5. Don’t Mention the Wall
I wake up the following day with a feeling of guilt weighing on my head like a bad hangover.
Everyone knows what it’s like – that horrible sense that you possibly owe one or two people an apology, but at the same time you wouldn’t mind finding out how actually pissed off they are before you go throwing the word ‘sorry’ around.
I send Oisinn a text and it’s just like, ‘That all got a bit heated last night! We’ll leave it at that! How was the rest of the night?’
Twenty minutes later, there’s nothing back from him, but I do notice that I have a text from Sorcha. It’s just like, ‘Can you come to the house? I have something to give you.’
I stare at it for a good, I don’t know, sixty seconds, trying to figure out whether this is likely to be good news or bad. I’m usually a glass-half-full type of goy, but I notice that she hasn’t used a single emoji and that is never a good sign with Sorcha.
So I drive out to Killiney to possibly face the music.
The gate is wide open when I get there. I drive through it and up to the house. I ring on the doorbell. It’s Sorcha’s old dear who ends up answering and it’s straightaway obvious from her frosty response that I was right about the absence of emojis. She doesn’t say a word to me, just opens the door to let me in.
Upstairs, I can hear one of the boys going, ‘Phil Jagielka! Phil Jagielka!’ and it breaks my focking hort.
I’m like, ‘What’s this about, I’m just wondering?’
But she doesn’t tell me. She just leads me down to what I used to call the gym but what has now been turned back into a study. ‘Edmund wants to talk to you,’ she goes. ‘I’ll go and tell Sorcha you’re here.’
I push the door. He’s sitting behind his desk and he’s on the phone. Big focking serious voice on him. He indicates for me to sit down by just pointing his finger, so I do, while he continues to chat away. It’s all talk about, I don’t know, clavicles and scapula and other words I don’t understand.
I put my feet up on his desk. He eventually hangs up and removes my feet from his desk. Then Sorcha walks in. She sits down on her old man’s side of the desk – which is possibly an omen.
‘Sorcha,’ I go, ‘I was actually talking about soccer. I was talking about those cords that Magnus has been buying for the boys.’
She’s there, ‘We’ll talk about that in a minute. That’s not why I asked you here.’
And that’s when her old man takes sudden chorge of the conversation. He goes, ‘Honor broke a young boy’s collarbone yesterday.’
Young? Okay, that’s debatable.
I’m there, ‘She was playing rugby. It’s port and porcel.’
He wouldn’t know, of course. I remember one time, years ago, he was trying to bullshit me about the game and he storted talking about how well Roland O’Gara played against England. I never even bothered my hole correcting him. I thought, let the focker go on saying it. Give him enough rope.
‘Part and parcel,’ he goes – it’s like he thinks we’re in court here. ‘Deliberately causing a serious injury to another minor. That’s allowed under the rules of rugby, is it?’
I’m there, ‘Rugby doesn’t have rules. It has laws.’
My old man always says the difference between rules and laws is that laws are drawn up by solicitors billing by the hour.
‘And trust me,’ I go, ‘it was a legal tackle. I’m not saying it wasn’t borderline. She picked him up and she returned him to the ground again. It’s just he landed awkwardly.’
He’s there, ‘As well as a broken collarbone, he has concussion. His father is threatening to sue us for substantial damages.’
‘Sorcha,’ I go, ‘you watched a lot of rugby back in the day. You know that when you get torgeted in a match, you’re not supposed to piss and moan about it afterwards. The best players don’t, anyway.’
There’s no reaching her, though. She just stares straight through me.
He goes, ‘What I’ve since discovered was that this was no accident. This wasn’t something that just happened in the heat of the match. This was something premeditated. And it was something that you taught her.’
Now, I faced enough citing commissioners back in the day to know how to handle this. I just stick my bottom lip out and shake my head, like I’ve no idea what he’s even talking about. And that’s when he produces it. My Rugby Tactics Book. And I can see that it’s open on the page headed ‘The Legal Spear Tackle’.
I reach across the desk and try to grab it from him, except his hands are too fast, which is something I’m highly embarrassed to admit.
‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ he goes. ‘This is evidence.’
I’m like, ‘What are you talking about, evidence?’
‘I’m going to court to seek a restraining order to keep you away from the children.’
‘What? On what basis?’
‘On the basis that your influence over them is morally deleterious. Yes, that’s also a word, Ross.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Oh, don’t worry, the judge will understand it. He’ll understand this, too. The Legal Spear Tackle. There are illustrations and everything. And young Adam’s father said he’ll provide me with the X-rays of his son’s shoulder to put before the court.’
I look at Sorcha and I’m like, ‘I thought we said we’d handle this divorce like Gwyneth Paltrow and the dude from Coldplay?’
‘I tried, Ross. I genuinely did. It’s like I said to Fionn last night after you ruined Oisinn’s coming out, I’ve finally realized that not only do I not love you anymore, I don’t even like you. You’re not the kind of person I want to be around. And I don’t want you damaging the children any further.’
‘You never wanted Honor to play rugby. Your nose was out of joint from day one. You’d have preferred if it was, I don’t know, ballet or something?’
‘What you did to Garret and Claire –’
‘I’ve given you my explanation for that and I’m standing by it.’
‘Claire has lost her marriage and she’s also lost her business. Yes, that’s right, Ross. She had to close Wheat Bray Love because of the things you wrote about it on Trip Advisor.’
‘Well, the food didn’t sound great, in fairness. It actually sounded disgusting.’
‘What was disgusting, Ross, was the way you spoke to Magnus last night.’
‘I was talking about soccer. I wish everyone would accept that.’
‘And, as I said to Fionn, I can’t be friends with someone who thinks those things.’
I’m like, ‘Oh, yeah, Fionn, I’d say he was fully behind you on that one,’ and then I end up giving Sorcha’s old man exactly what he wants, in that I suddenly stort crying? Hey, it’s pretty hord news to take, being told your kids are being taken away from you, especially given the kind of father that I am. I’m like, ‘You can’t stop me seeing my kids. You can’t do it.’
He sits back in his chair and makes a steeple of his fingers. Big smile on his face. He’s enjoying watching Sorcha finally turn on me. He’s loving every second of it.
Sorcha’s there, ‘I’m not going to stop you seeing them altogether, Ross.’
Her old man goes, ‘My daughter – being far too charitable, in my view – has agreed to allow you to have supervised access.’
‘Supervised? What does that mean?’
‘It means one hour per week, here in the house, with either Sorcha or her mother or myself present.’
‘One hour? What about Honor’s rugby?’
‘Is that a serious question?’
‘Rugby is the one thing I don’t joke about. One hour per week? Jesus Christ, that’s how often I see my old dear and she’s in the focking slammer.’
He goes, ‘If I show a judge this book, along with that child’s X-ray, believe me, he will grant me a restraining order preventing you from seeing the children at all.’
‘Not a judge who understands the laws of rugby.’
‘One hour per week. Here in the house. I would strongly recommend that you accept it.’
I have no choice but to go, ‘Okay, I’ll take it, you total focking knob-end,’ and I stand up and I storm out of there. And who do I end up literally bumping into outside in the hall?
