The kitchen clears and I ask, ‘Mum, is keeping something from your friends the same as lying?’
‘Well, people keep things to themselves for all sorts of reasons. Maybe they think they’ll make a situation worse if they share, or maybe they feel it’s not their place to interfere. And that wouldn’t mean LYING, though there is such a thing as “a sin of omission” and it’d be like an error of omission in ordinary life. All depends on the circumstances, I suppose.’
I nod and I bet I look miserable.
‘Does a friend of yours have a problem of this sort?’ she asks.
‘Yes. A friend is keeping something from one of his best friends because he’s afraid of being laughed at, but it’ll cause a big hoohah if it comes out. And he’s also told his other best friend, so they’re both in a bad place now.’
Surely the fact I said the pal is a HE will throw her off the scent – I am pleased with this even if, technically, it’s likely to be a lie too.
‘This friend should probably balance up the good with the bad. Maybe to be laughed at a little bit might not be such a bad thing and it would be meant affectionately, I’d say, if they’re true friends. It might be gentler than risking, say, losing a best friend. Making decisions like this is all part of growing up, Jen, of taking responsibility.’
I am more miserable now than ever before.
‘For your friend, that is. Obviously it’s not you.’
‘No. Not me.’
Gran saunters in. ‘Cheer up, Jen, it might never happen,’ she says.
I’m saved from saying anything because the Quinns are gathering for one of our favourite shows and there is plenty else to think about. We stock up on chocolate and crisps and gather on the sofas and armchairs.
One of the strange things about going back to school is that it coincides with the television getting good again. So, just when you have less time to watch it because you have homework and all, the programmes get better = Sod’s Law. The Quinns have several, separate favourites but some shows are meant to be watched and enjoyed all together, and one of those is Crimestoppers. That’s exactly what we’re tucking into now, as well as cheese ’n’ onion crisps and Maltesers.*
Crimestoppers is an hour long and you can ring in to the studio with information on the crimes if you have any. Real police present it and they are v wooden, telling us about the awful stuff that’s happened in Ireland during the week. As well as criminals doing stupidly awful stuff too. I’d say presenting the show is way harder for the cops than going out chasing the villains.
The best thing is when we absorb the facts and then Dad turns and says, ‘And where were YOU on the night of Wednesday 7 August?’
Then you have to have a really good alibi or he might have to phone up the programme and turn you in. I nearly got caught for an armed robbery in Co. Tipperary once because I had such a lame excuse involving Dixie and a knitting lesson.
Gran often confesses but Dad just can’t bring himself to hand her over, or that’s what he says. And sometimes, if it looks like he will, Mum will make a big plea on behalf of Gran and beg him not to turn her in. I keep waiting for a dog story so that I can anonymously shop Gypsy for a crime she may, or may not, have committed.
Sometimes we like to guess who in the Oakdale area might be suited to a certain crime, but then you have to pick the person least likely EVER to do such a thing and back up your theory TO THE HILT. The strangest people might be criminal masterminds, according to the Quinns.
Gran is particularly devious and good at this activity. One night, we saw a piece about a stolen articulated lorry full of live chickens.
‘Rosie O’Rourke from Beech Close,’ Gran said. ‘Can’t help herself. It’s in her blood. Countrywoman. Can’t resist livestock. Been rustling poultry since she was three feet high.’
‘She’s in a mobility scooter now,’ Mum pointed out.
‘Deep cover,’ Gran assured her. ‘She only uses that thing for show in her leisure hours; rest of the time she’s like Lara Croft, throwing herself around, beating up on people and stealing chickens left right and centre. Besides, where was she on the night of 3 September?’
I’m nearly sure Mrs O’Rourke is ninety-seven.
Tonight, there’s the usual mix of attacks, car theft, cashpoint robberies and an item on con artists scamming people out of their savings by being charming and not who they seem to be. I keep expecting my face to flash up on the screen as the biggest hoaxer† in Oakdale.
There’s an item on a bunny rabbit belonging to a homeless man being chucked into the River Liffey in town – what a terrible thing to do. The man jumped in and saved his pet and then they were both rescued from the river by the fire brigade.
Dad turns to Dermot and asks, ‘Where were YOU on that Saturday?’
I’m glad it wasn’t me he picked on because I WAS in town that day! Dermot has a brilliant alibi because it turns out he was part of an unreported heist on a yoghurt factory in Monaghan that day.
Although it’s a great episode, and the Quinns do well with their excuses, I go to sleep troubled. I dream that Dixie is a giant bath bomb and I throw her into a giant bath and she fizzes away to nothing, shouting, ‘I’m your friend. I smell of grapefruit. How could you do this to me?’ Gypsy is barking, barking, barking. Then I wake. I am all sweaty and sticky and my heart is RACING, and I smell of grapefruit too. And Gypsy is barking, so maybe I didn’t dream that bit. Actually, I’m vaguely grateful to Gypsy for waking me, as I really didn’t want to continue dreaming that dream and who knows how much longer it would have taken to run out. I might have pulled the plug on Dixie and flushed her away.
