We all crowded into a high street Pizzaria, got a booth by the window, and set about deciding what we would have. This was rather a treat for us; there were no good pizza places in either Ballymore or Ballyhowan. And this was our second Saturday in a row; good job we had resumed the Cheerleading exercises! The place was bright, a bit garish and one wall was covered with pictures of minor and major local celebrities who, at some stage, had graced the establishment with their presence. Niamh had a piece of paper, literally the back of an envelope, and she was doing some calculations; the girls were still excited, coming down from their high on the photo shoot, and I was recovering, slowly, from the “Down” that had hit when I’d decided against buying the coat. Eventually we got our orders in to a rather harried waitress who had probably put up with more gangs of young teenagers that day than she would care to count. Shop Street on Saturday could be like that.

Eventually Niamh called us all to order.

“Girls, I’ve just being doing the figures and you’ve now covered all the costs of your costumes, makeovers and the Karaoke set and with some left over.”

It somewhat washed over us. Teenagers often don’t have a great understanding of money. And in fairness, the show outfits that we had bought today were cheap; last weeks purchases had been at half price from the last, our initial, modelling job. I had no idea what the Karaoke machine had cost.

“Don’t forget your diesel for our two drives here.”

Being from a farm, I knew that fuel was an expensive input, and road diesel even more so. Niamh demurred:

“I’d have been coming here anyway with some paintings.”

“You could have fitted in all the paintings on one run if we weren’t with you.”

Like me, Ciara knew about the cost of fuel. Niamh reflected for a few seconds; she didn’t want to appear to be avaricious.

“OK, one trip is fair.

I’m going to put cash into envelopes for your mothers to repay what they have already contributed and I’ll hold the rest as a fund for any more expenses.”

“Actually…”

Saoirse was a bit hesitant. Niamh looked at her expectantly…

“Go on…”

“Aisling’s new coat is an expense; we can’t have her going around in a boy’s jacket, and everybody in the school will recognise it, and she’s already had to buy clothes just to be here, and …”

Saoirse’s words had come out in an uncharacteristic jumble and she lost track of her arguments in the middle of her sentence. She was sitting beside me, so I had to turn right around to look at her. Normally quick enough to catch the drift of a conversation, this time I was a bit slow:

“I thought you got it for you. It’ll look lovely… just your colour!”

She reached over and gave me a big hug.

“You can lend it to me sometimes!”

I was getting a bit teary; Aoife chipped in:

“Yeah, you definitely have to have a coat. It’ll likely be either pissing, freezing, or both on the day of the concert!”

“Language Aoife; a young lady doesn’t talk like that!”

“Sorry, Mother!”

Aoife’s expression didn’t look in the least contrite. She had used the expression for effect; it wasn’t her usual style of speech.

“And less of the ‘Mother’!”

Niamh preferred everybody to use her name.

I extricated myself gently from Saoirse’s hug, hoping that I hadn’t left any make-up on her dress. Niamh handed me a tissue:

“Just dab gently; there’s a lot of makeup on those eyes.”

I dabbed my eyes, sniffed, dabbed my nose:

“Thanks girls.”

“No; we should be thanking you. A four-girl band is much better than only three of us.”

I guess the Twins and Ciara just didn’t know that they were doing me a favour, not the other way around.

We reverted to some inconsequential chatter and Niamh resumed her calculations on the envelope. That done, she pulled a packet of long envelopes from her bag, obviously just bought at a stationery shop, and started counting money from the brown envelope, that she had received from the shop manager, into three envelopes on which she had written Twins, Ciara, Aisling. She was doing this on the seat between herself and Aoife, so it would not be visible in the pizzeria. We were in a window booth and I noticed a man, outside, apparently reading the menu, posted at the door. He looked in his mid-twenties, shabby to rough, neither clean shaven nor bearded, not at all like the clientele in this place. Either his left eye didn’t align with his right, or he was actually watching Niamh out of the corner of his eye. I looked at him, he spotted me looking, looked back to the menu, then walked off.

