bonfire night 1

The pantechnicon truck came wobbling up and around the bend of the hill. Stephen ambles through from the kitchen as the surround of McGinley’s truck frames our view. He ignores me peeking through the Venetian blinds. Bryan also comes scooting through and jumps up and down to to create a fuss.

‘They’re here,’ Stephen tells Mum.

Mum puts her fag in an ashtray, wipes her hand on a dishcloth before coming through from the kitchen. The men wearing tan coloured dust jackets open the door of the truck and step down onto the pavement; the driver onto the road. They seem disorientated, but find common purpose meeting at the side of the pantechnicon and in lifting and releasing a metal pin on each side of the back door. The tailgate thumps down and bounces, before settling into a walkway. The older of the men, with bald head and stupid lamb chop sideburns, squints at our door and living room window. He’s got a red piece of paper in his hand. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but his partner, a lanky thin man with a high forehead, looks inside the truck and shouts ‘Right!’

Inside the snuggly warmth of our living room, we are ready. The skirting boards have been uncovered; the carpet is two tones, the imprint of the freshest pattern of flowers stay fresh between the places where the hoover couldn’t patrol at the wall. The room seems the size of a football park without the old settee and chairs.

Uncle John and Da lifted the old stuff out and into the back garden, left the couch lying on the slabs, half on and half off the grass. They propped the chairs on top and against the wall. Job done, they went for a pint in Macintoshes. Our seats have one too many potholes, discarded, lying matted and chewed up like balding teddy-bear fur, sweating, in the light rain.

Phyllis and Our Jo stand sheltering in curve of the living room door. When the front door chaps they jump slightly as if the noise is unexpected. I can see through the window its old lamb chops and I fly past my sisters to open the door.

The older man is chewing on a Polo mint, clutching the bit of paper, but I whiff the booze breath. He looks over my head. Mum’s at my back in the hallway.

‘Right hen,’ he looks at the bit of paper in his hand and tears off a sheet, which he holds out for her to take. ‘We’ve got your new three piece suite.’

Mum examines the bit of red paper and frowns. The man sniffs, his head swivels sideways towards his partner. He is leaning with his back against the lorry, fag smoke clouding his mouth as his hand drops to his side. The gaffer nods, a secret signal, and the younger man flicks his half smoked cigarette away. The younger man turns looks inside the lorry and takes up a position on the road side of the ramp. I follow the older man down the four stairs at the front door around the garden path and out into the street. My eyes are drawn upwards to the house above ours. Daft Freddy is silhouetted in his usual spot at the side of the yellowish curtains with a can of beer in his hand.

The older man puts his hand up to cover his mouth as he coughs and batters his chest, leaning against the side of the lorry. ‘Right Albert, we’ll take the settee first then the two chairs.’

Light from outside the lorry giving everything inside a shadow of darkness. The young man shrugs as if he couldn’t care less what they took first. When my eyes adjust to the lumpy strangeness there isn’t much to see: a lamp standing upright and wrapped in brown paper and smooth plastic and the dark contours of a unit, which stands behind what I take to be our new three piece suite. It’s guarded by cellophane, but the orange glow of leather is shiny as a new two-pence.

‘You right George?’ The young man grips the bottom of the settee and edges it out and the older man grips the other end. They lift it easily off the lorry like a plank of balsa and onto the pavement, after a few quick steps they swing our new couch round the path and up the steps. They stand our couch up at the door and the older man takes a step inside and they shuggle it one way and another and dance it into the hall. My sisters watch standing at their room door. The men keep the sofa vertical and waltz it into the living room. They don’t need to ask where it goes. It’s mapped out on the carpet, where the last settee stood, behind the door. George, the older man, puts his end down first. His partner is careful with his fingers. Bryan my wee brother jerks to get away from Mum so that he can help, but she’s got a firm grasp of his hand. Our living room seems too new for us, like a show home.

‘We’ll just get the chairs hen.’ George does all the talking for the movers.

I dash across and sit on the chair. Stephen joins me. Bryan wriggles free from Mum and we pull him up and stand him up between us. He jumps up and down on the plastic covering.

‘It’s a lot better.’ Stephen bounces up and down on his bum to prove his point and laughs.

Mum chortles, a cigarette perched on her bottom lip.

‘You want us to rip off this.’ Stephen tugs at the plastic sheeting.

Mum considers this. ‘No. Best leave it on for now.’

The gaffer edges into the living room with one chair as if he’s wrestling with a giant brown beetle. Behind him, Albert, with the other seat. My sisters sneak in at their backs to take a peek. Our living room is busy with people, but as soon as the other tan jacket places the cushion down on the window seat I’m first to try it. The older guy gets Mum to sign his sheet. Then they’re away.

The novelty of having a new three piece suite, the butterscotch smell and the touch of it on my legs lasts for about ten minutes. Then it’s just like the old one, minus that sinking feeling. The plastic stays on the next day and the next day after that. Da makes sure of that.

I’m in a hurry on Thursday night, after dinner, and fling myself into the seat by the window just as the Star Trek music is starting.

‘Hi,’ Da shouts through from the kitchen. ‘That’s no’ a trampoline.’

I wish we’d the old couch back. At least we could sit on and are not expected to hover weightless over the cushions.

Saturday morning and I’m first up. Well, first up apart from Da, who is in the kitchen perched in front of the smoky grill, listening to the pig-farming news on Radio Athlone. The plastic has been taken off the cushions; ashtrays are full of stubbed out fags and the pong of stale smoke still hangs in the air. Cans of Pale Ale dot the sideboard and the front of the fireplace. That’s when I notice there’s a burn mark on the arm of the couch opposite the door. I put my finger in it and wiggle it about. When I turn round Da’s standing in the kitchen doorway watching me.

‘Somebody’s burnt the couch.’ I gaze up at him.

‘Aye.’ He shrugs. ‘McGinley dropped a fag.’

I go across turn the telly on, put one bar of the electric fire on and fling myself into the seat beside the fire to warm my feet.