Focking Magnus.
I keep forgetting he’s still living here. I try to keep the porty polite. I’m like, ‘Hey, Dude, I was texting Oisinn earlier – how did the rest of the night go?’
He just, like, glowers at me. He’s like, ‘Mosht of the time, I do not like to shwear. But thish time, I heff to make an exsheption. You are a fucking ash hole, Rosh. A fucking ash hole. You are very lucky I don’t break your noash right now.’
‘Dude, when I said you were corrupting innocent people, I was talking about soccer.’
‘Get the hell out of my shight.’
The old man is full of it. He’s holding up his phone, going, ‘You know, Muirgheal has set me up with one of these Twitters!’
All me and Helen can do is look at each other and smile.
‘You mean she set you up on Twitter,’ I go, ‘you stupid focking dope.’
He’s like, ‘Yes, that’s the one! You’ve heard of this thing, have you?’
‘Jesus Christ, it’s been around for years.’
Helen goes, ‘Just be careful, Charlie. You hear about people getting into all sorts of trouble on that thing, writing things without thinking them through first.’
She hands me a cup of coffee, then goes back to making my omelette. She really is great – even though the omelette will be barely edible.
‘Stuff and nonsense!’ the old man goes. ‘No, the wonderful thing about Twitters is that I can send my message directly to my supporters without it having to go through the filter of the media – who put a bloody well slant on everything I say! No, as Muirgheal pointed out, this way I’m actually in charge of the message! Oh, she’s calling in this morning, by the way.’
Helen’s there, ‘Calling in? To the house?’
‘Yes, I’ve asked her to replace young Sorcha as the New Republic candidate for Dublin Bay South. Oh, she’s very ambitious – and what an operator!’
‘Erika doesn’t like her. She says she’s not a very nice person.’
‘Well, thankfully, Erika is only one voter. She’s not the entire electorate.’
While this conversation is going on, I’m checking the old man’s Twitter feed. It’s actually beyond funny. He’s posted, like, two messages. The first one, from yesterday morning, is just like, ‘Testing testing testing testing,’ like he’s checking a phone line or a microphone or something.
The second one, from last night, is like, ‘Hello, everyone, this is Charles O’Carroll-Kelly speaking!’
The replies are hilarious. It’s all shit like, ‘Your nothing but a prick!!!!’ and ‘Scum – well-fed scum!’ and ‘Why don’t you die you waste of fucking skin?’
The usual banter you get on Twitter.
But then – I have to admit – there are other messages as well that are like, ‘Water is free, it comes out of the fucking sky, why should we fucking pay for it?’ and ‘Your the only one speaking the truth, german c**ts telling us what to do, we should say to them you want the money? Then take it out of that you pack of foreign fucks!’ and ‘Your hair is magnificent, what do you wash it with?’
There’s suddenly a knock on the door. He goes, ‘Oh, that’ll be her – and Hennessy. I asked the famous Kennet to collect them. Ross, answer the door, will you?’
I’m like, ‘What’s wrong with your focking legs?’
Helen’s there, ‘I’ll get it,’ but I’m like, ‘It’s cool, Helen, I’ll go,’ because she’s making me breakfast, in fairness to the woman, and it’s hord enough to eat her cooking when it’s not focking burned.
So out I trot to answer the door. It ends up being – yeah, no – Hennessy, Muirgheal and K … K … K … Kennet. I let the first two in, then I go to close the door in Kennet’s face. He sticks his foot in it. That’s the type he is. He goes, ‘What are you d … d … d … doing?’
And I’m like, ‘You’re the help – the help waits outside?’
I’m quoting my old dear.
Hennessy goes, ‘Charlie needs him this morning. Let him in.’
So I end up having to?
I notice straightaway that there’s something very different about Muirgheal, although I can’t put my finger on what it actually is yet.
‘Hennessy,’ I go, ‘can I talk to you about something?’
And Muirgheal has the actual cheek to go, ‘Yeah, we’re here to talk about politics, Ross?’
Hennessy goes, ‘Muirgheal, Kennet, you go talk to Charlie. I’ll be two minutes,’ and down they go to the kitchen. ‘Okay, what do you want?’
‘It’s Sorcha. Well, it’s more her old man. He wants to stop me seeing the kids except for, like, one hour a week supervised?’
‘I know. I got the letter.’
‘Well, presumably we can fight this in the courts?’
‘You told your daughter to break another kid’s collarbone and almost his neck.’
This is my own solicitor, by the way.
I’m there, ‘Surely a judge would understand the difference between a legal spear tackle and an illegal one?’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ he goes. ‘A lot of them are hopelessly out of touch with rugby these days. What did you say her old man is offering you?’
‘One hour per week – supervised.’
‘You’re lucky to still have that. Take it.’
Then he follows the others down to the kitchen. And so do I.
Muirgheal has bought the old man a present – oh, she’s some operator alright. It’s, like, a red tie and it’s hilarious because she’s actually putting the thing on him when we step into the kitchen. The old man is all embarrassed, the sap. He goes, ‘Young Muirgheal’s bought me a gift, Hennessy!’ his face the same colour as the tie. ‘To say thank you for selecting her to run in Dublin Bay South.’
‘And by the way,’ Muirgheal goes, ‘I took the liberty of writing some responses you might consider making to Micheál Martin’s comments this morning.’
I notice Helen giving her the evil eye as she puts my omelette down on the table.
The old man goes, ‘Michael Martin? What did he say?’
Muirgheal finishes tying the tie, then she looks at it with her head cocked to one side and storts adjusting the knot. ‘He called you a dangerous populist,’ she goes, ‘and he said your views on Europe could set Ireland back one hundred years. There … Oh my God, red so suits you.’
The old man’s like, ‘A dangerous populist? The bloody well nerve of the man!’
‘Chorles,’ she goes, sitting down in my seat, ‘it’s all good. It means he’s rattled.’
‘Yes, of course! He has to come after me given our position in the polls! Oh, don’t worry your head, Muirgheal, I’ll deal with our friend in time!’
I can’t believe he’s actually flirting with her. She looks at the omelette, pulls a face and pushes the plate away. It looks focking revolting, in fairness, but actually Helen notices and she gives Muirgheal a long, hord stare.
I end up laughing then because I suddenly realize what’s different about Muirgheal. She’s blonde.
‘Did you actually dye your hair,’ I go, ‘to try to look like Sorcha?’
But she doesn’t answer me. She just goes, ‘If we’re going to work this morning, Charles, can we possibly clear the kitchen?’
The old man – unbelievably – goes, ‘Helen, Ross, would you mind –’ and he flicks his head to avoid having to say, ‘– focking off?’, which is what he actually means.
Helen is seriously pissed off. She picks up his blue Charvet tie, which she bought him for his birthday and which Muirgheal had dropped on the floor, and goes, ‘I happen to think this one suited you better.’
Then she storms out of the room – I swear to fock, in tears. Of course, the old man is totally oblivious to this. He goes, ‘Okay, let’s start with a basic one, shall we, Kennet?’