“There was a man looking at you.”

Niamh looked up.

“Where?”

“Outside; he saw you counting the money.”

Niamh scooped up all the notes, envelopes and her calculation sheet.

“Better do this later.”

It was late in the day and shops were closing. Service was very slow but eventually our waitress returned with our drinks. She actually smiled.

“You’re the girls on the poster in the store?”

“Oh my; we’re famous!”

The Twins flashed their bright smiles; Ciara and I nodded. The waitress served our drinks and promised that our pizzas were nearly ready. She returned a minute later accompanied by a young, tall man, carrying an old-fashioned, even then, instamatic camera.

“This is George, our manager.”

George smiled, holding the camera up.

“Can I take your picture for our wall?”

This was a bit of a surprise, we weren’t exactly known for anything other than being the occasionally stroppy Glandoo Girls, and that only in Ballymore.

Niamh looked at him, quizzically.

“All the teenagers in town know them by now”, George explained. “The picture will appeal to them, and will last just about as long as the poster in the store!”

Knowing Niamh, I had expected her to ask for free pizzas in return; she didn’t.

“Is that OK, girls?”

We nodded, rather pleased with our newfound celebrity status, even if only temporary. Niamh gathered up all our coats and bags, playfully pushed Aoife out of the booth so she could get out herself, and stood behind George. She and her girls often interacted like sisters, not mother and daughters. A few people were watching from other booths; we arranged ourselves around the booth table.

“At least we’re all made up for a picture.”

Ciara reminded us, what we had mostly forgotten, that we were still heavily painted up from the modelling job.

It was now darkening rapidly outside and George had to drop a window blind or the picture would also contain his own reflection.

“Big smiles!”

We posed, George took the picture, waited for it to develop, declared himself satisfied, waved it a bit to dry it off and showed it to us. It looked OK, nothing spectacular, but all right for his collection. He asked Aoife, now on the inside by the window where Niamh had been sitting to open the blind.

“I’ll put this up when it’s dry”.

George headed off holding the photograph carefully by one corner. Niamh dumped our coats and bags on the seat and excused herself while she headed off to the ladies’ room with her own coat and bag. Our pizzas arrived while she was gone; no matter she didn’t take long. She sat at the edge of the booth, a pile of bags between her and Aoife while Ciara, Saoirse and I occupied the other bench. With the blind open, we could look out at the passers by in the street; they could look in at us. Young lads sometimes returned for a second pass; Aoife was doing her leg display trick again!

Eventually, meal finished, it was time to go. Niamh went to the counter to pay the bill as we all got up, pulled on our coats, bags across our chests, and got ready to go. Ciara stopped me as I went to pull on my waterproof coat; Saoirse took the new fawn coat out of its shopping bag and she and Aoife held it as I slipped it on in the very narrow confines of the pizzeria. Niamh joined us, her bag hanging on one shoulder, and we spilled out into the street. We turned left, towards the car park. I looked around and thought I spotted the man I’d seen looking at Niamh as she counted the money. He was with two young teenage lads. There were very few people around by now, except for a relatively large gang of “crusties” drifting, apparently aimlessly down the street. These latter were a type of hippy who made their living selling various forms of what was essentially rubbish, but which they classed as art, in a small market close by. They were harmless; often very nice, people who had abandoned the mainstream.

I walked alongside Niamh as we formed a loose gaggle strolling down Shop Street.

“That man, he was across the street.”

“Was he with two lads?”

How did she know this?

“Yes.”

I pretended to look in the window of a Jeans shop.

“The lads are following us. The man is a long way back.”

“Tell the girls.”

I knew that Niamh wanted me to use Irish; feral street kids were unlikely to understand it. Her own Irish wasn’t yet good enough. I spoke loudly enough for all the girls to hear me.

