Maison Majella chapter 2: "I won’t be able to go with you, Pabsy"

Pablo gets bad news, in the dark, in a mobile home

“Pab, please, you have to stand up to her. She’s only eight months old. What are you going to be like when she’s 15 and you catch her sneaking out of the house to go drink Malibu behind the handball alley?” Then I quickly add, “not that I did that myself, like.”

Bedtime with Baby Aisling is a nightmare at the best of times because she likes a bath and then three stories and then two songs before she’ll even consider going down, but she’s being especially wild tonight. I normally do it myself but it’s my turn to host book club and I’m up to my elbows in parma ham and cubes of manchego for the grazing table. Well, I suppose it’s more of a grazing plate since I’m so stuck for space.

“She is too slippery, Majella! Can you help me a hand?”

I put down the salami rose I made using a shot glass – charcuterie board TikTok is godsend – and tip into the tiny bathroom where Pablo is trying to stuff a very stubborn Baby Aisling into a bucket. Giving up our apartment above BallyGoBrunch with its lovely bath was a tough decision but with the self-build already creeping over budget, it had to be done. And Daddy got us a good deal on the mobile home, which used to belong to Paddy Reilly’s mother before she fell headfirst out the door and down the two steps. It’s not big and it’s certainly not fancy, but it will do us for the next few months. We’re going to be in by Christmas if I have to lay the underfloor heating myself. 

There’s water and suds and toys all over the floor. Baby Aisling has overpowered Pablo and is desperately trying to scramble out of the bucket. I feel a pang of guilt. Have I done the right thing? Did I spend too much time reading about the tiny house movement without counting how many pairs of shoes and big coats for yard duty I own? Then I remind myself that Baby Aisling is safe and well and loved and she won’t even remember any of this. When we move into our dream home she’ll have her own ensuite with a bidet and a jacuzzi, if I can find one on DoneDeal.

“Hold her down, Pab,” I shout, wringing out a facecloth and giving Baby Aisling’s face and bum a quick wipe. He’s right, she’s slippery as a salmon and strong as an ox and she nearly escapes us again more than once. He reaches for a towel and between the two of us we manage to restrain her and dry her at the same time. Wrapped up like a little chicken fillet roll, drops of water still on her eyelashes, she looks so angelic I nearly forget all about the state of the bathroom and the full bowl of spaghetti Bolognese she threw in my lap an hour ago. I’d die for her. I can definitely endure a few months cramped in a mobile home for her.

There’s a crunch of gravel outside and some car door slams followed by a series of “byes” and “thankses”. The girls are here! Shite, I haven’t even managed to light my Jo Malone yet.