And Kennet goes, “Alreet, M … M … M … Muirgheal, repeath arthur me – the cunter doddy is arthur goan to the bleaten dogs, so it has.’
I follow Helen out into the hallway, where she just, like, collapses, sobbing, into my orms. I’m there, ‘He’s a dick, Helen. I was really looking forward to that omelette as well.’
That’s easy to say, of course.
‘Oh, Ross,’ she goes. ‘I curse the day he ever found that wig.’
Amelie is thrilled to see me. I’m thinking, at least someone is these days? She comes at me with her two orms outstretched, going, ‘Uncle Ross!’
It’d nearly give you a big head!
I pick her up and I go, ‘At least someone is thrilled to see me!’
And Erika, in fairness to her, looks up from her laptop and smiles. ‘What do you want, Ross? I’m busy.’
She’s busy alright. The place finally looks like an actual gallery. The workmen have gone and the walls are full of pictures slash paintings. I walk around, with Amelie in my orms, checking them out. Most of them, you can tell straightaway what they’re supposed to be, which has always been the mork of a good picture slash painting to me.
‘You always had a good eye for ort,’ I go. ‘Here, what are those paintings called in the National Gallery? You’re only allowed to look at them in January.’
‘Are you talking about the Turner Exhibition?’
‘That’s them. You only put them out for one month in the year. That’s acting the bollocks. I remember I made that point on a school trip once and it wasn’t appreciated.’
‘It’s to protect them from the effects of the sunlight.’
‘You say it’s that and I say it’s acting the bollocks. Of course not everyone in the ort world likes a straight talker – including the staff in that place.’
‘Speaking of you being thrown out of galleries, what are you doing here, Ross?’
‘Yeah, no, I came to see Oisinn to hopefully apologize properly. Is he upstairs?’
‘No, he went out to get a sandwich.’
‘I’ll, er, stick around if you don’t mind.’
‘I’m saying I do mind. And I’m not one hundred percent sure he’s ready to hear whatever you have to say either.’
‘I don’t know about that. I can be a bit of a wordsmith when the moment takes me.’
‘I know. I heard your little speech during his coming out.’
‘When I mentioned Magnus being into warped shit, I was talking about soccer. I wish people would accept that.’
I hand Amelie over to Erika and I change the subject. I’m there, ‘By the way, your old dear was in tears earlier?’
She’s like, ‘Mum? What are you talking about?’ and she’s furious.
I go, ‘Yeah, no, my old man was being a dick to her again. He asked her to leave the room.’
‘But it’s her house.’
‘Yeah, it was so Kennet could teach Muirgheal how to talk like a skank. She’s replacing Sorcha as his candidate in Dublin Bay South.’
‘That girl is a dangerous bitch.’
It takes one to know one – that’s what I’m tempted to say. I don’t, though. I go, ‘Yeah, no, she bought my old man a new tie. Which is the other reason your old dear was upset. He took off the good Charvet one she bought him for his birthday and dropped it on the floor. You should have seen Muirgheal flirting with him.’
She’s like, ‘Seriously, Ross. She’d cut your throat to get whatever she wants.’
‘Who are you telling? Do you remember what a bitch she was when Sorcha won the election for Head Girl in Mount Anville?’
‘Well, it sounds like we’re about to see a rematch,’ she goes.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sorcha didn’t tell you?’
‘Sorcha’s not really talking to me. It’s because I rode Claire when she was home and I kind of encouraged Honor to break another kid’s collarbone.’
‘She’s planning to run as an Independent candidate.’
I’m like, ‘What?’ and this sort of, I don’t know, dread comes over me. I’m suddenly worried about Sorcha and what Muirgheal might do to her.
But then I don’t have time to think about it anymore because Oisinn arrives back and we’re suddenly standing face to face. I see the Carluccio’s bag in his hand and I go, ‘What sandwich did you get?’ more to break the ice than anything else. ‘I’m a massive, massive fan of the toasted caprese, but then I also like the sausage and ricotta calzone, even though I was dubious about calzones for about ten years after they first came out. I actually refused to recognize them as a thing.’
He just, like, stares me down and goes, ‘The only reason I haven’t punched you in the face is because there’s a child in the room.’
I’m there, ‘Dude, I’m trying to say sorry here.’
‘I don’t want your apology.’
‘I was actually talking about soccer when I said that shit to Magnus.’
‘At least have the courage to admit what you are.’
‘What am I?’
‘You’re a homophobic bigot.’
‘I disagree with that analysis.’
‘I mean, your wife even said it. You refused to bring her grandmother to vote.’
‘It’s her grandmother who hates gay people. She just hides it well.’
‘Well, you certainly don’t – hide it well, I mean.’
‘Dude, Magnus bought the boys these Match Attax cords. I was worried they might be getting drawn down the wrong path. You hate the game as much as I do. Whatever happened to “Tough on soccer, tough on the causes of soccer”? We lived by that rule.’
‘You were the one I was most worried about telling.’
‘Me? Why?’
‘I just knew you’d be the one who’d have a problem with it.’
‘I don’t have a problem with it. Look, I struggled with it for a few weeks. I’m admitting that.’
‘Weeks? What are you talking about?’
‘Oisinn, I knew before anyone. I saw you and Magnus in the laneway beside Kielys getting off with each other.’
He laughs, then nods, like this is somehow evidence of something? He goes, ‘So that’s why you were avoiding me for most of the summer.’
I’m there, ‘It was a shock, that’s all. But now I’ve actually got my head around it and I’m genuinely thrilled for you.’
He goes, ‘Fock you, Ross,’ and he walks past me, giving me a serious shoulder nudge on the way. ‘You’re focking dead to me.’
‘Do you know what?’ I shout at him as he walks up the stairs. ‘Fock you, Oisinn! How’s about that? Fock you instead!’
Erika tries to block Amelie’s ears. ‘Ross,’ she goes, ‘I do not want my daughter growing up with the same vocabulary as your children.’
Amelie suddenly bursts into tears.
I’m there, ‘No, I’m going to say what I have to say, Erika. Fock you, Oisinn. There’s no one outside your family who cares about you more than I do. I was the one who went to Monte Corlo and brought you home, in case you’ve forgotten, when you did a runner from your debts and you were considering topping yourself. We’ve been friends since we were, like, thirteen. Jesus, we played rugby together. How could you believe that of me? I have nothing against gay people. Yes, I’m a nervous wreck around them. But one thing I am not is a homophobiac.’
Erika is staring at me with this look of, like, shock on her face. I realize that, just like Amelie, I’m crying too. And I’m also shaking.
‘Fock you for believing the worst of me,’ I shout up the stairs. ‘And fock you even more for taking your focking friendship away.’
Honor can’t understand it. She goes, ‘It said in your Rugby Tactics Book that even if someone deliberately takes you out, you’re not supposed to go pissing and moaning about it afterwards. And this focking wanker sends us an actual solicitor’s letter?’
I’m there, ‘You’re preaching to the choir, Honor. When Drico got done on the Lions tour in oh-five, there was a lot of shit he could have said about Tana Umaga and Keven Mealamu – two pricks, by the way. But he didn’t. I can quote from his book. He accepted it.’
