A Mantra for All Ages
Tara was annoyed with herself for being nervous. Waiting on the terrace of the riverside pub, she felt like a teenager with a guilty conscience rather than a grown woman about to treat her loved ones to lunch.
“The bells of the nearby church tolled. One o’clock. Exactly on cue, Matt’s voice reached her from inside the pub.”
The bells of the nearby church tolled. One o’clock. Exactly on cue, Matt’s voice reached her from inside the pub. She couldn’t see him yet but knew from experience that he was probably leaning against the counter, chatting with the bartender about everything from darts to the latest parish council meeting. Viv would be beside him, smiling tolerantly, decked out in a low-cut dress. Matt and Viv—godparents who took their duties seriously, salt of the earth and generous to a fault. If Tara needed a kidney they’d probably argue over who got to be the donor. The thought made her groan.
‘You warm them up and then leave them to me. I’ll charm the socks off them. I swear.’ Oliver crossed his heart. ‘Honestly, I know what village people are like and how they think. Give it an hour and they’ll be eating out of my hand.’
His positivity made her groan again, but inwardly this time.
‘Well looky here,’ boomed Matt from the door. He made a beeline for Tara and enveloped her in a bear hug before grinning at Oliver. ‘And you must be the man who wants our blessing!’
The next minute passed in a confusion of niceness as the introductions were made. Matt deposited his pint on the table in order to pump Oliver’s outstretched hand.
‘Sorry, sorry—left my sunglasses in the car and had to pop back.’ Viv appeared in a cloud of perfume and openly studied Oliver after he kissed her on both cheeks.
It wasn’t difficult for Tara to imagine what was running through her godmother’s mind. Manicured nails and Patek Philippe watch, well-groomed and well off, younger than expected—closer to thirty than thirty-five. Fancies himself sharp, a man with an edge. Fancies himself, full stop.
The four of them were still on their feet when Thomas, Tara’s father, arrived, wielding his walking stick like a weapon.
‘Tread carefully with Dad, he’s old school,’ Tara had warned Oliver on the drive down.
“Once they’d placed their orders, Oliver plucked a roll from the bread basket and fed it, piece by piece, to the ducks paddling past.”
Although everyone was on their best behaviour, things got off to a bumpy start. Viv changed seat twice before finding a position she liked; Thomas rejected the complimentary bottled water and requested a jug filled from the tap; Matt delayed the waiter by asking for his life story and then, on learning that the man was French-Algerian, soliciting his opinion on Paris Saint-Germain’s chances in the Champions League; and Tara struggled to keep her cool when teased by her family for the umpteenth time about being a vegetarian. But there were no hiccups with the menu, there was something on it to suit everyone.
Once they’d placed their orders, Oliver plucked a roll from the bread basket and fed it, piece by piece, to the ducks paddling past.
‘I read an article recently that claimed bread is bad for them,’ he said, wiping his hands together to be rid of the final crumbs. ‘Apparently we should be giving them peas or lettuce, or leaving them to their own devices. Some places have put up signs about it. So now there are parks where you can’t climb trees, ride bikes, walk on the grass, or feed ducks.’
‘Damn fools in charge,’ said Thomas. He slapped the table and harrumphed.
Here we go, mused Tara. But she had to admit it was clever of Oliver to give her father a soapbox to ascend. By the time food arrived, Thomas was in full flow. As they ate their starters, he railed against idiotic rules; and their main courses were accompanied by a lecture on how farmers were being brought to their knees by the shunning of meat by climate change zealots and fussy eaters.
‘Dad, are you sure we’re related? There wasn’t a mix-up in the hospital?’
‘Good one, Tara,’ scoffed Matt. ‘I don’t know where you got your tree hugging genes, but it certainly wasn’t from Mr. Grumpy.’
‘Excuse you! I’m an architect, remember? I like trees as much as the next person but it’s buildings I’m into,’ protested Tara, while Thomas, lip quivering beneath his moustache, insisted that he wasn’t grumpy.
‘Yeah right, and I’m not three stone overweight,’ said Matt, leaning over to spear a chip from Viv’s plate. It wasn’t clear who he was speaking to but it didn’t matter, everyone was too busy laughing.
Under the table, Oliver knocked his knee gently against Tara’s. Almost time. With the mood now merry, she told herself that everything was going to be fine. Okay, her father was a dinosaur but he was decent to his core. And what did it matter if Matt and Viv—friends of her long-dead mother and believers in Tara being God’s gift to the world—were stuck in their ways and suspicious of city types like Oliver. All three of them adored her and were sure to understand that this was her chance to move up several rungs on the ladder she’d been scaling since deciding what she wanted out of life. They might not be happy about it, or even supportive, but she prayed they wouldn’t actively stand in her way.
“They might not be happy about it, or even supportive, but she prayed they wouldn’t actively stand in her way.”
