Maison Majella chapter 1: "What if he's wearing his little hard hat?"

Stakes are high on an important visit to Pablo and Maj's site (audio version included)

“Get in. Get in!”

I couldn’t have told Aisling why I really asked her to come over to the site. She’d be too het up. I couldn’t tell anyone because they’d lose the head, plus we’d have half of Ballygobbard tramping over the grass seed Pablo has planted with such pure hope for Baby Aisling. I tried to explain to him that we don’t even have the walls up yet and that his patch of “grass” is actually where the builders piss when they can’t be arsed going around the back to the Portaloo. But he’s so excited about the garden and putting in a swing set and a trampoline the size of Tenerife that I just let him off, and besides, it gave me a chance to take a few secret phone calls. 

“Why are you whispering, Maj?” Aisling asks, clambering into the cab of Daddy’s van beside me.

I feel bad looking at her hair. If she knew the real reason she was here she would have definitely put the Airwrap through it. I nearly got sick when she found one on Depop for €150, but she is my best friend and I am happy for her and her hair tools. Baby Aisling just reefs the head off me anyway. She’s my other best friend but sometimes when she grabs fistfuls and holds on like a vice and laughs I do wonder if We Need to Talk About Baby Aisling. 

I got Big Aisling to leave her lovely working from home setup by texting her that I was worried I might be in love with one of the builders. There was a risk she would just insist on a phone call, but I knew once I mentioned the Snickers trousers she’d be over here like a hot snot. Aisling may be a happily engaged woman but no living human can resist the lure of a well-worn pair of Snickers. 

“I don’t want Pablo to hear us.” 

“Pablo’s not even here, is he?” Aisling peers out the window of the van, scanning the site. “Which one is your fancy man? I can tell you right now you’re not in love with him. It’s just the trousers. And the boots. The brown boots with the cement dust on them would turn a nun. This is just like a few months ago when you thought the postman was giving you the eye.” 

“I wonder how Pat’s glaucoma surgery went, actually.” I look down at my phone, my stomach turning over in anxiety. God forgive me but if I have to have a nervous toilet event in that Portaloo I’ll cry. Only five minutes until they’re here. 

“Well, which one is he? I want to take a photo for John. Jesus Christ, is that piss?” 

The 7-Up bottle nestled between the dashboard and windscreen certainly doesn’t look like it’s holding 7-Up. It’s the colour of Lilt. Maybe we should have splashed out for the second Portaloo after all instead of diverting the money into a Velux window for my “she shed”.

“Maybe it’s wine? Jesus I’d nearly try it to see.” 

“Majella! Do you fancy one of these men or not? What’s going on?” 

I take a deep breath. Maybe enclosing Aisling in this small space to deliver the news wasn’t the best idea. What if she kicks out a window? 

“Aisling. I’m about to tell you something really exciting and important, but you can’t lose the head, bird, okay? Promise me?” 

She looks back at me, confused, probably noticing the spray tan and the rock-hard updo that Sharon did for me in her slippers at the crack of dawn this morning. This is a woman who coordinated a balloon release for the Brian Dowling-Gourounlian gender reveal on the same day as an orange weather warning. She organised a Sally Rooney book launch where Sally Rooney wasn’t even showing up and managed to get it on Sky News. I take her hands in mine. My nails need some serious TLC. One of the kids in school asked me if I’d been buried alive and had to scratch my way out. I had to send a note of concern home in the backpack. 

“Aisling. You’re the first person I’m trusting with this information and you can have a few minutes to absorb it and then I need you to be on your A Game.” 

“This isn’t about a builder at all, is it?” 

I shake my head solemnly. “Dermot Bannon is on his way here, with his team, to assess us for –”

“OHMYGOD YOU’RE GOING TO BE ON ROOM TO IMPROVE OH MY GOD OH MY GOD.” 

Her hands are flapping around her face. I haven’t seen her this excited since the cameras zoomed in on Westlife’s arses for the big screen at Croke Park. She can hardly sit still in the seat. 

“Ais, get a hold of yourself. You’ve been in Anna Wintour’s downstairs toilet.” 

She’s blowing air up onto her face, trying to cool herself down. The windows of the van are fully steamed up now. “What if he’s wearing his little hard hat!”

“So, it’s not Room to Improve, because we don’t have any rooms built yet that need improving.” 

“Oh.” She looks crestfallen. 

“But they’re scouting for a new show called Shite Site to Just Right where Dermot puts his own stamp on the design and Maison Majella is being considered. I think they’re hoping to be syndicated to Channel 4. That first season of Jason Statham’s Thousand Pound Cat Flap was whopper.” 

