What Anna Did Next

By Denise Brassil

‘What Anna Did Next’ is a laugh-out-loud, life-loving, warm-hearted funny tale of one girl’s quest to find her true self. What will come first for Anna Moran: the perfect job or the perfect orgasm? Anna’s relationship status is permanently set to ‘open to anything’. After a decade of debauchery, meaningless sex and enduring the constant hum of local whispers, Anna leaves her hometown of Dingle, in West Kerry, in search of love and much more. But how do you shake off a small town that never lets you forget? How do you change when temptation is always there? How do you become someone else when you are so relentlessly you? Anna is faced with some difficult decisions when tragedy strikes. Everything hinges on what Anna does next.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Conrad Press
• Release date: Jul 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781839786532

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What Anna Did Next

Denise Brassil and Martha Brassil

What Anna Did Next

Published by The Conrad Press Ltd. in the United Kingdom 2023

Tel: [phone]

www.theconradpress.com

[e-mail]

ISBN 978-1-839786-53-2

Copyright © Denise Brassil, 2023

All rights reserved.

Typesetting and Cover Design by: Charlotte Mouncey, www.bookstyle.co.uk

The Conrad Press logo was designed by Maria Priestley.

This novel is dedicated to my witty, intelligent, creative, kind, thoughtful, quirky, fun-loving, eccentric, wild, wonderful, loving, irreplaceable, unique, unequalled, unforgettable sister Martha Brassil.

1

December, not sure what day

Dingle, Co. Kerry

If destiny just happens regardless, then who am I to argue?

You know how it is. Boy meets girl, girl meets boy, right place, right time, little sprinkling of cosmic love dust and that is it. Or is it?

You see, lately I’ve been thinking that there is an equally powerful force shaping our lives. Don’t ask me how I came to this conclusion. I’d like to think it’s wisdom, but maybe it’s the dawning realization of my twenty-eight years that makes me feel that the arrow is pointing dangerously at me.

No more hiding from the truth. Yes we are also the authors of our own destiny. It’s a bit frightening to think we are responsible for all the drama. Getting a minor panic attack if my chequered past is included in this. Jesus wept, I needed to breathe deeply and swallow a double vodka. All these deep thoughts need to be sieved.

Ahh, that’s better. I can now afford to become more philosophical. You see, on the one hand we have romance and surprise, and on the other, we have realism and forward planning.

Now to be entirely successful with my grand cosmic plan for the New Year I have decided to adopt the just-in-case insurance mentality, yet another sign of my advancing years.

I can oscillate between both camps, God granting me the wisdom to decipher the signs and to know the difference. I want destiny to knock on my door but I also want to be in the driving seat. ‘I want to hunt and I want to be hunted. I want to choose and I want to be chosen. I want love at first sight. I want passion, infatuation and lust. Well, maybe delete the lust. Replace it with true love. This will fit in nicely with my new image.

I have decided to completely reinvent myself for the New Year.

After several years of debauchery, lust and one–night stands I am about to become a Born Again Virgin.

I came to this sobering decision on New Year’s Eve. With Yuletide fervour and madness I happened to fornicate with the town stud. Put it this way, he was the best of a bad lot. His face was a bit perpendicular for my liking but beer goggles told me otherwise. He told me I had amazing breasts and legs to die for.

Now, flattery combined with alcohol is my instant aphrodisiac. Gravity sucks me vertically, forcing me to sacrifice my body to the one who whispers ‘Anna Moran, you are beautiful,’ I know that in the next ten minutes I will feel desired and valued.

I was born for loving. It is my identity bracelet confirming my value and true worth. I would have liked to have lain down on a bed of roses but that night I improvised on a sea of winter coats, buttons and zips… adding pain to pleasure.

When Jack brushed up against my thigh I needed no further persuasion. Lust lifted me to where I truly belonged. I opened my eyes to see Jack stepping into his jeans while asking if we could meet again.