“Tá beirt gadai in aice linn.” (There are two thieves beside/close to us).

I’ve always regarded it as slightly ironic that one letter separates the Irish words for thieves and police. The gaggle tightened. Niamh stopped to look in another shop window. We were nearly at the end of Shop Street. There was only ourselves, the probable thieves, and the clutter of “crusties” around. They drifted over towards us.

“Hi Niamh.”

One of the crusties, long hair and beard plaited with beads, dressed in what looked like a collection of cast-off Indian clothes from an old western movie, didn’t look directly at Niamh as he looked in the same shop window.

“Hi Man. Those two lads; they’re going to go for my bag.”

The two feral lads were looking in another window; not very convincing as it was the blacked-out window of a shop undergoing renovation.

“Yep, thought so; stay safe.”

“Thanks Man.”

“OK girls, nice and slow towards the car.”

We gathered protectively around Niamh, who didn’t seem the least bit concerned, and shuffled off towards the car. We rounded a corner, twenty yards to the gate of the school where our car was parked.

“Now fast; don’t run”.

We moved. I glanced behind, no sign of the feral lads. We got to the school gate. There was a young man there, probably a school caretaker or even a teacher doing voluntary work to boost the school’s income with parking charges. We stopped.

“Did a man come in here, a bit rough, not shaven, long grey coat, no hat?”

The young man looked up:

“Not in the last 10 minutes; you OK?”

Niamh nodded.

“Close Encounters of the Handbag Snatching Kind”.

He looked concerned.

“Where’s your car?”

“Round the back.”

“I’ll walk you there; nobody coming in now anyway.”

People paid a flat rate on entry. With the carpark due to close shortly, there would be no more custom today. We walked to the car and got in. Aoife volunteered for the front seat this time. Niamh thanked the attendant who waited until we were all in, doors locked and lurching off towards the gate. We kept our bags on the floor of the car, even though there was little real danger now, and drove away in the almost non-existent traffic. We were all on an adrenaline high.

“What just happened?”

We were halfway to Tuam by the time we’d recovered and Aoife, alongside Niamh in the front, articulated what was on all our minds.

“We’ve got to thank Aisling; she saw the bad guy first and told me. Then we both saw him outside the pizzeria.”

“But you hadn’t seen him the first time; how did you know that was him?”

“Elementary, my dear Aisling;” Niamh was obviously watching Sherlock Holmes on TV. “He was with two lads, too young to be his brothers and too old to be his sons. And they were all watching the door. I was suspicious of them, and you confirmed it.”

“But the crusty; where did he come from; how do you know him?”

Aoife was still trying to get the picture.

“Oh, Man? I sent him a message. The manager fellow, George, owed us for the picture so I asked him to send one of his kitchen cleaners down with a note. Everybody knows Man.”

“Is that his name?”

Ciara was incredulous, as were we all.

“That’s how he’s known. Apparently he calls everyone “Man”, so that’s what he’s called.”

“I suppose his wife’s called Woman, and you still haven’t told us how you know him?”

Aoife wanted the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

“His woman’s called Rachel; she’s American, he’s English, and I met him in the art dealer’s. He’s a painter, not bad, but he’ll only do what he needs to keep going.”

“What’ll the crusties have done to the two knackers?”

I was curious to find out. In Ballymore, the ‘knackers’ would have probably needed hospitalisation if caught.

“Not much; they’re all very peaceable people. Just told them that we were their friends and to leave us alone. With that gang of them there, that would have been enough.

And look girls, don’t call them crusties. They’re just different.”

Actually, the name ‘crusty’, unlike ‘knacker’, didn’t really have a pejorative connotation. Niamh wasn’t familiar enough with Irish local slang to have worked this out yet.

“Niamh…”

I still had one unanswered question.

“Yes…”

“You didn’t sling your bag across your shoulder like us, and you even knew that the knackers were after it?”