We’re lying on her bed watching Orange is the New Black on Netflix. The boys are crawling around on the floor, fighting over their – it kills me to say it – soccer cords. ‘My Wayne Rooney. Mine!’ Leo goes. ‘Mine!’
I genuinely preferred the swearing.
‘Who’s she?’ I go. ‘The bird with the glasses?’
Honor’s like, ‘Oh, that’s Alex.’
‘She’s a bit of a fox. In spite of the glasses.’
‘Yeah, she’s also a lesbian?’
‘Cool.’
‘So she wouldn’t have any interest in the likes of you.’
‘One thing doesn’t necessarily follow the other, Honor. It’s a common mistake to presume that it does.’
‘Well, she had a thing with Piper ages before they went to jail. They were, like, drug smugglers together? Then Alex basically double-crossed her. But now they’re in prison together. And they’re sort of getting it on again.’
‘Fantastic. I’m delighted for them. See, that’s an example of me being totally open-minded about the gay thing. If only that dickhead Oisinn could see this version of me. And Magnus and everyone else who thinks I’m not cool with … Jesus, it’s very graphic, isn’t it?’
‘Do you want me to switch it off?’
‘No, no, leave it on. I’m actually answering my critics here.’
Sorcha’s old man bursts into the room without even knocking. ‘Okay,’ he goes, looking at his watch, ‘your time’s up.’
I’m there, ‘There’s no way that was an hour.’
‘It was fifty minutes. You arrived ten minutes late. If you want the full hour, I suggest you arrive at one o’clock as agreed.’
I’m about to call him a dick, but Honor gets there before me. She goes, ‘Why don’t you go and eat a bowl of Go Fock Yourself?’
I laugh. I’m there, ‘Classic, classic Honor!’
He goes, ‘If you continue to speak to me in that way, I’ll be cutting off your father’s access altogether.’
And I’m like, ‘Yeah, just give me a few minutes to say goodbye to my kids, will you – you focking dick?’
He goes, ‘You have exactly sixty seconds,’ and off he goes.
I’m there, ‘I better head off, Honor. He’s just going to be a prick about things.’
She just nods. I can tell she’s hortbroken. So much for the girl who supposedly found me annoying.
I’m there, ‘Look, I’ll see you next week, okay?’
She looks away, all sad. She goes, ‘A week is ages away.’
And I’m there, ‘Believe me, Honor, the time goes twice as slowly for me.’
She throws her orms around my waist and holds me like she has no intention of ever letting go. This is, like, Honor, bear in mind? I’m there, ‘Honor, I really have to go,’ and I finally manage to prise myself free.
I go to say goodbye to the boys. Leo holds up a cord and goes, ‘Me have John Terry!’ and I decide not to even dignify it with a response. In fact, I totally ignore them as I’m leaving. No hugs, no kisses, no goodbyes for them. It’s called tough love, and it’ll do them no horm in the long run.
I tip down the stairs.
Sorcha’s old man already has the front door open for me. As I’m just about to walk out, he goes, ‘Oh, by the way, have you seen Sorcha’s election posters?’
I should know better than to take the bait. But I end up taking it.
I go, ‘What are you shitting on about now?’
He points to five or six lorge packages wrapped in brown paper. One of them is torn open and that’s the one he reaches for. He pulls a poster out of it. He’s all, ‘I think they’re rather wonderful,’ and he holds it up for me to see it.
The first thing that catches my eye is Sorcha’s picture. She’s wearing her black Alexander Wang blazer and she has her head tilted slightly to one side and a look on her face that seems to say, ‘God, it sounds like things are really shit for you right now!’
Next to her face, it says, ‘A Strong, Independent Voice for the people of Dublin Bay South!’
But it’s what’s across the top of the poster that upsets me the most. It’s her name. It doesn’t say, ‘Sorcha O’Carroll-Kelly’.
It says, ‘Sorcha Lalor’.
Sorcha’s old man goes, ‘Now that’s a name you can trust, isn’t it?’
I end up totally flipping. And I mean totally. I head for the study, where Sorcha and Fionn are having what they called a strategy meeting. I can hear Fionn, through the door, going, ‘I think we have to accept that there is a conservative element out there that will be turned off by the fact that you have a failed marriage behind you. But I think we can turn it to our advantage by playing up the whole single mom, four kids, career woman, environmentalist thing. Let women know that they can have it all. I think it’ll play really, really well.’
I don’t even bother my hole knocking. I just give the door a shove, the same way her old man does. The two of them are sitting either side of the desk. Fionn, at least, has the decency to not be able to even look me in the eye.
I’m like, ‘Your idea, was it? For her to drop my name?’
Sorcha goes, ‘You didn’t think I was going to go on using your name after we were divorced, did you?’
‘We’re not divorced yet – that’s the point I’m making.’
‘Well, we’re going to be. I decided to go back to my maiden name to try to put distance between myself and your father, whom I still love, by the way – despite our political differences? I just don’t want people hearing O’Carroll-Kelly and presuming I believe in any of the things he believes in.’
You never truly know a woman until she’s divorcing you.
I say that as well. I’m like, ‘You never truly know a woman until she’s divorcing you.’
And she looks at Fionn and goes, ‘Could you just give us a minute, Fionn? I need to talk to Ross about something.’
He’s like, ‘Yeah, no problem,’ and he stands up and focks off.
Once he has, Sorcha turns around to me and goes, ‘Okay, this is awkward – it’s about money.’
I’m there, ‘Do you need money?’ reaching into my pocket for my roll of fifties. ‘I keep forgetting that your dad is bankrupt, having focked up badly during the boom.’
‘No, I don’t need money. It’s just there’s one or two bills haven’t been paid.’
‘I usually send everything to the old man.’
‘It’s just the electricity and the telephone.’
‘I’ll tell him to stick the funds in my account. I don’t know if you heard this, but he’s persuaded Muirgheal to run against you – as in Muirgheal Massey?’
‘Yes, I heard. I’m following her on Twitter.’
‘Yeah, no, she was in the gaff the other day. Kennet was teaching her how to say, “Recover doddy – would ya go wadden ourra tat?” ’
Sorcha laughs. She’s always found me funny.
‘Well,’ she goes, ‘good luck to her. She always talked about going into politics when we were at school.’
I’m there, ‘Hey, I can give you dirt on her if you need it. She wanked JP off in a field. You can have that. Venue to be confirmed.’
‘Ross, I have no intention of going negative. Muirgheal and I fought a really clean campaign when we both went for Head Girl in Mount Anville. When I beat her, she could have easily been a bitch about it.’
She was a bitch about it.
‘No, no,’ Sorcha goes. ‘When the time comes, I’ll debate her on the actual issues.’
And I’m thinking, yeah, good luck with that.
Ronan’s excited. But I’m possibly even more so? He’s storting in UCD next week.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ I go. ‘A present.’
We’re in my old man’s gaff.
He’s like, ‘What is it, Rosser?’
