Fur Coat No Knickers (3 page)

‘Oh goody
… I got you one too!’ James replied, clapping his hands together with delight. He obviously completely missed Jayde’s dig.

‘Gimme
, gimme!’ jumped Jayde excitedly.

‘Here you go
…’ James said, passing her a beautifully gift-wrapped box; complete with tag, bow and curled ribbon. Jayde then passed James an Aldi carrier bag with his present inside, before unceremoniously ripping her Christmas gift open.

‘Er
r… you’re so kind,’ he said with a downward curl of his mouth, taking it with his fingertips as though it contained toxic waste. ‘I’ll bring mine at home and put it under the tree (outside).’

‘Wow, James! Ya got me a shell suit
! An’ it’s all checkered an’ shit,’ shrieked Jayde, holding up a brown and white outfit and smoothing it out with one hand.

‘It’s called Burberry, you uncouth beast! I got you the matching scrunchie
to scrape your greasy hair back to stop it falling in your trough when you’re eating,’ James sneered.

‘I’m gunna look like
… OMG… just sooo cool!’ exclaimed Jayde, excitedly ignoring James.

‘Wow, what a generous gift
,’ I remarked, smiling.

James whispered in my
ear, ‘It’s okay… it’s fake. I acquired it from ChavLand.com.’

Having said our goodbyes, I switched off the never-ending, looped Christmas CD, blew out the mulled wine scented candles and pulled out the plug from the Christmas tree lights.

I went into the staffroom
, which was still littered with mince pies and plastic cups containing the remnants of a bottle of Cava, got changed and ordered a taxi to take me to the airport. As I made a halfhearted attempt to tidy up, I mused on what lay ahead for my Christmas holidays.

In what seemed to be an increasingly common habit of mine,
I circled and rubbed my tummy longingly. The desire to have a baby was growing ever stronger. I was becoming obsessed, wishing that I could go back to my younger self. However hard I tried, I had
still
not found my Mr. Right.
Perhaps I should settle on a Mr.
Nearly
Right?
Who was I kidding… I’d have leapt at a
Mr.
Slightly
Right
given half the chance.

Even though I joked about my hopeless situation with my friends, I
did feel incredibly sad that yet another year had flown by and there was still no husband and still no baby. It’s true what they say: youth is wasted on the young. I stared at my reflection in the staffroom mirror. Sure, we can Botox to the hilt, have facelifts, stretch and inject every conceivable part of our body, yet, we cannot stop our ticking biological clock. Each minute, each hour, each day, youth was slipping from my fingertips, from the inside out. I couldn’t do anything about it. It was and is impossible to stop that ageing process inside-me.

I didn't want to go down the road of having my eggs frozen and stored like a frozen
Petit-Poi. My baby would get frostbite and if he/she was anything like me - they would hate being cold. And what if something happened to me whist it was in the deep freezer? Would it be left there for eternity? Could they accidentally defrost my petit-poi and plant it in some other mummy? It wasn’t that I had anything against others who took this route. In fact, I was almost envious that they had the courage to do it. I just wanted a fresh one, straight from him, my Mr. Right; planted in my own lady-garden, where I would protect it, house it and keep it warm and safe.

No, the answer is most definitely to continue my search
to find Mr. Right. Surely this coming year would bring me the happiness I deserve?’

I was stirred from my daydream when the taxi beeped outside.

I lugged my suitcase from the staffroom, locked the door behind me and breathed a huge sigh of relief.

CHAPTER TWO

Feeling exhausted, I scooched over to my window seat and flopped down. I couldn’t help noticing a gorgeous ride coming down the
aisle.
Phwar! Please let him be sitting next to me,
I thought. He could most definitely be a candidate to be my Mr. Right. My heart sank a little as I watched him walk past. He didn’t even give me a second glance, the gobshite.

It was then I noticed a commotion further up the plane. I could see a rather large businessman trying to make his way down the aisle. He looked like he was heavily
pregnant. Everyone had to clear a path for him as he squeezed through the seats; tatty briefcase in one hand and a half eaten pasty in the other.
Sweet Jesus
, I thought,
can he not stop eating just for a few minutes while he gets on the plane?
Obviously not, it turned out. I watched him take a huge bite; with only half of the gigantic mouthful managing the journey to his mouth, the rest was in free fall, rolling off his belly and into the aisle.

  I breathed a
sigh of relief as he trampled his way passed me. Then, all of a sudden, he stopped and then began to perform a three-point-turn in order to maneuver himself round… and into the seat next to me.
Oh for the love of God,
I thought, shuffling in my chair uncomfortably and trying to get as far over as possible whilst grabbing my possessions at the speed of light. I couldn’t help but watch this enormous mass coming towards me. Oh God…
beep… beep… beep
. This man seriously should have been equipped with warning hazard lights and a ‘WIDE LOAD’ sticker.

