurous cuisine is a new type of salad dressing, was trying hard to hide her horror when presented with a full set of pig’s trotters and a good portion of its stomach. She gamely picked up her knife and fork as Mum and Dad watched her out of the corners of their eyes, and taking the tiniest bite of tripe, enthused, “Yummy, Mrs. O’Neill. Go raibh maith agat.”
Mum almost burst with joy. “Tá fáilte romhat, Ridlee. You’re very welcome indeed.”
“Ridlee, darlin’, you are welcome in this house anytime,” boomed my father.
I told her that she didn’t really have to eat it, but she’s going through a phase where she’s determined to experience everything. Unfortunately, Ridlee then spent last night dry-retching into one of my mum’s old saucepans. It was not a pretty sight. Uncle Miley says that she must have had a bad pint.
So, that being what it is, I don’t want to be too hard on her over the shower head — she’s been through enough.
“So what’s the plan, Stan?” asks my once again enthusiastic globe trotter.
“The immediate plan is that I finish my shower.” I’m still a little disgruntled, and my mood doesn’t get any better when I look Ridlee up and down. Yet again, she is immaculately turned out, this time in sexy jeans, knee high boots, pullover, and a tweed blazer. Her hair and makeup are, as always, perfect.
“Hey! No fair. When did you have a shower?” I whine.
Ridlee smooths her cashmere pullover and picks off an invisible piece of lint. “Oh, your mom told me to use the power-shower. It works really well. You should try it.”