I open it out for him. It’s my old UCD hoodie. He looks at it – he’s definitely Scooby Dubious. He’s like, ‘Eh …’
I’m there, ‘Try it on – see does it fit!’
It’s Erika who tries to burst my bubble. She’s like, ‘He doesn’t want to wear your old clothes, Ross. Look at the state of it.’
‘Hey,’ I go, ‘I got off with you one day while I was wearing it. Obviously before we found out we were related. As a matter of fact, sometimes I think I can still smell you off it.’
I hold it up to my face. ‘God,’ I go, ‘do you remember ck one? God, I miss the nineties!’
They’re both looking at me like I’m off my head.
Erika goes, ‘I have a present for you, too, Ronan.’
Ro’s like, ‘Ah, Edika, you shouldn’t hab!’
‘It’s outside.’
‘Outsoyut?’
‘Come on,’ she goes, grabbing him by the hand. ‘Ross, bring Amelie.’
I pick Amelie up and I follow them out the front door. I’m going, ‘Yeah, you better not have upstaged my present.’
But, of course, she has?
Ronan’s looking around him, going, ‘Wheer is it, Edika?’
There’s suddenly a beep – from a brand-new, black, Golf GTI porked outside on the road. Ronan’s mouth drops open.
I’m there, ‘I still think my gift had more, I don’t know, sentimental value?’
He throws his orms around Erika and goes, ‘You’re unbeliebable, so you are – you’re bleaten unbeliebable!’
My present is definitely more of a slow-burner in terms of being appreciated. Erika goes, ‘Well, we can’t have you travelling across town on public transport every day, can we?’
She hands him the keys and he gets into it. ‘Let’s turden her on,’ he goes, ‘see how she’s ticking oaber.’
He doesn’t have a licence, of course. Or any experience. Unless you count driving a double-decker tour bus without a Category D permit, and three Juvenile Let-Offs for taking a cor without the owner’s consent, as experience.
‘I lub it,’ he goes, still unable to believe it. ‘I lub it, Edika!’
I’m there, ‘Hey, you can swing in and collect me on your first day.’
He’s like, ‘What?’
‘Your first day. I’m coming with you. To UCD. Help you get settled in. Show you the famous Orts block and one or two other former haunts of mine.’
‘Eh, the thing is, Rosser –’
‘As someone who’s seen it and done it all before. No arguments, Ro. I’m coming with you.’
Micheál Mortin calls my old man’s attitude cavalier and grossly irresponsible. This is while they’re debating Ireland’s future within the European Union on Claire Byrne Live. I’m watching from the wings with Muirgheal and Hennessy. They’re here to support him. I’m here because I’ve got a thing for Claire Byrne.
‘All his talk of countries being stronger alone,’ Micheál Mortin goes, ‘it’s like something from the nineteen thirties. Eirexit – as Charles calls it – would leave this country totally isolated on the periphery of the continent.’
‘Which is what we are anyway!’ the old man goes. ‘We have a Vichy Government with a puppet leader! Enda bloody well Kenny! A mere Cabinet Secretary whose sole function is to ensure that Ireland makes its monthly reparation payments to our masters in Europe!’
Claire Byrne gets in there then. She’s like, ‘Isn’t this just populist rhetoric, Charles O’Carroll-Kelly? Ireland can’t just walk away from its debt obligations, can it?’
‘We can,’ he goes, ‘and we will!’
‘Unfortunately,’ Micheál Mortin goes, ‘that’s not how it works. If we renege on our debts – and the electorate, I think, are smart enough to realize this – it will affect our ability to borrow money, going forward.’
‘We won’t be borrowing any more money going forward, going backward or going in any other bloody well direction! Under New Republic, we won’t need to! Ireland produces enough food each year to feed the population of China. That’s a fact. And look at us – we’re broke!’
‘Even if that’s true,’ Claire Byrne goes, ‘who’s going to buy all of this food from us if we leave the European Union?’
She’s not taken in by his bullshit.
‘We will do our own deals!’ the old man goes. ‘The rest of the world will be queuing up to trade with us! The point is that we cannot determine our own economic course as long as we are living under the weight of the most punitive economic burden placed on any country since the famous Treaty of Versailles!’
Muirgheal goes, ‘Oh my God, he talks such sense!’ and she says it just to suck up to Hennessy. ‘He’s saying things that other politicians are – oh my God – terrified to even think.’
I’m there, ‘Not from where I’m standing. I think he’s making a complete tit of himself.’
‘And what would you know about politics?’ she goes.
I’m there, ‘I know enough to see through you. Buying him that tie. Flirting with him. Upsetting Helen, who I happen to have a lot of time for. So what is it you’re after – what specifically?’
She looks to make sure that Hennessy isn’t listening. Then she turns back to me and goes, ‘Deputy Leader.’
I laugh. Straight out. I’m there, ‘Seriously?’
‘Oh, that’s not all,’ she goes. ‘I want to be the one who actually does it, who goes to Europe and tells them, “Yeah, we don’t want to be port of your bullshit anymore,” and as I’m doing it I’ll be picturing Sorcha sitting at home crying her eyes out.’
Some people just love chaos. I’m there, ‘I genuinely don’t know what Christian sees in you – aport from obviously looks.’
Then I go back to listening to the interview.
Micheál Mortin’s there, ‘This kind of rhetoric – all these war references coming from this man – it’s dangerous in the extreme. The fact remains that the European Union has helped bring peace, stability and democracy to a continent that, less than eighty years ago – we’d be foolish to lose sight of this – dragged the world into a ruinous war.’
And the old man goes, ‘Fortunately, Mister Schoolteacher from Cork, the people of Ireland don’t need a history lesson from the likes of you! They’re living with the folly of the quote-unquote European project every day! People aren’t fooled by all this talk of democracy either! Because they remember that every time they’ve voted No in a referendum that benefits the larger countries in Europe, they’ve been told to have another think about it and come back with the right answer in six months!’
‘That’s not actually what happened. The Treaties you’re referring to were substantially –’
‘People are tired of having their pockets plundered in the service of a totalitarian European super-state, which despises democracy and from which they feel completely and utterly disenfranchised! But you feel like you must go on defending it because of the role played by Fianna Fáil in agreeing to the Carthaginian peace of the so-called bailout! Because Fianna Fáil agreed to impose austerity on the people of Ireland while we paid out on the losing bets of global bond speculators!’
‘We were faced with a set of circumstances in 2008 –’
‘Fianna Fáil agreed to impose water charges on the Irish people! Fianna Fáil agreed to impose property tax on the Irish people!’
‘We were faced with a set of circumstances – if you’ll let me finish – where people would have gone to their ATMs and discovered that they had no money.’
‘They have no money now! Because you took it from them! Yes, sir! And you used it to pay private debts that had nothing to do with them! You agreed to a deal that has sucked the life’s blood out of our economy and will continue to do so for generations to come! And now you’re in opposition, you try to pretend these things had nothing to do with you! You get to criticize the way someone else is cleaning up the mess you created! You are a busted flush, Mister Schoolteacher from Cork! A busted flush!’