Passion may be spent but he obviously wanted more of me, maybe get to know me a bit better. Could he really like me and not just my body? EUREKA! Was the New Year inverting my usual wham bang thank you mam formula? Thank you God for taking an interest.

How was I to know he was unable to stay not only monogamous but heterosexual for more than twenty minutes. You see, a short time later as I went upstairs to the loo I found Jack, my ex shag sharing a bath with guess who? Gary the hairdresser (and there weren’t even bubbles – only self-made ones).

Which makes me what? The greatest loser and eejit this side of the Atlantic. I never felt so humiliated, even alcohol couldn’t obliterate my shame. My future redemption would rest on some major and urgent personal D.I.Y. Well if Saint Paul on his way to Damascus could change then so could Anna. I needed to remedy my sad sick life and pronto.

Nothing beats the euphoric rush of catharsis. It crystallises one of the past, immunises one to the present and breathes promise onto future possibilities. It made me feel I could be anything I wanted to be, do anything I wanted to do. The future suddenly became virginal and pure. I was given the power to write not just with integrity but vision… vision of a new life and a new me. Change was my only passport to happiness… there was no other option if I wanted to climb the stairway to heaven.

I hate to admit that my mother is right but she is. Just on this point her views surely reflect the female wisdom and cunning of previous ages. My mother’s favourite rant of ‘All men love a whore but they never marry them.’ This has been in the top ten in our house for aeons. Her daughters’ attempts to impart sexual liberation have been met with an even greater contraction, thus crystallising her theories in stone.

But is she Right? Am I Wrong? Men have loved me but I have never once received a proposal of marriage (apart from Eamonn with the I.Q. of an amoeba). Nor have I been asked to move in with them. Of course I have the occasional sleepover with a thank you very much I will call you later. You know what? They never do. Or I may have the illicit weekend away while the wife does her Feng-shui course. I am reasonably good-looking. I am not a leper and I can assure you I am no common whore. I do not get paid for it. I just happen to like sex on the first date. I have sinned against my mother and all my maternal ancestors and for that I am truly sorry.

So now with the close dawning of the New Year, age of Aquarius and all that, I plan to become a role model for the future generations to come. A pioneer to lead the way. I WANT IT ALL. For this to happen, I must become a NEW WOMAN…

2

January 1st, New Year’s Day, 11.09 a.m.

My head hurts. My throat feels dry. I need water to wash away any past transgressions and of course to avoid cellular dehydration. I want to die and it’s only the first day of the New Year. It’s all so new and I’M NOT. My pontificating of the previous night haunts my shrinking brain cells. Did I mean what I said? What did I say? And more so what did I mean?

I look in the mirror and see a jaded me staring back, hair matted together with an array of tinsel and what feels like some sort of lubricant – not that I need lubricant, at least not yet – the youthful juices have never yet left me down thank God. My big beautiful green eyes now look as though they have been surgically reduced, resembling pools of congealed blood. I would receive an Oscar for Queen of the Damned. I want this image to be forever engraved in my mind.

Aversion therapy. I know I’ve got to change. The alternative is actually the preventative. Alternative choice – I could go along my merry path, drunk as a skunk every weekend and every birthday, anniversary celebration and funeral that I stumbled upon. (I welcome country wakes where drinking is actively encouraged as a means of expressing your grief. I could wail and bawl with the best of them while not even recognising the corpse).

My ovarian luck would be bound to run out soon (no more unfertilised eggs in the morning after the night before). Where would I be? I would be nursing a sprog with no dad and no definitive DNA. Pictures of me destitute, stuck in a damp bed-sit over a Chinese takeaway, breastfeeding because I needed the formula money to heat the place swam before my eyes. Before I press the delete button on this image, let me assure you this could have happened many times. For example; there was Samba the D.J. and Clarence the bouncer all in one night – a one-night stand is socially acceptable but there I was filling four stones with me being the one BIRD. I could have birthed twin gargoyles. Perish the thoughts.

So, today is the first day of the rest of my life. The past is the passé composé and the future is mine to create. I need a course of action.

