In My Sister's Shoes (16 page)

‘Cool,’ said Jack. ‘I want to be bald.’

‘When you’re grown-up you can.’

‘I want to now,’ whined Jack. ‘I want to be like Bob the Builder and Mummy and Uncle Derek and Dojak.’

‘Me too, me too,’ said Bobby, slapping my head.

‘First of all you have to let your hair grow and then when it’s finished growing, when you’re eighteen and you have a good job like Bob the Builder, you can have it cut off. But not now. Besides, I don’t think Mrs Foleywould let you go to school with no hair.’

‘Is Daddy bald too?’ asked Jack.

‘No, sweetheart, but I think we should ask him to cut his hair off tonight when he comes home,’ I said, grinning at the idea of Professor Kennedy shaving his head.

20

Later that evening I was rummaging around in the kitchen drawers, looking for a tea-towel that could pass as a bandanna – I was thinking Yasser Arafat meets Mother Teresa – when I heard, ‘Take what you want. I don’t want any trouble. Just help yourself to the goods and go.’

I turned to find Dad wielding a golf club. ‘Jesus, Dad!’

‘Kate?’ he said, staring at my shorn scalp in horror. Subtlety was never his strong point.

‘What are you doing with the golf club?’

‘I thought a skinhead was robbing the place. What in God’s name have you done to your hair?’

‘Fiona’s fell out after the chemo so she had to shave her head, and Derek and I joined in as a gesture of solidarity.’

‘Oh, Katie,’ said Dad, coming over to hug me, ‘your beautiful hair.’

‘What the hell? It’ll grow back,’ I said, stifling a sob.

‘I’ve never been more proud of you,’ said Dad, getting a bit weepy himself. We were all turning into emotional wrecks.

‘What were you planning on doing with the golf club?’

‘Battering you round the head for daring to rob my house.’

‘Good thing I turned round. My chances of meeting a guy are prettyslim at this point, I think a facial scar would stamp out the last glimmer of hope.’

‘Sure any man’d be lucky to have you.’

‘Would you be going out with Sheryl if she was bald?’

‘Can’t you wear a wig or something till it grows?’ he side-stepped.

‘That bad, huh?’

‘No, you look grand, but a lad might find it a bit… ah… butch. He might mistake you for a girl who likes motorbikes and prefers other girls, if you get my drift.’

‘You know, Dad, telling me I look like a lesbian really isn’t doing anything for my confidence. Couldn’t you lie?’

‘What good would that do you? Lads like hair, so here’s a few quid to get yourself a nice long wig and sure they’ll be queuing up,’ he said. ‘ake Fiona with you and buy one each. You can swap them.’

Derek strolled in. ‘’Sup?’

‘Dad’s forking out for wigs. Want one?’

‘No way. Roxanne thinks the shaved look’s hot. She was all over me this afternoon. I’m never growing it back.’

‘And the beauty of it is that if she changes her mind – which she seems prone to doing – she can always tattoo some hair on to you,’ said Dad, chuckling.

‘How’s Fiona doing?’ Derek asked me.

‘Better. She was relieved that the boys took it well. They want to shave their own heads and Mark’s now.’

‘What did Mark say?’ asked Dad.

‘Oh, you know Mark. Mr Sacrifice himself. He said he’d love to join in, but he didn’t think the dean would approve.’

Derek and Dad rolled their eyes.

Shortly after the shaving of our heads, Derek and Gonzo – a.k.a. Rap-sodie – were playing their gig in a pub in town. Mark volunteered gallantly to babysit so he could avoid having to go. I picked up Fiona and we headed off, wearing colourful head scarves. Courtesy of Dad, we had each purchased a wig. I had gone for a fun platinum blonde one but Fiona had been much more practical and opted for one that was closer to her own dark curly hair. Neither of us felt totally comfortable in them: they
felt
fake and, after a while, they made your head itch, and Derek’s gig was in a basement so it was bound to be hot and uncomfortable. So we opted for scarves and looked like two charladies instead.

Dad was waiting for us when we arrived, sticking out like a sore thumb in the dingy room, surrounded by yoof in saggy-arsed jeans and hoodies. He had invited Sheryl along – which I thought was a really bad idea – and, judging by the grumpyface on him, he regretted it now. ‘Thank God you’ve arrived,’ he muttered. ‘Jesus, will you look at the state of the crowd? They’re like a gang of car-jackers.’

‘Dad!’ I scolded. ‘You can’t go around saying things like that. It’s not politically correct.’

‘I don’t give a fiddler’s about political correctness. Why do young lads today have to go around with their trousers half-way down their arses and their faces covered with hoods? They need a good kick up the backside and an honest day’s work to sort them out.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ I hissed. ‘They’re Derek’s friends and fans.’