Claire Byrne tries to get in, except Micheál Mortin goes, ‘Can I just respond to that point? No, you gave Charles plenty of time there to attack me, so I’d like the opportunity to address the issues he’s raised. There is something frankly hilarious about this man beside me setting himself up as a sort of champion of the downtrodden masses. Charles O’Carroll-Kelly is a modern-day robber baron, who made tens of millions of euros from – let’s be honest about this – corruption. Many of the people he’s pitching to are living in communities with problems that he helped to create by subverting proper planning procedures. The hypocrisy of the man is frankly staggering.’
The old man ends up losing the plot. He turns around to Micheál Mortin and he goes, ‘You are what I would describe as a typical Cork person!’
Hennessy’s jaw just drops. He’s suddenly running his finger across his throat and mouthing the words, ‘Cut it! Cut it there! Cut it there!’
Micheál Mortin goes, ‘Oh, you have a problem with the people of Cork, do you?’
The old’s man’s like, ‘Yes, I do!’ as Hennessy puts his head in his hands. ‘Coming up here to Dublin and moaning about how we do things! I have a big problem with Cork people! When Cork sends its people, they’re not sending their best! They’re sending their whingers, their moaners, their complainers! Oh, how I’m sick and tired of that ridiculous, uppy-and-downy accent that makes everything sound like a bloody well gripe! And people are sick to the back teeth listening to it!’
Hennessy turns to Muirgheal and goes, ‘That’s it – that’s the election gone before it’s even been called.’
The old man looks directly into the camera. ‘I’m making the people of Ireland a promise here tonight!’ he goes. ‘We’re going to build a wall – and nobody builds better walls than Charles O’Carroll-Kelly, believe me! We’re going to build a wall around Cork – and we’re going to make the people of Cork pay for it!’
I haven’t seen my old dear smile in so long, I’d forgotten what her teeth looked like.
Focking horrible, I’m suddenly remembering. The woman could shove an entire pineapple in her mouth, then spit it out chunk by chunk.
I’m there, ‘You seem in better form. For some reason.’
She goes, ‘You sound annoyed by that.’
‘I’m not annoyed. As in, that’s not what’s wrong with me. I’m actually worried about the old man.’
‘Your father? What’s happened?’
‘You didn’t hear? He had a total meltdown on TV last night. He’s threatening to build a wall around Cork.’
‘About time!’
‘Do you think?’
‘I’m no fan of rural people in general, Ross. I find them slow-minded and resentful.’
‘Yeah, no, so do I.’
‘They’re different from us. There’s no point in pretending otherwise. Yet try telling that to these people are who are trying to force diversity onto us.’
‘It’s just, I don’t know, you can’t say shit like that anymore. Everyone’s always ready to take offence these days.’
‘It’s political correctness gone mad. Is he going to put broken glass on the top of this wall?’
‘He needs to put broken glass on the top of it because otherwise they’ll just climb over. People will resort to all sorts of measures in the mistaken belief that they can somehow escape their condition. Speaking of which, I have news – I got a job!’
‘A job?’
‘Here, in the kitchen!’
‘You haven’t worked since, like, the seventies.’
‘That ghastly woman we met in here –’
‘Dordeen?’
‘Yes, she had a word with someone, as she promised she would. The next thing I knew, I was summoned from my suite –’
‘Cell. Continue.’
‘– and shown to the kitchen, where the vegetables for the day’s dinner were all laid out. And this wan – Nathalie, the Head Chef – told me to get peeling. Which I did. Well, I’ve told you what the food was like in here, Ross. Awful, awful, awful. So while I was peeling the potatoes, I was watching her prepare a beef stew and I simply could not resist making one or two suggestions to her.’
‘You were lucky you didn’t get stabbed.’
‘Oh, she wasn’t happy at first. Nathalie has a lot of issues with anger. But I said, “Put the knife down, Nathalie! Just try coating the beef in flour! See what a difference it makes!” So she did put the knife down. Then she did what I said. So then I suggested adding some other ingredients and she ended up following the recipe for my famous artisan workhouse stew to the letter! You remember the one Delma and I cooked for all the street people the year I was looking for one of those Rehab People of the Year statuettes.’
‘As if being homeless wasn’t hord enough without having to eat your muck.’
She’s an incredible cook. I’d never let her know that, though.
She goes, ‘Well, everyone ate my workhouse stew. And there wasn’t a word of conversation in the dining room.’
‘Again, prison canteen.’
‘They were all too busy enjoying it. There was one woman who said she imagined this was what it must be like to eat in a restaurant! So at bedtime –’
‘Lights out.’
‘– one of the assistants who works here –’
‘Screws.’
‘– came to me and said, “How would you like the job of Head Chef?” ’
‘How did that go down with – what was she called? – Nathalie?’
‘Not well. She’s in solitary confinement. Isn’t it wonderful, Ross?’
‘Shit for her. Great for you.’
‘The attitude towards me in here has totally changed. These women smile now when they see me coming. They share their soft toilet paper with me. They pop in to see me and tell me their problems. I’ve no interest, naturally, but it’s nice to feel loved again.’
‘You seem happy. I’m accepting that.’
‘Most of these women have never tasted good food before. I was telling Sorcha earlier. It’s my responsibility to come up with a new menu every day. It’s so exciting. These people are a blank canvas for me. Obviously, I’ll have to be careful – there are a lot of things that could be too much of a shock to their system. I just feel I have a purpose in here at last. And it’s all thanks to you, Ross.’
‘Me? I didn’t do anything.’
‘You did. You told me to reach out.’
‘That was only because I was sick listening to you focking moaning. I thought, yeah, no, I’ll see can I outsource her misery to someone else.’
‘And I just wanted to say thank you, Ross!’
So I’m back home in bed, flicking through the channels, looking for Home and Away, when I end up accidentally switching on the RTÉ lunchtime news. And the main headline is about my old man.
It’s that dude Aengus Mac Grianna reading it, going, ‘New Republic leader Charles O’Carroll-Kelly has reiterated his promise to build a wall around Cork if his party is involved in forming the next Government. Mr O’Carroll-Kelly announced plans for the wall last night in the middle of a heated television debate with Fianna Fáil leader Micheál Martin, who is himself from Cork. Samantha Libreri reports.’
I turn up the volume.
‘We’re going to build a wall!’ Samantha Libreri goes. ‘The words of New Republic leader Charles O’Carroll-Kelly during an often bad-tempered debate with Fianna Fáil’s Micheál Martin on Claire Byrne Live last night. And, having had time to sleep on it, Charles O’Carroll-Kelly wasn’t backing down on the threat this morning, despite claims by human rights groups that such a wall would be very expensive. In an interview with RTÉ News, Mr O’Carroll-Kelly said that, under a New Republic Government, Cork people wishing to migrate to Dublin and other parts of the country would be subject to extreme vetting procedures.’