I am now a Born Again Virgin – NO SEX on the first date, NO SEX on the second date, NO SEX on the third date…not until I find THE ONE. Maybe hymen visualisation exercises will work here (I’ll let you know about this one).

No more pressures about performance (when I do find Mr. Right) I have tried the Kama Sutra, and you know what – the missionary position isn’t so bad after all.

I am changing my self –image and my bedroom (nicknamed Calcutta by my control tidy freak sister, who must be an anal retentive if her own bedroom is anything to go by).

No more dead-end jobs. A job in a fish shop (even if it is my future inheritance) goes nowhere. I want a career preferably in banking or insurance.

I want a decent car (preferably a company car with unlimited mileage).

I want to be an example to the up and coming generation. I want R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

A little bit of worship and adoration would also be appreciated.

I want a HUSBAND, a fertilizer for my impatient eggs. I want all of the above in the coming two years.

Yours sincerely

Anna M. Moran

New Year’s Day is always a big day in the Moran household. My mother had warned me to be on time, as it only starts heated arguments between my father and other family members about my irresponsible lifestyle. On Christmas Day, an even bigger day in the Moran household, our family reunion was ruined because our turkey was off, not off the menu but completely rotten. The stench was overwhelming so I guessed it had to be something in its initial stages of decomposition.

I have my uses, one of which is an acute nasal radar, sensitive to smells that most mortals are immune to. Was it the dog? No! Was it my brothers’ bedroom and its secretions? No! The source was not discovered until the turkey was taken out of the oven.

My mother, who has no sense of smell after having five children, stars in the leading role of Delia Smith dishing out the dinners. She needs to play happy families every so often. I watch her gazing proudly at her generously laden plates. Starvation forces me to peck upon the ever-diminishing carcass. Aaaa– instant nausea forces me to spit into the sink. ‘The turkey is off,’ I manage to say. ‘Nonsense’, says she, ‘it’s the sausage meat, and you’ve hated that ever since you discovered you were a Jew in your past life.’

My mother’s disapproval of my beliefs doesn’t ever seem to stop her from using them against me when it suits her.

‘Mother if my present life or any of my past incarnations depended upon it, I would not peck on the sausage meat. It’s the turkey. I swear to God.’ I run into the family dining room. ‘STOP RIGHT THERE BEFORE YOU GO ANY FURTHER, THE SMELL IS THE TASTE AND THE TASTE IS THE SMELL.’

As I am far too low in the family pecking order to merit my father’s credibility, he immediately goes on the defensive. The man’s genes have to be a throwback to famine times as he pathologically hates waste–if the birds or the dogs or even the pigs can’t eat it, then it goes straight into storage.

Our fridge is packed full of, ‘just in case we need it tomorrow’ processed peas or congealed black pudding or a small bowl of super hot curry with no sell-by date.

After a night on the beer, its contents are devoured indiscernibly by my brother and his friends. An uncontrollable desire for quantity and alcohol soakage clearly superseded their ability to taste.

Fortunately, there have been no casualties yet of salmonella or E. coli, which goes to prove that either our fridge is a germ-free zone or they have superhuman gut antibodies. The word rotten and food cannot co-exist in my dad’s eyes so there is nothing wrong with the turkey, only me.

Grace, on the other hand, is a germ-buster. Detox and Domestos protect and watch over her day and night. They have replaced the Child of Prague in shielding her home from harm. Anti-bacterial sprays are all part and parcel of her new religion.

Any life form other than human is annihilated every day. She is practically on first-name terms with her rent-to-kill agent George, who has an on-going contract dealing with any probable infestations of ants, termites and fleas. You can’t ever be too safe or too clean is her motto. As Grace does not even eat out of our fridge I knew I could rely on her to echo my sentiments.

Nervously twiddling with her latest gold chain, she stares at the turkey in horror and shouts ‘SHE’S RIGHT,’ Phew! My father’s favourite spoke, making my discovery gospel. So we ended up eating only the bits that did not touch off the turkey or the stuffing or the sausage meat. Our dinner was virtually reduced to nil calories, which suited the flab fighters like me just fine.