“Maj, this is huge! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“If I told you and not Pablo the guilt would kill me. And I couldn’t tell him because he can’t keep a secret to save his life. Remember when he told Dee Ruane about her surprise 30^th in the taxi on the way there? I did tell Baby Aisling but unless her vocabulary has improved dramatically I think the secret has stayed safe.” 

“Speaking of, where are Pablo and the babs?” 

“He took her off to see the foals in Cullens field. They’ll be back any minute but I’m half thinking of sending him over to the eco-farm to pet the alpacas because one word Baby Aisling has learned to say is “fuck” and this programme is going out before the watershed.” 

Aisling immediately goes into work mode, which is why I got her over here. “No, definitely have them both here for the meeting. Every property programme needs a cute baby and a ridey husband. Plus Pablo is Canarian. That’s diversity.”

“Any other advice going before he gets here?”

“Just be yourself. And maybe mention that you’re a teacher. They’ll be thinking of ratings and hundreds of kids means hundreds of tellies. This is so exciting!”

“It’s more than just exciting, bird. If we get on Shite Site they’ll put like twenty thousand euro towards the build. The rent on the apartment has always been okay, until we decided to build this house and found out that even looking at a front door costs five grand. And we’re nowhere near putting in a front door.” 

Aisling does a little squeal and jigs her legs. “You’ll definitely get it.” Then her expression grows serious. “What if they have you on and the house ends up looking like a tourist information centre in the Burren though?” 

“Dermot would never do that to me.” 

“I don’t know, he loves a polished concrete wall.” 

Just then a black people carrier swings into the site. Oh my Christ. They’re here. Aisling looks at me, her eyes wide with excitement. She grabs my arm as I go to hop out of the van. 

“Promise me one thing. You won’t tell Dermot Bannon you want to call the house Maison Majella. You know how I feel about people who give their houses names.” 

“I know, I know. It’s the –”

“Height of notions.” She finishes the sentence for me. 

“And you know my cautionary tale about the family who live beside my cousins in Dundalk and went to Cyprus in 1992 and came back and called their house Aiya Napa.”

“Do people still stop there for pictures on the way to their debs?” 

“Every year. Good luck!”

“Are you not coming out with me?” 

“Let’s not overwhelm them with people. You’ll be brilliant.” Her bottom lip trembles a little bit. 

“Are you afraid you’ll lose the run in front of Dermot?” 

“Absolutely. Now, go!” 

I hop out of the van and smooth down the hem of my lucky trench coat, the one I wore to successfully appeal the speeding fine I got on the Rathborris bypass. Daddy and the two brick layers he has working with him today have clocked the people carrier and are not even trying to hide the gawping. I look back at the van and through a little patch in the condensation on the windscreen I can see Aisling giving me two thumbs up. I can do this. I have to do this. 

The passenger door of the people carrier swings open and instead of Dermot Bannon, a serious looking woman with a swishy brown Kate Middleton ponytail is in front of me with her arm stretched out.

“Majella? I’m Siobhan from Open Plan Productions. We spoke on the phone?”

I paste on my biggest, most charming smile and shake her hand. “Majella Moran, welcome to Ballygobbard. I teach second class, by the way. Hope you were able to find us okay without the Eircode? My father thinks they’re a conspiracy and won’t have any mention of them on the site.”

She gives me an odd look. I’ve already said too much. Rein it in Maj, you turbo gob. The driver door opens and another woman with thick, black glasses hops out carrying a clipboard. “Your directions were incredible. How did you know that man with the jack russell would be at the crossroads back there?”

I shrug. “That’s Murt Kelly. You could set your watch by him. He’s actually my godfather.”

She shakes my hand firmly. “I’m Siobhan.” Then she turns to the other Siobhan. “Great local colour. Dermot will love that.” And they both nod.

At the mention of his name, I peer behind them to the people carrier. “Will Dermot be joining us today?”

Siobhan One smiles tightly. “Yes, of course. We wanted to have a quick look first before we feed back our thoughts.” They both glance over to where Daddy and the lads are now drinking mugs of tea and staring back at them from the walls of the house, which are now at shoulder height. 

“Well,” Siobhan Two eventually says, “it’s certainly a Shite Site so that’s one box ticked anyway.”