Once the dishes had been cleared away, she signalled to the waiter to bring the special dessert that she had pre-ordered—lemon meringue pie, a family favourite—and the surprise champagne, but before the goodies materialised and she could break the news, a group of Chinese tourists filed onto the terrace from the side entrance.
‘Invaded again,’ remarked Matt, grimacing. He shook his head but then his expression brightened. ‘With any luck, mind, they’ll save some of their moolah to splash around the shops before they leave. Push up your profits, eh Viv? That’d make up for being overrun.’
Thomas muttered about the village being ruined, but Viv shushed him and explained to Oliver that since the village had featured on an “Old-World Charm” list published on a travel website in the spring, the place had become a stopping-off point for tour buses.
After considering their waiter, who had emerged from the pub with a laden tray, then the new arrivals and Thomas, muttering now about the concerned citizen letter he planned on writing to the local paper, Oliver asked, ‘If you had the choice, and had to be one or the other, would you be yellow or black?’
Although the sun was beating down, Tara felt cold with shock and slightly sick. What is wrong with you? she yelled, telepathically, but she and Oliver didn’t know each other well enough to communicate without words. She opened her mouth to change the subject but only managed to say, ‘The re-’ before Oliver talked over her, coaxing the others to answer.
Clearing his throat like a schoolteacher about to correct a student, Thomas said, ‘Your question is flawed. Yellow—’
The waiter arrived with his tray, effectively pressing a pause button on the conversation. After distributing slices of pie and setting down a bowl of whipped cream, he went to the serving station by the pub’s door and collected an ice bucket. He placed it, complete with napkin-wrapped bottle, to the side of their table.
‘Yellow,’ repeated Thomas, once the waiter was gone, ‘is meaningless in this context. It’s simply a colour.’ He looked ready to say more but attacked his dessert instead.
Oliver leaned in as though preparing to rephrase the question but the familiar lyrics of “Happy Birthday to You” rang out from inside the pub and distracted everyone. The song was followed by three cheers. Many of those dining on the terrace joined in, but not Tara. The ice in the bucket began to melt and the bottle dropped slightly. She flinched and mentally cursed Oliver for asking, no—for telling her to organise lunch. The news would have been better coming from her alone but he’d insisted on acting the big man. Before he could do more damage, she coughed to get his attention. He didn’t notice; her godmother, however, did.
“The news would have been better coming from her alone but he’d insisted on acting the big man.”
‘Oliver, don’t you and your family have fingers in pies all over the country? I think that’s what Tara told me.’ Without waiting for him to answer, Viv went on, ‘So tell me, which would be your preference? Being so worldly, I’m sure you know better than us.’ She pushed her sunglasses up on her head and eyed him intently.
Tara squirmed. She knew that look but hadn’t seen it since Viv had chided her for complaining about the lack of opportunities for the newly qualified.
Lowering his voice, Oliver replied, ‘I’m sure they all have their good points but being any colour other than white doesn’t bear thinking about. I’d prefer to open a vein.’
More ice melted and the bottle slipped further into the bucket. This time everyone flinched, except for Oliver. Oblivious to the change in atmosphere, he hummed the birthday tune to himself. Thomas and Matt appeared to see the champagne for the first time; Thomas stared at it as if it were poison, while Matt pointedly took a mouthful of stout. But Viv declared that she loved fizz and made an exaggerated show of clapping when Oliver reached for the bottle and expertly popped the cork. Once all five glasses were full, he turned expectantly to Tara. Announcement time. She accepted a flute and prepared to make her short speech but the effervescence of the bubbles tickled her hand and she lost her train of thought.
Before she could collect herself, Oliver took over. Abandoning their agreed approach of letting Tara soften up his audience, he launched into the story of how he’d purchased the abandoned mill, a building a little upriver that few people ever noticed thanks to its sheltered position at the end of a lane. The site had tons of potential, explained Oliver, and it was only eighty kilometres from the capital—location wise, perfect for his first solo project. Commuters would be more than willing to make the trip every day if it meant being able to afford a home, especially in such picturesque surroundings. New blood, a new lease of life for the place, he said, making it sound as though he planned to civilise Mars. New customers for shop owners like Viv. Cash registers stuffed with money. He’d been through the cycle many times and was confident that if his development went ahead, the village would have a new coffee shop within a year; within two, a second pub would probably appear.
None of his spiel was news to Tara, but his sales pitch and the picture he conjured left the others frowning. They only knew what she’d told them, about the son of a property big shot who planned to construct much-needed housing on the site of the old mill.
“Oliver pressed his knee against Tara’s, less gently this time. She silently ran through the opening of the speech he’d drafted and the tactics he’d prepared. ”
‘Development.’ Viv tapped her dessert spoon off her plate. ‘That’s a big word to bandy about when all you’ve got to work with is two acres. And you haven’t even looked for planning permission yet. We’d know. Matt keeps an eye on applications in case we need to kick up a stink, part of his job as secretary of the parish council. But I’m sure there won’t be a problem with the houses you’re going to build once the mill is gone.’ She gestured towards Thomas with her spoon. ‘Even the residents who hate change have made their peace with the idea. They don’t have much choice if their children are to have any chance of living in the area. I doubt anyone will object, so long as the estate isn’t too big. Fifteen or twenty houses should be fine.’