That poor bastard turkey must have shat in itself while it cooked, making the whole drama appear like a party political broadcast favouring vegetarianism.

So, today my mother sees fit to redeem herself. You can’t go wrong with lamb from Gorman’s butchers as free-range as you can get it. This is now deja-vu without the rotten turkey. Eight members in attendance like the knights at the round table.

To my left is Grace (30), 5 ft 6". Sensible and impeccable are the two adjectives that come to mind. Also terminally boring. She is a permanent primary teacher engaged to Nigel, the town’s well-respected solicitor (ten years her senior). I hate the way she assiduously pulls out the grey intruders from her black hair. Honestly, she is too mean to spend her cash on hair dyes. Unlike me, she obviously doesn’t think she’s worth it!

I’m also convinced that she is a serial hoarder holding onto odd socks in the vague hope they will return from the Bermuda triangle. In case of emergency, she had to put a stone on both her first holy communion and confirmation money.

Insurance policies against all eventualities are designed for people like my sister. She fears and expects the worst to happen to all members of this clan, especially herself.

A headache becomes an inoperable brain tumour. A simple ache or pain gets blown out of all proportion. She has had every scan, x-ray, MRI known to man to ensure her healthy well-being.

Sitting opposite me is Jude, the one and only son (19). His name was conceived after my mother’s biblical class was working on forgiveness issues, and she took the topic to its illogical conclusion. 6 ft 1"; black hair with navy eyes. Mechanic and part-time model. He is my mother’s only real child, forever destined to remain an imbecile in anything remotely connected to self-care and housework. All the sisters (including me) resent their oedipal bond. We have never forgiven her for making us do his bed and wash his clothes. Jude loves his friends but hates all his sisters. The feeling is mutual. Presently single and looking. Family pet name, DICKHEAD.

Mother’s name is Una McCarthy (a.k.a. mother superior) from South Kerry. Peroxide blonde, piercing light blue eyes, forever fighting the war of the flab and failing. Her claim to fame was starring as an extra in Ryan’s Daughter. She boasts about declining Robert Mitchum’s advances, calling him a lecherous old sod. Other mother’s’ daughters can be sluts but not hers. Her mission in life is to guard her daughter’s virginity and to pander to her only son. This takes up all her time. She is forever telling us what we should and should not be doing. Her words fall on deaf ears. Delusion and denial shelter her from the reality of her off-springs morality which suits us all just fine.

To guarantee her place in heaven she is a daily mass attendant and Eucharistic helper. She has secretly confided in me that she prefers it when people receive by their hand rather than their tongues.

She has a positive aversion to tongues – they are simply too slimy and yucky. Sometimes when her finger touches off a tongue, all thoughts of the body of Christ mutate into reptilian effigies that haunt her for the rest of the mass. She grins and bears it only because she is one of Father Walshe’s handmaidens, goodness personified in the eyes of Dingle society’s squinting windows.

Father’s name is Jack Moran from the heart of Dingle. Jet-black hair streaked with grey. He thinks he looks like Richard Gere on a good day. Bless him. He works as a sheep farmer and also in the summer months runs sheep tours for the American tourists. This consists of American tourists watching him and his two sheepdog best friends Fionn and Sam round up the sheep. They think it’s awesome and he thinks it’s great that they pay him money to view his daily routine.

In a house full of women, the only concession afforded to his manhood is the television remote control. Even my mother tolerates his infuriating channel-hopping because she knows who is the real boss. Needless to say my father takes a passive role when it comes to child rearing, as my mother has sufficient dictatorial skills on her own.

Sitting between my mother and father is my grand-aunt Molly who alternates between the past, present and future existing in a semi-senile fog. She is my mother’s aunt and the only living link to her past. I once dated a guy who had long hair, every day she would ask him if he was a man or a woman? After a week of listening to her insults he did a runner.

