Always the Bride's mates, Never St Bride

Dia dhuit! I am on holiday with some of my Irish family this month, staying with them in their various homes around County Fermanagh. My mother has two brothers who live in Ireland, and I have three sets of cousin-and-spouse, and two spinster cousins to play with as well.

This story was written as a challenge set by the spinsters after we attended the wedding of a woman from one cousin’s work. It is complete fiction, but I think you’ll still enjoy it as it’s all my own work this time. Thanks (go raibh maith agut) to my lovely cousins Siobhan and Niamh McDonagh, who with me constitute the three unmarried granddaughters of the legendary Nana Saoirse, kindred spirits of Curtseygirl, the bride’s mates.

It is a bit laboured with Irishness, and in-jokes, but that was the challenge. I’ve deliberately left it all in for posting upon Curtseygirl’s Blog: I was allowed to post this for you only if I agreed not to change it: I hope you’ll approve of my agreeing to post this as is.

“So what do you think about September then Christine?”

“September?”

“Rugby.”

“Oh, us of course.”

Kirsten was out with her cousins, “upon the tear” as Ciaran had called it, although a few quiet drinks in the Duck and Bucket hardly constituted a weekend in Ibiza: that amount of fun was to wait until the Hen Night, no boys allowed. She was enjoying the time with her family, but wondered whether Ciaran’s dopey mate Padraig was just being dopey, or was he trying to be funny.

“And it’s not Christine, it’s Kirsten.”

“Pardon. Kirsten. So you say us of course, but is that to imply us to mean we ourselves Ireland, or you yourselves Australia?”

Kirsten merely smiled: truth be told she was getting rather fed up with all the talk of sport, the burden of being an Aussie abroad is that sport seems the only conversation the locals of Europe are prepared to offer; sport and the weather, and of course the inevitable so why the fook would you want to live over here then?

“Tell me Padraig, do you know why it is that wallabies drink out of billabongs?”

“No, I do not.”

“And why it is that springboks drink out of water-holes?”

“Again, I do not.”

“Wallabies must drink out of billabongs, and springboks from waterholes, because The All Blacks have all the cups! Us of course, of course, is New Zealand.”

Kirsten winced at her joke, funny as she thought it was, (and she was delighted to see all her cousins laughing), she realised what a mess of words she’d made of it. Kirsten was sober, she’d agreed to drive for Clan McDonagh, but someone had neglected to inform her brain of this. Sober, but lysdexic, poor Kirsten.

Kirsten sat back in her seat and allowed the laughter to flow over her. After a few lonely months in London, and three years away from Hobart and her parents, it felt good for her to be back amongst family. She winked at Padraig, he wasn’t such a bad sort after all, but she wished he’d go away and leave her alone with her cousins. There was Ciaran, eldest of the clan, married for four years and with the first McDonagh great-grandson promoting his legendary grandmother to the status of Supernana Saoirse, and his wife Rose. The baby was at home with Ciaran’s parents, allowing “the bairns” some time for liquid fellowship; Kirsten loved having Irish uncles and aunts, even though at thirty-five she wondered how long she’d be a “bairn”. (Ciaran was forty-one, and a father in his own right, so there was at least that long.) Younger by nine years were the twins, Siobhan and Niamh. The twins had been invited to act as bridesmaids for the wedding of their workmate Patricia, and had been able to sneak an invitation for Kirsten while she was on holidays in Ulster. Patricia was due to join the party soon, but the Clan McDonagh plan for an early-girlie drink and some cousins-catch-up had been sabotaged by the arrival of the jovial Padraig.

“And so Kirsten, what star-sign are you?” Niamh groaned.

“Paddy, she’s our cousin.”

“I know it mo cara, but despite that she’s very pretty. And so, Kirsten?”

“Pirex. I was a test-tube baby.”

Ciaran stood up and tapped his friend’s shoulder. “Come lad, there’s talking to be done here and it’s the women who must do it.”

“But the craic is the man’s business!”

“But not the gossip, now move yer bleeden self and get yer fooken hands off my sisters.”

Padraig looked around surprised, he was actually sitting next to Kirsten and away from the twins, but seeing the smile on Ciaran’s face he recalled a joke from earlier in the evening where that had been the punchline.

“Ah, the Corrs, the beautiful Corrs. Right yer man is ladies, it’s time we were off to do what manly men must, and leave the talking to yourselves. Good night princesses of Ireland.”

“Oiche mhaith, slan!” replied Kirsten.

“Fook me Ciaran, for a Kiwi she’s a quick one, has she the Gael?”

And so it was that the McDonagh girls, (for once Miss Ellison allowed herself to be that), drank and sang into the night: joined later by Patricia who invited Kirsten to attend “the night before” at her home where bride and maids would sleep in the same room and then go on to the church. Did Kirsten have a dress? (And was the pope a German? Of course Kirsten had a dress!)

And then it was that the McDonagh girls, (Miss Ellison in the mood for etymological condescension), drank and sang into the night three nights later: joined the entire time by Patricia and a gaggle (or was it a giggle) of women “upon the tear”. And then it was evening, and then it was morning: the big day.

Breakfast, together in a café in the town. Hair and make-up, also together, Kirsten invited to join the tour (but having to paint and style her own self). Dresses and shoes. One hour and forty-five minutes before aisle-altar-hymn, (when I’ll alter him), is when Patricia’s dad heard about the night before.