“There was nothing in it, all in my inside coat pocket.

“But why make it easy for them to get away with the bag, even if empty?”

“If they’d pulled the bag from across my shoulder, chances are I’d be knocked over and hurt. They thought they knew for sure that there was money in the bag, so they would have risked it. Normally they won’t bother going for a secure bag, so wear yours like you do. Got that, girls?”

We all answered yes.

“I don’t think I’ll tell my mother.”

“Me neither”, I responded to Ciara’s statement. “She’d never let me go to Galway again!”

Saoirse, sitting on the opposite side of me to Ciara, caught my arm and half pulled me over to her.

“Well, we can’t have that. Girls do have to have their shopping trips, you know!”

I gave her arm a squeeze; in the darkness of the car I was glad that she couldn’t see my eyes.
********************************

Tempus fugit…

It was now Saturday, 4th December.

As promised, my sister had returned from Boarding School for a few days. Four years older than me, my parents had chosen boarding for her as she would otherwise have been the only Ghleann Dhubh student attending Ballymore Secondary. She was more than happy with the arrangement as boarding gave her access to a range of activities not available to the current batch of Ghleann Dhubh girls (and boy). Having just completed her Junior Certificate last year, this year she was in Transition Year, a mainly non-academic year. Luckily for us, she was working backstage at her own schools much more elaborate equivalent of our Christmas show and had picked up some experience.

And she wasn’t particularly surprised when, on her first day home, her kid brother, wearing her denim mini and polo-neck jumper, headed off after breakfast to the Study Club in Niamh’s: My mother had kept her up to date with developments. She probably found it interesting to have a temporary little sister and insisted on doing a full make-up job on me before I left. Despite the age difference, little wasn’t an accurate description of my size relative to hers. She took after my father’s family, relatively short and dark haired; I resembled my mother’s side, taller, pale skinned and with hair of varying shades of red. Given the effects of human sexual dimorphism on size, my parents were of approximately equal height, something of which I think my father was always rather conscious. My sister was smaller than average for her age and, as I was on the tall side, she was only a little taller than me. Soon, I was told, I would be shooting up past her!

She drove me over to study in my mother’s car, not strictly legal as she only had a Learner’s Permit, but we never took much heed of such trifles in the Black Valley. She watched, with some fascination as, before study, we did our initial cheerleading session and then headed off as we got down to work. We had end of term exams coming up, and limited study time this weekend.

There was a “continuity” or planning session that morning in the town hall, a local recreation facility as opposed to an official building as the name would imply in many jurisdictions. This was to give the organisers or leaders of the various acts an opportunity to see how the stage was to be arranged, how the various acts would occupy and vacate it, how the sound system would operate, lighting, and other essential arrangements to keep the evening from degenerating into a total amateur shambles. The nominal leaders of the acts and the backstage teams were generally students, in practice “guided” by teachers and sometimes parents, and all were expected to attend at some stage during the morning.

The three mothers, along with my sister, went along. My mother drove, towing a well-scrubbed cattle trailer with the Volvo. Niamh’s Landcruiser was a better towing vehicle, but nobody was comfortable with the thoughts of her towing a trailer; her driving was an adventure in itself. They had a chance to scope out the amount of stage that we would have. Not much as it turned out. In order to ensure that we could start quickly after the curtain came down on the previous performance, we would be performing on a narrow strip at the front of the stage, between the main and an inner curtain. When the main curtain closed on the previous act, both times an abridged play, these acts would ensure that they all moved behind the inner curtain which would be drawn across the stage and in front of which we would take position. We would have about five feet, about a metre and a half of depth and as much width as we needed to use, and not a lot of time.

They also borrowed enough chairs from the hall for our own private concert on the evening of Tuesday, 7th December, stacked these in the trailer and reversed the trailer into our hayshed to keep everything dry until needed.