She claims that she hates all people from Killarney and when asked why, she says that they are all mean and rotten. She eats everything but eggs (not since the chickens got the Galar in 1922) and spends her pension money on sherry and scratch cards.

To my right are the twins Norah and Sarah (27), 5 ft 3"; non identical in looks, blonde hair and pitch black hair, also different in every other way. Norah with the black hair is nicknamed the crow, is an engineer with a firm in Dublin and Sarah (the blonde bombshell is a beautician in the local hotel’s spa centre). They have a love/hate relationship.

The fact that Norah has moved to Dublin in the last few years has made their relationship stronger. Sarah is outgoing, fun-loving and carefree, while Norah is serious like Grace and has to calculate everything before she makes a decision. Norah has been dating a work colleague for the last six months, whom she hasn’t yet introduced to the family. Sarah is dating Dave, the local fisherman. Dave is loved by all our family except mother who thinks he drinks too much when he is on land. Dave softens her up with all his fresh supply of crab claws (her favourite) and plenty of John Dory which he catches a lot of from the coast of Spain.

Last but not least is moi – Anna (28 yrs) auburn hair with blond and pink streaks. Height 5ft 7"; large gap between front teeth (sign of love of travel) a stone over weight (flab fighter, just like mother). Green eyes, Irish skin with the threat of freckles. Bust 34C – looks remarkable in a wonder bra even if I say so myself. Dimpled cellulite on inner thighs and buttocks. None of the creams on the market have worked so far. If I were nine stone I’d be dangerous which is why God turned down my metabolic thermostat in my body.

Marriage prospects for a babe like me in Dingle are zero but if my mother had her way I would be sold to anyone whose income exceeded £30,000. ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder my dear,’ so she says. It would not matter to her if a guy had a squint or a club foot, just as long as he was solvent. One would simply have to grow to love him and his squint.

Emotional evolution at its best. Being a dreamer, reality sucks big time so even minor imperfections such as buck–teeth or giant freckles freak me out. I don’t like to stereotype people but I do have some standards when I’m sober. I could not be mated with someone I didn’t fancy the pants off. You might think I am being foolish and immature but sexual chemistry is a huge deciding factor in my book. I need to tingle with anticipation, feeling the gravitational pull towards his maleness… I need seduction with all the pleasures of the flesh. I need to burn in the fires of lust. If my mother knew this I’d be treated to weekly exorcisms with Father Walshe and all her cronies.

To my mother’s generation, sex outside of marriage is the number one mortal sin. If it is so disgraceful and disgusting, then how on earth did they ever do it? It is an argument that is ongoing in our house. Grace agrees with mother but I know that she and Nigel do it at his flat because I’ve found condoms hidden in a cigar box. Seemingly, it is only a sin if you are found out anyhow.

Thou shalt not get pregnant. Now that must be the ultimate, a fear that always torments my conscience. Relief is the most underrated emotion of all but it is definitely my favourite. If I’m late, niggling doubts threaten all rational thoughts reducing me to a quivering wreck.

Me Pregnant? What would I do? I plan my escape to outer Mongolia, my goodbyes to Claudia… giving birth alone in some hut in the forest… giving birth to a baby with giant freckles and flaming red hair… by the time my period arrives the relief is intoxicating… amazing… I feel liberated and truly absolved.

I used to love growing up in this house full of raging hormones, shouting, screaming and banging doors but not anymore. It’s no longer funny. Everyone else seems to have a life, a plan taking them to the stars, while I get to stay in the one place selling fish and conversing with housewives.

Oh no… this is not me. My star is up there right now shining manically, desperately trying to attract my attention to steer me elsewhere. Dingle has clipped my wings in more ways than one and right now I need to fly. Unlike Icarus, I do not give a damn if I fly too close to the sun. I want to rage against the dying of the light and escape like a bat out of hell!

At last the Christmas pudding is being recycled for this New Year’s dessert. Three people eat it while the rest of us wonder how they can eat such a gross source of concentrated fat. Heart disease