Up comes the old man’s face on the screen – his hair all over the shop. ‘We are not anti Cork,’ he goes, ‘and I want to make that quite clear! What we are against is people from Cork who move to Dublin – and other parts of the country – and refuse to integrate and accept our way of life! We need to be grown-up enough as a society to at least have a conversation about this issue! Young people are leaving Cork for other places, especially Dublin, and they’re becoming radicalized! They are conflicted between embracing our ways and their loyalty to their home city, which many of them – let’s not dodge this – continue to regard as the true capital of Ireland! We cannot allow the general air of pessimism and disgruntlement that Cork people carry with them as baggage to imperil the happiness of the rest of the country!’
Samantha’s there, ‘However, his comments have been sharply criticized by several sitting TDs, including Minister for Defence Simon Coveney, a TD for Cork South-Central, who has called on Mr O’Carroll-Kelly to apologize.’
Up comes this Coveney dude, who I myself personally have never heard of. ‘I think anyone who was born in Cork, or has Cork ancestry, will find what he said deeply offensive. Cork people don’t leave their homes and move to Dublin and other parts of the country out of choice. They do it out of economic necessity. But let me say this, they have contributed in a very substantial and a very positive way to the economic, political, cultural and sporting life of not only Dublin, but of every city where they’ve been forced, for economic reasons, to make their home. Most Irish people understand this and in all parts of the country, there is – I think – a mutual respect for each other’s traditions and way of life. This is a cynical attempt by a political party to try to drum up support by sowing discord and creating divisions where they don’t exist. I’m happy to say I genuinely believe voters will be clever enough to see straight through it.’
Next, there’s all this footage of people milling around what looks very much to me like Liffey Valley Shopping Centre.
‘However, among these Dublin shoppers,’ Samantha goes, ‘there was a broad welcome for the idea of a wall.’
And then you see all these randomers going, ‘I don’t like Cork people. They don’t mix and they’ve no respect for us or our ways.’
Or it’s, ‘They want this, they want that – they’re never happy. Look at Roy Keane.’
Or it’s, ‘They bring misery wherever they go. Build the wall. By all means build it. I’d nearly pay for the Jaysusing thing meself.’
Ronan looks at me crooked. ‘A pint?’ he goes. ‘It’s not eeben lunch toyum, Rosser.’
Ah, UCD! It’s all ahead of him! I’m there, ‘You’re a third-level student now, Ro – live a little.’
Speaking of which, I’m disappointed to see that the bor is pretty much empty?
‘When I went here,’ I go, sounding like the old fort that I possibly am, ‘we were five- and six-deep at the bor trying to get served. That was at, like, one o’clock in the afternoon.’
I think the recession scared a lot of young people straight. There was a year or two there when this campus didn’t even have a bor? I’d hate to think that the old traditions like being shit-faced in the middle of the day are being lost.
‘Here, knock that back,’ I go. ‘It’s not gonna drink itself.’
He isn’t wearing his hoodie either, by the way.
He’s there, ‘The thing is, Rosser, I’ve a leckchudder at two, so I do.’
I laugh – no choice in the matter. I’m there, ‘No one goes to lectures before Christmas. As a matter of fact, I never went to a single focking lecture the entire time I was here.’
He’s there, ‘You were doing a spowerts schodarship, Rosser.’
‘Okay, that was uncalled for. The point I’m trying to make is that you shouldn’t set the bor too high for yourself early on – and I mean that in every area of your life – because that’s what people will expect of you all the time.’
He turns to the borman and goes, ‘Hee-or, can I chayunge this for a Baddygowan?’
I grab the pint before he pushes it across the bor to him. ‘Yeah, no, give him a Ballygowan,’ I go, ‘but leave the pint there. It won’t go to waste – I can guarantee that!’
I have an idea then. ‘I’ll tell you what, Ro, if you’re so anti the whole idea of spending your first day in UCD mullered, I could just give you a tour of the campus. Show you where everything is – including the famous Orts block. That’s where you’ll find most of the pretty girls. God, I went through that place like I don’t know what – although the phrase “shit through a goose” comes to mind.’
He goes, ‘Look, no offedence, Rosser, but I might go off by meself – do you know what I mee-un? Foyunt me owen way arowunt?’
I’m there, ‘Er, yeah, no, fair enough.’
‘I’ve a map I dowunloated off of the intodder net,’ he goes, getting up off his stool. ‘And like I says to you, Rosser, I’ve a leckchudder at two. I’ll give you a bell later, reet?’
I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, whatever,’ trying not to sound too hurt? ‘You do whatever the fock you want, Ro.’
So off he goes, leaving me on my Tobler. I stare at his drink, untouched, then I turn to the borman and I go, ‘A Ballygowan, huh? Do they still call it a Bally-go-on, go-on, go-on?’
‘I’ve never heard that before,’ he goes.
‘When I was in UCD, that was all anyone ever called it. “Can I have a Bally-go-on, go-on, go-on?” they’d say! God, it was funny. I was just trying to explain that to my son. The memories you have while you’re here, they stay with you for the rest of your life. He’s studying Law, just to mention.’
He goes, ‘So, what, you decided to chaperone him on his first day in college, did you?’
I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I thought I’d show him where everything was – although the bor is as far as I ended up getting!’
He just nods. He’s all of a sudden got, like, a serious expression on his face? I don’t like it. He’s there, ‘I’m just thinking about how I would have felt if my old man had insisted on bringing me to college on my first day.’
I end up losing it with him. I’m there, ‘Why don’t you mind your own focking beeswax and pour me another pint?’
‘You’ve already got a pint and a half in front of you.’
‘Sorry, are we married or something?’
‘No.’
‘Then you don’t get to count my drinks! And give me some change for the focking pool table.’
I slap a Caitlin Jenner down on the bor and he gives it back to me in shrapnel. I grab my – so what? – two and a half drinks and I tip over to the table. I rack up and grab a cue, then I stort potting balls, the old magic coming back to me pretty quickly.
Ronan wasn’t embarrassed. I know my son. He was just keen to get to his first lecture, that’s all. I’m not going to let that come between us.
I don’t even feel the afternoon pass. There ends up being a lot of pool and a lot of pints. Then suddenly, I hear voices. Excited laughter. I look up and I notice that the bor is filling up with young people. It’s a genuinely lovely thing to see. Teenagers getting pissed.
And that’s when I spot Ronan. He’s in the middle of this – literally? – gaggle of girls and they’re laughing their heads off at something he’s saying to them. He’s telling them the story of the time when he was six years old and he went into the Bank of Ireland in Finglas and wrote on the back of one of the lodgement slips: ‘I have a gun – give me everything in the safe or I’ll shoot!’ Then he stuck it back in the pile.
That actually happened. Some poor focker walked in to lodge money, filled in his details and passed the slip across the counter. The teller flipped it over and the next thing the dude knew the alorm was going off and he was being tackled to the ground, face-down, by a security gord. It’s one of those cutesy kid stories that ends up getting told every time his old dear has a family occasion. Anyway, Ronan’s dining out on it now. He’s going, ‘The poo-er fedda hadn’t a bleaten clue what was going on! Thee ended up question idden him for torteen hours!’
And the birds are going, ‘Oh! My God! You are so funny!’
He’s got the definite gift of the gab. It has to be said, it’s a lovely thing, as a parent, to see one of the qualities you genuinely love about yourself reflected back at you.