He finally managed to align himself in order to come in
for landing. Mission impossible had been accomplished. But, as wide loads inevitably do, he clearly required two lanes. In a matter of seconds his bulk had started to spread over into my space. His
I’ve-had-all-the-pies
belly could have taken up a seat all on its own (and the person’s in front, I might I add).

By then
, I was fuming.
Why should I have to pay extra for going over 15 kilos in my luggage, when this colossal vehicle can get on the plane for the same price as me?
His elbow and chubby leg had already launched a full-scale invasion of what was left of my personal space, despite the fact that I was leaning so far the other way. All I was left with was a few centimeters of space, leaving me precariously balancing on one bum cheek. He gave me a cheery smile.

‘Howerya? Sure
, the weather’s shocking, is it not?’

I gave a dismissive nod.
Yuck
, I thought. Half the pasty was still sitting in his moustache. It grossed me out so much that I shuddered. He had more hair sprouting from his ears than he did on his head.

I knew
exactly what was coming next. The compulsory, boring aeroplane chat, which, of course, my portly new seatmate followed to a tee;

‘So, are you headi
ng off home for the holidays?’ he predictably began as the plane taxied down the runway.

‘Yes, I’m spending Christmas with my family
,’ I answered through gritted teeth. I already knew what was coming next. A pound to a penny he’s going to ask where my family is from next.

‘So, where in Ireland are your family from?’

Bingo!
I just wanted him to shut the feck up and let me close my eyes so I could snooze during the flight.

‘Rathmines in Dublin,’ I answered. (He will of course know it well and his uncle and three times removed cousins will also be living there). He’ll be asking the family name next.

‘Oh, I know those parts very well, what’s the family name?’ he boomed.

‘Ryan.’ I answered shortly.

‘Ah sure, I know the Ryans well,’ he said, ‘fine upstanding members of the community.’

I knew then that he definitely had the wrong set of Ryans. Even though my family’s story had started romantically, the middle and end of that story was far from a fairytale.

My parents had met and married in Mills & Boon-like circumstances. My dad, Michael (back then, a fine young whippersnapper), only had eyes for my mum, Josephine. He spotted her sunbathing on Greystones beach in County Wicklow, Ireland, back in the sixties.

‘A thunderbolt
,’ dad used to say, eyes brimming with tears. ‘It was love at first sight, so it was,’ he added with intense pride. ‘There she was, in her navy blue and white polka-dot swimsuit, dancing around, kicking the sand about without a care in the world. I heard shrieks of laughter as she dipped in and out of the cold sea. I could have watched her for hours so I could; her long, dark, glossy hair catching in the summer breeze, floating across her lightly tanned skin. She was a vision.’

Mum, however, having a very strict upbringing
(yet a playful edge to her personality) declined my dad’s incessant offers of courtship.

‘You
’ll have to ask me daddy,’ she teased nonchalantly. ‘He’ll probably have you hung, drawn and quartered, though,’ she continued, unwittingly setting a daring challenge that my dad would never refuse. And quite the challenge it was.

‘Not in your wildest dreams would I allow you
to date my daughter - sure what do you have to offer her?’ my grandfather bellowed brutally as my dad sought permission to take my mother out.

‘But I’m a qualified bricklayer, Mr. O’Leary
,’ dad added with pride, offering his chapped hands up as proof.

‘No scaffer’s dating any daughter of mine, I can tell you that for nothing!’
shot back my grandfather. ‘Goodbye, on your way so. Good luck son, but the answer is still no.’

‘I play the guitar and sing as well
sir, sure, I may even become a musician - even a rock star,’ my poor dad stammered in a last-ditch attempt before being escorted out of the house.

‘Not in a million! Go-way with you, shoo
…  a rock star, never heard anything so re-dic-lous in all me life.’

For weeks during that summer
, mum secretly revisited Greystones beach every day at the same time in the hope of bumping into dad. Unbeknown to mum though, dad was still sulking over his encounter with her dad.

Instead of going to Greystones
beach to swim or sunbathe, after he finished work on the building site, he headed down to another area of Greystones beach called the ‘The Mens’. Back then, women, girls and children were forbidden by law to enter this part of the beach. It was, as you may have guessed, for ‘men only’.

The Mens had dangerously high
, ragged rocks covered in slimy algae where only the bravest men would perform acrobatic dives into the sea, risking life and limb. Many had died attempting to out-do each other, performing twists and turns as the ante was raised to execute the perfect dive.

Dad was always a great sportsman an
d swam and dived like a dolphin; effortlessly performing complex dives with ease and grace. What no one knew was that when he climbed high on the rocks in preparation for his dive, he could see over to Greystones and steal glances at mum.

On o
ne particular afternoon, the blue, clear skies began changing. A raging storm formed from nowhere.