Ever since she’d turned sixteen Patricia had had specific instructions as to how she was to behave when out with her friends. She was now twenty-nine, but still living at home, and the rules, (if not the sanctions) had remained on the books. And last night those rules had been broken. Patricia had drunk more than she’d been allowed, and had been quite loud in the street: she’d let the side down, and as her father was wont to tell her, when the side is let down, so is the underpant.

One hour and thirty to church, and the bride was being offered the choices for a teenage girl: submit to spanking or be grounded for three nights. Now one hour and twenty-nine to church.

“Patricia Maria Bridget O’Connell you know the rules.”

“Daddy yes, but it’s my wedding day: you can’t seriously ground me.”

“Then I must seriously spank you.”

“But I’ll cry, you’ll mess up my hair and make-up, and displace all my clothes.”

“You shamed me girl.”

“My wedding day!”

“Punishment is owed.”

And so it was that a compromise was reached, and so it was. A spanking would indeed be offered for the gross misconduct of unladylike behaviour in a public place; but in true handmaidens-to-the-mistress style it would be delivered upon the whipping girls. Bend over the bridesmaids.

Doctor O’Connell called in the women to deliver his findings. “Patricia is owed nine hard smacks of the hairbrush, but in respect to her being the centre of attention today I thank you girls for agreeing to accept what is rightfully hers. Two of you, that’s five smacks for the one and four for the other.”

“Or three each for the three of us.” Kirsten turned to see who had made the offer, but was surprised to see all faces turned towards her.”

“And so it is Miss McDonagh: I see you’ve only just met our Patricia but you’re already kin to her in such a way, so you are.”

Kirsten was still looking around the room.

“She’s our cousin,” began Niamh, “but she’s called Miss Ellison. Oh Kirsten that’s ever so kind of you!”

How it was that Kirsten spoke what was plainly on her mind, (she was exceedingly proud of her cousins’ offer), but without recognising that she’d actually spoken was a mystery to her, but there it was. (So it was.) Kirsten saw the look of gratitude on the faces of the other three women in the room. “Thank you Doctor, she’s a lovely young woman, you should be proud of her. I see why it is Siobhan and Niamh love her so much.”

“Right, and less than an hour it is as well: let’s get on with it then.”

The women were pointed towards Patricia’s bedroom, where they had all slept the previous night, and told to wait in there “for father”. Siobhan and Niamh walked down the corridor holding hands, they’d done that in preparation of spanking for as long as they could remember, although unlike their Antipodean cousin neither had been smacked since the age of sixteen. Kirsten and Patricia walked behind the twin sisters, also holding hands.

Patricia offered guidance for what was expected, the girls were to be “in place” when the doctor arrived: as instructed the three women each drew tights and knickers to knees, and bent over the bed with hands on the mattress and dresses still in place.

Doctor O’Connell arrived and dispensed expeditiously with the formalities. Skirts were raised on the satin bridesmaids dresses and colour was raised on the naked bridesmaids’ bottoms. Three smacks each, with the hairbrush.

“Lean forward Niamh”: WHACK-WHACK-WHACK! “Stay there.”

“Lean forward Siobhan”: WHACK-WHACK-WHACK! “Stay there.”

Kirsten winced as she heard each smack of the hairbrush, and the ensuing sobs of her cousins. Since she was also bending over the bed awaiting her own set of whacks the sounds had an ominous character.

“Lean forward Miss Ellison”: WHACK! Kirsten winced silently, the smack had hurt but she’d had much worse, but the hairbrush seemed rather narrow. WHACK! Kirsten winced again and let out an “oow”, but her attention was focussed on the implement. WHACK! “Stay there.” Kirsten remained where she was, it seemed as though the hairbrush was only small; Patricia had had it easy compared to the McDonagh cousins as a child. Doctor O’Connell was into his post-spanking lecture, Kirsten could hear her cousins sobbing quietly.

“This is not the behaviour I expect from Patricia, and it is on her behalf that you have received this: but I shouldn’t wonder whether your own father shouldn’t have whipped you himself. Shameful!”

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

The three McDonagh girls squealed as they received a second set of three, these from the doctor’s belt. The Ulsterwomen collapsed into tears, the Australian into sobs and moans.

“And so that is for you. Stand yourselves up and wash your faces, my daughter is getting married in thirty-four minutes.”

It took the women some time to replace their undergarments, straighten their dresses and eyelashes, and be ready for display once more. Patricia was all kisses and sobs, hugs and apologies: she also cleared up the mystery of Kirsten’s smacks.

“He specially went and fetched it from his desk, he’s had it since he was in Sydney with the Naval Auxiliary in 1964.”

“Fetched what?”

“The boomerang; my dad spanked you with a boomerang.”

The wedding went off with a hitch, (as weddings are supposed to, hitching being the entire point), and the McDonagh sisters were universally praised for their rosy cheeks, they’d obviously enjoyed their day, although they had walked a little stiffly up the aisle at the start of the service. But why had the bride been so late?

Despite tradition Patricia had promised her fiancée she’d be on time for her wedding; she knew someone was going to get a smacked bottom for that in the honeymoon suite later that night. She had told him she thought it really quite rude the way some brides were late to their own weddings; something really must be done about it.

(Or is that why they’re late in the first place?)

I blame the bride’s mates. So I do.