I’m about to tip over to introduce myself to his new friends, and that’s the moment when suddenly Ronan cops me. He’s obviously surprised to see me still sitting there in the bor. But then I suddenly realize that there’s something more than just surprise in his face? It’s, like, fear. His expression seems to say, ‘Please, in the name of fock, don’t come over here and ruin this for me!’
And that look, well, it slays me. Because I realize that the borman – even though he was a dick about it – was right. My son is all growed up and I have to accept that. I nod at Ronan and he nods back and this look of, like, understanding passes between us. In some ways, it’s, like, goodbye – certainly goodbye to the old Ronan.
He’s not a little kid anymore. Not that he ever really was. I knock back a full pint in two mouthfuls, pot the final black ball, then I push the bor of the emergency door and wobble across the campus in search of a taxi.
I pay the driver, then I get out and stagger up the path. Three o’clock in the afternoon and I’m struggling to put one foot in front of the other. I’m feeling incredibly – I want to say – nostalgish for my college days? At the same time, I’m remembering what happened to my rugby career.
I manage to get the key in the door at the seventh attempt, then into the gaff I go, already dreaming of a whizz, then bed. And that’s when I notice the laundry scattered all over the hallway floor. The old man’s suit jacket and trousers and then – Jesus, my stomach’s doing somersaults here – his Y-fronts.
I stort kicking all the bits into the corner. There’s also a navy skirt, a white blouse and a black bra and – I’m surprised at Helen – a black G-er. But then I also notice, in amongst the spilled laundry, two pairs of shoes, one belonging to a man and one belonging to a woman. And that’s when I realize that it isn’t laundry at all.
It’s his voice I hear first? It’s coming from the living room. ‘That was absolutely first class!’ he goes. ‘Afternoon deluxe – isn’t this what they call it? Inverted commas?’
Jesus Christ. Him and Helen are having sex in the living room in the middle of the focking day. The only thing that stops me from spewing right there on the maplewood floor is the fact that I don’t want them to know I’m home. I don’t have the skills to handle the conversation that would inevitably follow. So I decide to tiptoe upstairs as quietly as I possibly can.
But suddenly I can’t move, as in I’m literally unable to put one foot in front of the other – and, for once, it has nothing to do with the amount of Amsterdamage I’ve put away. It’s just that I’m staring at the G-er and it’s as thin as the wire they use in Sheridans to cut those big blocks of cheddar and I’m thinking how out of character it seems for Helen to wear something like that.
And that’s when I hear a woman’s voice go, ‘Hey, let’s do it again!’ and I realize straightaway that it isn’t Helen.
The old man’s like, ‘What a wonderful idea! I shall look at my desk diary and see if I can’t find an opening one afternoon next week!’
I wander over to the living-room door and I listen through it.
‘I’m not talking about next week,’ the woman goes, at the same time laughing. ‘I’m talking about right now!’
I don’t want to know anything about what’s happening beyond the door. But there must be some small port of me that does because I end up grabbing the handle, then bursting into the room. The old man is sitting in his favourite ormchair. And straddling him, storkers like the day she was born, is the New Republic General Election candidate for Dublin Bay South.
They’re shocked to see me – well, he is. He goes, ‘What in the name of Hades –?’ and he lifts Muirgheal off him and at the same time he stands up, so that I get a full view of him, we’re talking full focking frontal, and he’s wearing literally nothing except – in the name of fock! – that red tie that she bought him.
I’m there, ‘Okay, what is this?’ not wanting to believe the evidence of my eyes – suddenly knowing what it feels like to be Sorcha.
Muirgheal barely bats an eyelid. She just goes, ‘Are you really that slow?’
He at least has the decency to be embarrassed about it? He’s there, ‘It’s not what you think, Ross! What happened was we were, em, discussing my first cabinet as Taoiseach! Yes, that was it! And Muirgheal expressed an interest in the Deputy Leadership! Then it suddenly got very warm in here!’
I’m like, ‘Dude, there’s no excuse you can come up with that I haven’t used a hundred times before.’
In other words, you can’t shit a shitter.
He still tries to go, ‘It’s that bloody thermostat! You’ve heard me complain about it, haven’t you, Ross?’
I’m thinking, I never had my old man down as a philanderer. I genuinely didn’t think he had it in him.
I’m there, ‘Is there any focking chance you could at least cover yourself up?’
He’s like, ‘Yes, of course!’ and he reaches for a cushion – a focking cushion – which he holds in front of his nether bits, at least sparing me any more of that view.
I look at Muirgheal and I go, ‘Let’s do it again? At his age? Yeah, you were focking dreaming if you thought that was going to happen.’
She just smiles at me with literally no shame. She reminds me of my old dear – she just doesn’t have that particular gene.
And that’s when I hear the front door open. The old man ends up nearly having a prolapse there in the living room. He’s like, ‘No! She’s supposed to be playing bloody well tennis with Erika!’
And then – this is quite funny – he runs and hides behind the long curtains. Again, I’ve done it a thousand times myself.
Ten seconds later, Helen walks into the living room, going, ‘What are all those clothes doing in the –?’ And then she suddenly stops. Because she’s looking at Muirgheal standing there in her raw with a big fock-you smile on her face.
Erika walks in, holding Amelie, and she’s like, ‘What the fock –?’ and I’m talking about Erika, not Amelie.
Helen looks at me and goes, ‘How dare you? This is my home – not some … knocking shop!’
Talk about giving a dog a bad name.
I’m there, ‘For once, Helen, this isn’t down to me.’
She goes, ‘What are you talking about?’
And I hate doing it. I really do. But I go, ‘Talk to your husband. He’s hiding behind the curtains.’
He steps out from behind them, covering himself with the cushion, going, ‘Oh, hello there, Helen!’ actually trying to brazen it out. ‘How’s that famous backhand of yours these days?’
He’s still wearing the red tie, by the way.
Helen just, like, bursts into tears. She’s like, ‘Charlie, pack your things.’
Muirgheal’s like, ‘Okay, I can see you’ve got things to talk about …’
The next thing that happens is that Erika hands Amelie to Helen, then races across the room and grabs Muirgheal by the hair. She drags her – literally screaming and scratching – to the front door and focks her out into the gorden, still totally naked.
Ailesbury Road, bear in mind.
The old man’s still trying to talk his way out of it. He goes, ‘We were discussing front bench positions and the bloody heat, Helen – well, you’ve said it yourself, it’s like Tahiti at times!’
Helen’s like, ‘Don’t you think you’ve hurt me enough, Charlie, without compounding it by treating me like a fool?’
He suddenly can’t look at her. He’s there, ‘Helen, I’m sorry!’
She goes, ‘I’m sorry, too. Pack your things and go.’
And that’s when Erika – who’s arrived back in the room – goes, ‘You as well, Ross.’
I’m like, ‘Me? I didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, I’m standing here thinking how great it feels that I’m not the one who’s been caught in the act for once.’
Erika goes, ‘Ross, this isn’t your home. And it’s not yours anymore either … Dad. Get the fock out – both of you.’