That evening, still Saturday, we all gathered in the barn, mothers, fathers, my sister and Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh to plan arrangements for Tuesday night. Whereas this wasn’t a dress rehearsal, we had to wear our show footwear as our only big remaining concern was that Ciara or I would topple off our shoes during the performance. Using masking tape, my sister marked off our performance area on the floor and we went through both routines. Not wearing a “floaty” dress, I felt a bit more comfortable with my father being there. Routines finished, staying more or less, in the marked off area, we called a halt for the night

The Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh had to study in Niamh’s kitchen the next day, Sunday, as the two fathers, Ciara’s and mine, used our study table, some sheets of plywood and 4x2 timbers to make a stage. Farmers are generally very resourceful, and this was finished by Sunday early afternoon. As we were occupying her kitchen, Niamh and the Twins joined us in our house for roast leg of lamb. As we had had neither a cheerleading nor show practice, I was dressed in my jeans and jumper. I felt strange; by this stage I was normally either in either a cheerleading skirt, blue mini or tan dress when with the (rest of) the girls. Lunch over, we were hunted back to Niamh’s kitchen to resume study. These end of term exams were serious as we needed to do well to stay in the higher, or “honours” class. And stay together.

As we were about to leave, Aoife, alpha female as always, looked at me.

“Aren’t we doing a rehearsal after study?”

I nodded.

“Well, get changed. You can’t come like that!”

I headed off to change into my denim mini. I was delighted that she had noticed as, my father being around, I was feeling slightly self-conscious about changing without a prompt.

We studied while my sister and the adults finished off the stage by tacking some material to the front to disguise the construction, to the probable disappointment of our fathers who were rather proud of their design. Time came to do a test run and a problem arose immediately. We performers couldn’t get onto the stage safely in our high heels using the foldable metal steps that Niamh used to reach higher shelves in her studio. It was thought to be inappropriate that we go up in our feet and then put our shoes on, so my sister went on the stage first to take on the job of steadying us as Ciara’s mother handed us on the steps. A little undignified, but it would work. Other than that, the stage worked out fine, though I was conscious that those in the front row, which would be very close to the stage, would be looking right up our dresses.

So were the mothers when we came to do the dress rehearsal after study on Monday. We started off in our dresses, climbed on stage, with assistance, started facing away from the audience like we would do in our main show, twirled around and started into Who Do You Think You Are?. Other than my clip-on earrings flying off, I thought it went fine. We went through our first act then stopped to change for the second session. As it was raining, we all had to change in the studio upstairs; I was well used to changing with the girls by now. We clip-clopped carefully down the stairs and were told that we would be doing all this particular show in our white minis and bolero jackets. The venue was “too intimate” for the dresses, but they would be fine for the town hall where the front row seats were much further back

“Whatever about the odd flash, you can’t have the front rows looking up your dresses for the full show”, was Niamh’s summary.

The following day was Tuesday, 7th December, the day before what the Dubs (to us country dwellers, these were unfortunate Irish people who had or happened to live in Dublin) called Farmers’ Shopping Day. This was based on a past practice which saw country people descend on Dublin and provincial centres for their pre-Christmas shopping on what was a Catholic religious holiday, 8th December, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. Although religious observance was no longer strong, some schools, traditionally having freedom over their opening days within an obligation to open for a minimum number, chose to take this day off. Ours had been one of these, although 2004 was to be the last year as the Department of Education pursued a standardisation policy across the country. This free day was the reason why this preview show, initially conceived as a way to get us prepared to perform in front of an audience, was happening on 7th December: We would have the following day off as a late night was expected. After all, you can’t drag all your cousins in from around the county without providing some beers and nibbles!

Ciara’s mother picked us up from school and dropped us all off at our respective houses. Our schoolbags were secured in Niamh’s studio, locked in case wandering cousins might mess with the artwork. We had decided that we would use it as a dressing room as well. At our house, my mother had prepared trays of sandwiches, mainly ham and cheese along with some egg salad: She knew her clientele. She wrapped these in foil and put them into the back of the Volvo, along with some “slabs” of beer and headed off to help Niamh prepare.