Mum, unaware, was
suddenly swimming far of her depth. Dad could see she was getting dragged further away from land and further out to sea. Without a second thought, he dived from the rocks and began to swim rapidly in her direction. He tore his body to shreds on the reef as he struggled to reach her, fighting currents, winds and huge, crashing waves. Finally, with supreme effort, he reached her and managed to drag her back to safety. They lay together on the beach, exhausted. Entwined in each other, they kissed for the first time.

‘Son,’ said my relieved grandfather, ‘I will be forever in your debt
! You have my blessing to date my daughter.’

My parents were soon married and, in search of a better life, crossed the waters over to England where they had heard the streets were paved with gold.

Dad immediately got work as a bricklayer and mum fell pregnant with Laura, with me soon to follow. Dad had to work harder than ever
to keep a roof over our heads, as times were tough. He was building by day and singing in a band at night, gigging around London. Adding to his already long list of genius attributes, dad was also painting, sculpting and writing music. His dream was to perform live the love song to mum he had written when he very first laid eyes on her. Life was good for them; they were young and very much in love.

It could so easily have been
the perfect story. They could have made their fortune and returned to their native land, happy and prosperous in later life. But, it all came crashing down around their ears.

The catalyst was dad’s beloved love song
he’d written about mum. He’d taken it to a music producer who said it was ‘extremely marketable’. This producer made all the right noises about dad becoming a star and vividly described how he would be playing gigs to thousands of adoring fans. Then, inexplicably, the producer went cold and stopped answering dad’s calls. Having had a taste of potential success, dad became increasingly desperate and his behavior became more and more erratic.

He often skipped days on his building jobs, claiming he was too exhausted to get up. It left poor mum struggling with her two young children and, even though she was pregnant with her third, she had to take every odd job coming to support us all.

Around a year after dad first met with the music producer, a great new rock group hit the scene. They were an overnight success; with their slick outfits, perfect good looks and romantic melodies. And their first number one hit? Yeah, you’ve got it; my dad’s love song, written about my mum.

The
betrayal destroyed my dad. He was utterly devastated and never recovered. Sure, he consulted lawyers about the theft of his song, but they said it would cost thousands to sue and the chances were he’d never win against the powerful music moguls.

By then, mum and dad didn’t have a penny to rub together. Any money dad did get he spent on booze
- or, worse still, drugs - but nothing could numb his pain. He swung between abject depression, sheer anger and bouts of shouting, crying and throwing things. Try as she might, mum couldn’t pull dad out of his spiralling depression.

‘Please
, Michael,’ mum would beg, ‘please take your tablets. We love you, we need you. You can write another song!’ But nothing could penetrate the hatred and despair dad was experiencing.

Dad
began disappearing for days on end on drunken benders, and when he did return, he became violent with uncontrollable rages. But then he would switch without warning and start praying, reciting the rosary and attending church.

We
would often hear him talking to himself, conversing with someone who wasn’t there. You couldn’t engage him in direct conversation for fear of him overreacting and turning aggressive. He began accusing us all of plotting against him. His ability to discern between reality and his hallucinations had become non-existent.

This
cycling torrent of abuse and neglect went on for over a decade, getting worse and worse. Mum, the bravest woman I had ever known, had to leave. She had no choice. Her once-beloved husband - her hero, our dad - had changed beyond any recognition.

With
her marriage in tatters, mum fled England with my two sisters, Laura and Katie, and moved back to Ireland. Of course, as the middle child, that automatically entitled me to self-diagnosed stroppy middle-child-syndrome. And strop I did. There was no way I was leaving London having already started a hairdressing apprenticeship. So, I stayed and tried to help sort my dad’s alcoholism and schizophrenic behavior with the help of mental health advisors.

Back in Dublin,
Lickarse Laura (as she was known to me and Katie), the eldest sister and the
Einstein
of the family, decided to become a career girl and studied for a doctorate in Psychology. When Laura graduated, it was mum’s “proudest moment”. In my secret opinion though, Laura shared one too many of our dad’s schizophrenic traits beneath all that professionalism and condescension to the human race. Laura could be the life and soul of any party and everyone was her best friend; however get one too many drinks in her and she would revert into a female version of our dad; patronizing, intimidating and erratic.

Katie, my youngest sister
at just 22 years young, was currently residing in rehab. She was however allowed home for just a few days at Christmas. She was in rehab due to her newfound hobby: shoving every which substance up her nose that she could get her hands on. To top it off, her homegrown cannabis plant had been lovingly tendered and watered by none other than our poor, unsuspecting mum. Bless her, mum was as clueless as she was penniless.

‘I
ought to get shares in Kleenex!’ Mum used to sob down the phone to me on our weekly phone calls. ‘Katie goes ‘trew a box in a day. I can’t keep up with the child. And she has a constant sinus infection. Her poor nose is collapsing with all the congestion.’

Katie and her tree-
hugging, weirdo mates went too far one night a couple of months back. She had been found wandering the streets, totally out of her ‘hippie-dippy trolley’, sobbing; claiming that she had committed a murder and would never forgive herself.