Oliver pressed his knee against Tara’s, less gently this time. She silently ran through the opening of the speech he’d drafted and the tactics he’d prepared.
The reason we invited you to lunch is because Oliver and I have some great news. We’ve been thinking about the mill and have decided it’s got too much character to knock down. That would be a terrible waste. So even though there’s no preservation order attached to the building, we’re going to save the mill by converting it into apartments.
STOP AND GAUGE THEIR REACTION. If it’s positive, make a toast and then ask them to use their influence (Matt with the parish council, Viv with the business community, and your dad with the old-timers) to persuade people of the merits of the scheme and to head off any objections. If it’s negative, mention the possibility of sponsorship for the boys’ football team. If necessary, dangle money for a new playground in front of them too.
The pressure against Tara’s knee grew. She jerked away from Oliver. Steadying her mind with her mantra, a condensed version of Viv’s most commonly trotted out advice—be considerate of others but bow to no one—she took a deep breath and began.
‘It’s like this, old-fashioned estates are too low density to make much of a difference to the housing shortage around here. So instead of throwing up a load of soulless boxes we’re going to restore the mill and convert it into apartments, the warehouse beside it too. I’ve drawn up the plans already. There’ll be more units than any of you wanted, forty-eight apartments in total. It’ll mean more traffic, and I know how much you hate the village being clogged up, especially with all the near misses lately.’ Keeping her voice even with an effort, she said to Oliver, ‘It’s the buses they hate, not the people.’ Resisting the urge to add you prejudiced moron, she focused on the others again. ‘I do feel guilty about bringing more cars into the place, but there’s no way round the fact that more residents will mean more traffic. We’ll just have to see about getting speed bumps put in, make the roads safer. And I know you were all hoping for a modest number of houses, but the positives of a bigger development outweigh the negatives. For one thing, some purchasers are sure to be investors, so there’ll be places to rent for workers who can’t get a mortgage. Room for locals and newcomers, buyers and renters. And more homes means more kids. That’ll help enrolment numbers and stop the school from losing a teacher. I could go on but we can get into the nitty gritty later. At the moment I’m just eager to know what you think.’
“It was time for him to learn the meaning of sharp; time too for him to discover who at the table really had an edge.”
No one responded. Matt and Thomas seemed too stunned to offer an opinion, while Viv was suddenly too taken with her glass to comment. Nevertheless, with the secret out, Tara relaxed. Beside her, Oliver jiggled his right leg like a man in a waiting room. Knowing that he was now the nervous one pleased her. It was time for him to learn the meaning of sharp; time too for him to discover who at the table really had an edge. He’d actually thought her naive enough to have missed the fact that, from the very beginning, her soft skills were what he’d been hoping to exploit rather than her professional ones. But she’d known what he was after when he approached her about the architect’s job—local links. Well, she had tons of them, so many that she doubted if he’d risk alienating key figures in the community by firing her for going off script, especially since the vision he needed to sell was hers. Convincing Oliver to switch from houses to apartments had been easy, he stood to make more money; but the villagers would be harder to persuade. Even so, it was a battle worth fighting. There were more kudos in her profession for conversion projects than for the bog-standard estate Oliver had originally envisaged and those closest to her wanted. She took her first sip of champagne and watched as a smile spread across her godmother’s face.
Still not acknowledging Tara’s curveball, Viv raised her glass. ‘I hope you know how proud I am of you, love—we all are. From the day you were old enough to talk, you’ve constantly surprised us. And from the day you began to walk, we’ve been plotting how to stay one step ahead of you. You certainly kept us on our toes—you still do. But I like a challenge so cheers for that.’ Her smile widened and she finished with a hearty, ‘To Tara.’
The men repeated the toast—Matt with his eyes flitting between wife and goddaughter, Thomas without touching his drink, and Oliver with forced gusto—but it was as if Hannah and Viv were the only people at the table. Neither woman spoke; they didn’t require words to communicate. Still smiling, Viv topped up their two glasses with what remained of the champagne and then rammed the bottle into the ice bucket like an explorer staking a claim to new territory. Tara got the message. She was disappointed but not particularly surprised. She poured herself some water. From now on a clear head was essential. A war was on the horizon, a civil one. But she wasn’t worried. She had her mantra and knew exactly what she needed to do.
N.K. Woods studied Creative Writing in the University of Edinburgh and received her MSc in 2018. Her work has appeared in Tales From the Forest, The Galway Review, Queen Mob's Teahouse, The Honest Ulsterman, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Ogham Stone and The Cabinet of Heed. She lives in Kildare.
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