“Well, come on, get dressed, it’ll take time to get you ready!”

My sister’s none to gentle direction confirmed that it would be her, not my mother, doing my warpaint. I wore my tan dress as, being button up, I would not have to pull it over my head as I would have to do if I wore the denim skirt and polo neck jumper. To save time changing, I wore the tights that Aoife had selected for the white mini outfits under my brown tights. All dressed except for the actual dress, I put on my dressing gown and my sister trowelled on the make-up. She was doing this for the stage and, like for the photo shoot, subtly was not the objective.

The party was meant to start at 7pm, with the actual show to run at 8pm. My mother arrived back to our house at 6:30pm, changed and had my sister and myself back at Niamh’s by 6.55pm. There was quite a spread laid out on the edge of the stage. Alongside my mother’s sandwiches, Ciara’s mother had brought cocktail sausages, kept warm in electric pans, and Niamh had prepared some hors d’oeuvres. Beers and soft drinks sat on ice and there was even a few bottles of Vinho Verde with plastic wine glasses for the ladies who might prefer something other than beer. Us performers got to have some food in Niamh’s kitchen and, as the main bathroom was to be used by the guests, we were to use the ensuite in the Twins bedroom. Once we’d finished our food and washed our teeth, my sister fussed around again with my lipstick before declaring herself satisfied. She also helped the Twins and Ciara to lay their makeup on a bit heavier; nobody had thought to brief them on doing stage, as opposed to standard, warpaint.

Now, 7:30pm, my sister was going to join her cousins at the party. Us performers had to exit the house, go through the end of our usual study room and climb the stairs to Niamh’s studio to get dressed. We didn’t want to get involved in the party before the show as this would be too much of a distraction and would not have been practicable for me, for obvious reasons.

There was a mix of two families present, Ciara’s and mine. Niamh’s ancestors had left in the 1950’s and her cousins were all in the US; she had some distant relatives in the County, but did not know them well enough to involve them in this gathering. I had to pass by this group, dressed as a girl in a tan dress whilst wearing stage make up, and not get noticed. And I got away with it, partially because we simply sneaked in and crept up the stairs; partially because each family might suppose that I was from the other family; partially because people only see what they expect to see; partially because the few lads that did look up concentrated on the Twins. We opened the studio door, slipped in, and locked the door behind us. I was ready and dressed first; wearing the show tights under my brown ones was a real time saver. We all had a sense of anticipation, but following the photoshoots, had a sense of performing, at least for a camera, if not an audience. My main worry was what would happen when they realised who I was; some natural reaction was inevitable.

Ciara’s mother was selected to do the introduction. She climbed on the stage at 7:45pm and called the room to order using one of our microphones. Directly overhead, we could hear her as if we were in the room.

She started by introducing herself; half the room need not necessarily have known her before tonight, though some of these actually did. Next she introduced my mother, Niamh, and the two fathers, being careful to give them credit for the stage construction in record time. She thanked all the attendees for coming, asked them all to pitch in to clear the food from the front of the stage, set out chairs, get themselves sorted i.e., go to the bathroom if required, grab a drink and be seated by 8pm. There followed a general hubbub, then a scraping of chairs on the floor, popping of cans of beer and fizzy, a loud whine of feedback from the microphone, then Ciara’s mother’s voice again.

“Thanks again for coming tonight, for what is to be the very first performance of our new Black Valley girl group, Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh.

This group has been put together for the Ballymore School Concert, or maybe Variety Show is a better name. Niamh’s twins, Saoirse and Aoife, and my daughter Ciara wanted to have a four-girl lineup, and have conscripted the fourth member, stage name Aisling, in a very innovative solution to the fact that there are only three Black Valley girls actually attending the school.

