The Rosary Garden by Nicola White (good books to read for women txt) 📗

‘Oh, yeah, Theresa’s a panic.’

‘Does she go out with Ivor?’

The steel-haired woman that Ali now faced grabbed her by the waist and whisked her around grimly, prompting another bout of dizziness. She hoped Davy would remember the question.

They came together again and held their hands high for the pair of women to pass under.

‘That big galoot? I doubt it.’

The jig squealed to an end, but most people stayed in their places for the next one to kick off. Ali dragged Davy away from the floor, needing air. They went out the front entrance of the tent, where a man stamped the back of their hands with an indecipherable blotch.

Figures milled in the dark. You could see the street lights of the town away to the left, but here in the school grounds there were just a couple of floodlights over the playground, lighting empty tarmac beneath and making the surrounding darkness blacker. The marquee itself glowed a dim yellow through the grimy canvas. Over to the right, a line of girls was queuing for the three Portaloos. Men were pissing against the yard wall beyond that, legs spread for balance, chatting. The field across the road was full of cars and vans now, where there were none earlier. Dozens of bicycles leaned in the ditch.

Ali took out a flattened fag packet and removed an oval cigarette.

‘That your idea of fresh air?’ asked Davy.

They stood in silence watching people come and go, disappearing into the dark or looming suddenly back into the orbit of the marquee. Ali asked about the girl he’d been dancing with earlier. Davy pretended not to know which girl she was talking about.

‘Brendan said you used to go out with her.’

‘Brendan’s got a loose gob.’

‘C’mon, tell.’

‘Nothin’ to tell. My own fault, that’s all. Got caught looking the other way. Nobody does that to her ladyship.’

‘God, she sounds a nightmare.’

A man was shouting beyond the circle of light, up the road or in fields beyond. Hard to tell if it was serious or just tomfoolery.

‘What’s it to you?’ His voice was teasing.

In Dublin they had spent a lot of time together, out in the balmy garden nights, with candles and moths and strange drinks. Just the two of them – no Valeries, no tragedies. Ali wanted that feeling back.

‘Remember that night you made us Harvey Wallbangers?’

‘Ah, now.’

‘I can’t remember a thing after the second drink.’

‘That’s convenient,’ said Davy, and there was something hard in his voice, no teasing now.

Ali gave a weak laugh and stepped away from him, confused. She truly didn’t remember. A car drove past slowly and came to a stop near the school building.

‘Back in a minute,’ said Davy and went over to the car, leaning in the passenger window to talk. The queue to the Portaloos was getting shorter; she might as well join it. Ali called out to Davy, to point out where she was heading, but he didn’t seem to hear. The car engine was revving loudly, the smoke from the exhaust drifting up against the brightness of a broken brake light. Everyone drove wrecks around here. She took her place behind two girls. To one side of the queue, a metal stand held a spotlight pointing right at the toilet doors, dazzling all who exited.

When Ali came out of the toilet, Joan was in the queue.

‘Joanie!’ said Ali, enfolding her in a hug.

‘Stop it, stop it.’ Joan pushed her off and glanced round to check who was looking at them.

‘I’m only being friendly.’

‘Well, I’m tired. I should be in bed by now, you know.’

‘You’ve got to tell me one thing, though – honestly.’ Ali waved ahead the person behind Joan in the queue.

‘I don’t want to talk about that.’

‘No, not that. You’ve got to tell me: do you think I look like a freak?’

Joan said no, but Ali told her how everyone kept staring at her clothes. She was stroking Joan’s arm to get her to listen. Joan suddenly slapped her hand away.

‘You know nothing about being looked at funny. You know nothing about nothing.’

‘Don’t be like that.’

Someone called Joan’s name then, and she pushed past Ali, swallowed up by the dark after just a few strides. Ali looked round and noticed the women in the queue staring at her.

‘Is it the red trousers?’ she asked.

*

Inside the marquee the band was taking a break, and Brendan was dancing behind his record decks, urging people to keep going. Too shy shy, hush-hush, eye to eye, Too shy shy, hush-hush, eye to eye. Ali waved and did a little imitation of his moves. Laughing, he held a hand up at the side of his face to block out the sight of her.

She decided not to drink any more. For one thing, she didn’t want to have to visit those loos again. Brendan put on a slow song, and she went up to sit on the edge of the stage, in front of him. All the couples who had been flinging their arms and legs about suddenly fell on each other, as if delighted to have something to lean on. One couple stood stock-still, French-kissing studiously, like they were working their way into each other’s mouths. Ali’s view of the floor was blocked by some idiot standing in right front of her. She tilted to one side, before realising that the idiot was Ivor Dempsey and that he was holding a hand down towards her.

She met his eyes and slipped her hand into his, to see how it would feel to touch him again. Then she was on her feet and Ivor’s arm was around her, drawing her out into the middle of the shuffling dancers. She rested one hand on his shoulder. His shirt seemed such a thin barrier to the body beneath. He pulled her close and she moved her hand to the back of his neck. His hair touched her cheek. She felt him inhale, his nose just behind her ear, and she hoped there was something pleasant to