“Hahaha, brilliant,” I laugh, even though I have to admit it stings a bit. I’m about to launch into the features of the field, the ditch behind the house that’s still heaving with blackberries and the small cordoned-off hole where the body of Una Hatton’s Bichon Frisé was recently exhumed – she’s trying to get the council to designate it an Area of Interest but it’s exactly where we want the septic tank to go – when a high-pitched scream from the front gate draws everyone’s attention to the arrival of Pablo and Baby Aisling, who looks as cute as anything waving from her carrier. She’s eight months old and is still bald as a coot so I stuck a pink bow on her head with eyelash glue in case anyone mistakes her for a boy. I don’t really know why this matters but it just does.

Siobhan One lights up like a Christmas tree when she sees Pablo and it takes all my strength not to go for her. 

“This is Pablo, my husband,” I say pointedly, trying to keep my tone light, “and our daughter, Baby Aisling. Say hello, Baby Aisling! Big wave now, good girl!” 

Pablo joins us, looking confused. “Who are these people, mi amor?”

“Fuck,” Baby Aisling screams, and I notice Siobhan Two writing something on her clipboard. 

Pablo is looking fairly lost at sea. “They’re down from RTE, babe,” I whisper. “They might put the house build on the telly. I wanted it to be a surprise. There’s money going.” 

I turn to the Siobhans. “I know that sounded like fuck but she was actually saying duck. They’re her favourite animal, you see, isn’t that right, Baby Aisling? You love a duck. Quack quack.”

“Fuck,” she says happily, kicking her legs, the little rip.

Pablo quickly senses the gravity of the situation. “Welcome to our home, good ladies,” he says, genuflecting. “We are honoured to have you. Here is the grass where the bambino will play, and this driveway will be tarmac and these bricks will one day be such a beautiful home!”

Siobhan Two is all business, and flirty with it. “Is that an accent I detect, Pablo?”

“Yes, good lady. I am from Tenerife. But Ballygobbard is my home now. Hup BGB Rovers! I send my mother Juana a picture of our house yesterday and she cry. Family, it is everything to me.”

Siobhan One is scribbling away furiously, obviously very taken with his speech. “This series will be very family-centred,” she says. “So this is all great, Pablo. Really great.”

For the first time since they got out of the car, I start to feel confident. Pablo is playing a blinder and I’m sure they can bleep Baby Aisling out. Maybe the trench coat is working after all. 

The sound of someone clearing their throat snaps me back to reality. There, standing behind the two Siobhans, is Dermot Bannon in the flesh wearing brown cords and a lovely jumper. No little hard hat, unfortunately. For a man who looks borderline godlike on telly when he’s convincing some poor couple to spend their contingency on a picture window or arguing with a quantity surveyor about the pitch of a roof, he’s actually normal sized in real life. Maeve Hennessy said that when she saw him in the car park at Electric Picnic last year but I didn’t believe her. But he is, he’s only about a head-and-a-half taller than Pablo. 

“There you are, Dermot,” Siobhan Two says, passing him her clipboard. “This is Majella and Pablo. And little Aisling.”

He starts reading intently, his brow furrowed. I bow ever so slightly and try to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Hello Mr Bannon.” I can hear a muffled squeal from somewhere behind me and I know it’s Aisling in Daddy’s van.

“Dermot, you’re going to love Pablo,” Siobhan One interjects. “He’s from Tenerife. A very passionate father. Wonderful presence.” 

That twenty grand is mine. I might get myself an Airwrap while I’m at it. I give Pablo a nudge, waiting for him to say something but there’s just silence. I do it again, this time harder, and right in the ribs. Still nothing. Dermot Bannon looks up from his clipboard expectantly but Pablo just stares back at him, his jaw hanging open uselessly. I can feel him shaking beside me. Oh no.

“Pablo,” I hiss out of the corner of my mouth. “Say something.” 

The silence is deafening. It goes on for what feels like an hour, a week, a month. I swear I can hear Daddy slurping his tea and blades of grass pushing up through the soil. With every minute that passes I can feel the money slowly slipping away. The front door. The hot water tap. The hand-painted Maison Majella sign that Aisling will just have to get used to.

It’s Siobhan One who eventually breaks the silence after what feels like a lifetime. 

“Well, unfortunately when you’re making a TV show like ours we would need people to be able to talk,” she says kindly, as Dermot Bannon nods a curt goodbye and retreats back to the people carrier with Siobhan Two. “You’d be surprised how often this actually happens. The husbands just aren’t able for him. Star struck, every single one. Good luck with the build, Majella.”

“Fuck!” says Baby Aisling, and she’s not wrong.

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Coming next week: Pablo gets a life-changing phone call (and not in a good way)

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