So, siblings, nieces, nephews, cousins, everyone, please put your hands together and welcome Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh.”

Niamh started some introductory music, my mother turned down the main lights, my sister climbed on stage to hand us up and Ciara’s mother took her place beside the steps to likewise assist. We clattered down the stairs from the studio in the order we would stand on stage, Ciara, Aoife, Saoirse and finally me. We made our way in line along the wall, were helped on stage, took the microphones that my sister handed to each of us, and took position facing away from the audience. Nobody had had a chance to see our faces yet. With the introductory music playing, we had decided not to stand still as we lined up, just moving our tails and shoulders a little to the beat as we waited for the intro to cut directly to the music for Who Do You Think You Are?

Cue the music, we twirl about and start into our act…. my earring flew off again, ignore it, just keep going…

There was a fresh round of applause as we started, which we just sang through. We were well into this first number when I began to hear the odd voice, faint against the music.

“That’s him.”

“No, it can’t be!”

“It is, I tell you!”

Facing the audience, I could not really see who was talking as they were in relative darkness, but I could sense that word was spreading. It didn’t bother me. Suddenly, as everybody became aware, as if on cue, the audience burst into another round of applause. We kept singing through, almost consummate professionals by this stage.

We did three numbers, Who do you think you are?, Hazy Shade of Winter & Long Train Running in one segment before stopping. We were trying to keep as close as possible to the format for the main gig. We took a step back as Ciara’s mother climbed back up on stage during the applause.

“Well, are they good, or what?”

Another round of applause, some of the cousins chirping in with exclamations such as “Brilliant”, “We love them”, “More!”

“And there will be more, but first, I think you’ve all figured who Aisling is? Give her a…”

Ciara’s mother didn’t have to finish that request before it was drowned out by another round of applause.

“Take a bow Aisling”.

I stepped one step forward, took a deep bow, and resumed my place. Ciara’s mother vacated the stage; we all turned our backs to the audience and Niamh starts the intro music for Walk Like an Egyptian. Twirl around again, one at a time this time. This was a fun number and we were dressed for the part. More importantly, we were really enjoying ourselves. We did three numbers again, Walk Like an Egyptian, Song of The Underground & Really Saying Something before stopping, taking a bow, all on a high and wishing that we had a dozen numbers left. But we had only two for our inevitable encore. These were our ABBA songs, Mamma Mia and Voulez Vous?; we were doing the extended the version of the latter. Of course, someone’s young cousin had to shout out Oui! in the middle of that one, but this was to be expected.

And then it was over.

It was a short show, but the audience had been forewarned of this and were happy. The evening was also a convivial meeting of relatives before Christmas. We scurried up stairs to change, as fast as our heels would allow, with the intention of circulating amongst our relatives for an hour or so. We reckoned that our white outfits would not survive a social engarement. I had a self-conscious twinge as I realise that I would be joining the party in a tan dress… what the hell…I’m staying in character!

Ciara and I were conscious that these were our relatives, so we were determined not to let Aoife and Saoirse feel left out. Not a chance! They were quickly surrounded by cousins from both families, predominantly young lads, vying for their attention. I was mobbed by the girls, mostly intrigued at how I had managed to transform into a girl. I avoided replying in detail, just that my sister and mother had done the make-up jobs. Saoirse eventually extricated herself from the group of lads and joined the girls group. Aoife stayed with the lads, apparently revelling in the attention of the group, and particularly one of Ciara’s cousins.

Eventually the party broke up around 11pm as the designated drivers herded their charges into the cars cluttering up Niamh’s driveway. We performers had to go back to the studio and carefully pack away our show gear. Our father drove home; he rarely drank more than a can or two. I fell asleep in the car in the 5 minutes it took to get to our house. My sister shook me awake, I stumbled in, heading directly for bed.

“Not so fast; that makeup will ruin your skin, to say nothing about the pillowcase!”
*********************************************************