‘And we don’t want to get stabbed,’ said Sheryl, fearfully. Clearly she didn’t get out much – too busy shagging sixty-two-year-olds into early graves.

‘It’s not Hell’s Kitchen, Sheryl,’ I said.

‘Dublin’s one of the most dangerous cities in Europe now,’ she retorted. ‘People get stabbed and shot here every day. The police are far too tolerant. They should lock up all those criminals and throw away the key,’ added our liberal-minded marathon runner.

‘A bunch of wasters is what they are,’ said Dad, glancing at the motley crew. ‘That brother of yours had better smarten up his act. I’m having no more of this music rubbish. He’s coming to work for me full-time and that’s the end of it.’

‘You have to admire him for chasing his dream,’ said Fiona.

‘Not when it involves spending most of the last three years watching MTV while fat fellas in vests and big gold chains roar at each other. I’ve had enough,’ Dad fumed, warming to his theme.

‘He’s very talented,’ Fiona said, continuing her defence of Derek. ‘Some of his songs are really good.’

‘
Pffff
! Any fool can shout –’

‘I can’t understand this rap stuff at all. Why are they so angry all the time?’ asked Sheryl.

‘Too much time on their hands,’ ranted Dad. ‘In my day fellas were out ploughing fields from dusk till dawn. They’d no time to be moaning about everything. That’s what’s wrong with the world today, too much bloody complaining and not enough hard work.’

‘Shush, he’s coming over,’ I said, as Derek and Gonzo strutted to the table.

‘Dig the head decoration,’ said Gonzo, pointing to my scarf but, thankfully, refraining from licking it.

‘Thanks. Are you nervous?’ I asked.

‘Bricking it,’ said Derek.

‘No,’ said Gonzo.

‘Nice crowd,’ said Dad. ‘The future leaders of the country.’

‘Yes, great turn-out,’ I cut across him.

‘Mostly mates but the guy from
Hot Press
is here,’ said Derek, chewing his lip nervously.

Dad, Sheryl and Fiona stared blankly at him. ‘It’s a music magazine. It helped launch U2,’ I said, exaggerating slightly.

‘We’ve gotta go, bro, we’re on in five,’ said Gonzo, and hustled Derek towards the stage.

‘Good luck,’ said Fiona. Then, turning to me, she asked, ‘Is the magazine really that influential?’

‘Well, if he gets a good write-up it’ll help open doors.’

‘Will it get him a six-figure recording deal so he can stop sponging off me?’ asked Dad.

‘You’re too generous, Bill, that’s your problem,’ smarmed the elastic woman.

‘You never know, stranger things have happened,’ I said, ignoring Sheryl, just as she had ignored me for years in gym class. Immature, I know, but it felt great.

‘It’s hardly likely, though, is it?’ she retorted.

‘Every artist starts out doing small gigs,’ I snapped. How dare she insult my brother? Only family members were allowed that privilege.

‘We live in hope,’ said Dad, trying to defuse the tension.

‘You’ve great optimism, Bill. It’s very endearing,’ said Sheryl, squeezing his thigh. The cheek of her, molesting my father in front of me! I turned away in disgust.

‘Yo, dogs, zip it,’ roared Gonzo, into the microphone. The crowd hushed. ‘We’re Rap-sodie and we’re gonna blow you away with our lyrics tonight. My man MC D-Rek here got it goin’ on. N-joy.’

‘I take it MC D-Rek is my son, Derek John O’Brien,’ said Dad rolling his eyes.

‘Shush,’ I said, suddenly feeling very nervous for Derek.

He came forward, microphone in hand (shaking slightly) and introduced the first song. It was about losing your virginity in a hedge. Dad squirmed in his seat while Sheryl – who was in no position to take the moral high ground on sex – tut-tutted.

The crowd swayed and whooped every time Derek said ‘fuck’ or ‘pussy’ – which was frequently.

The song ended after five graphic verses, during which the former virgin contracted herpes from the ho’ he’d slept with.

‘If Father Brendan could see him now,’ said Dad, shaking his head. ‘Fifteen years of Yeats, Shakespeare and Dickens, and this is how he chooses to express himself.’

‘You did your best, Bill. That’s all you can do.’

‘Have you children yourself, Sheryl?’ Fiona asked.

‘No, I don’t, and I can’t say I’m sorry. It seems like a life sentence. You never stop worrying, do you, Bill?’

Dad shrugged. Even he drew the line at slagging off his children in front of their faces.

‘And how are you doing, Fiona?’ Sheryl asked, laying a hand on Fiona’s arm and tilting her head in a lame attempt to be sympathetic. ‘I hear you lost all your hair. You’re very brave to be out and about.’

‘I like getting out. It helps me forget about it for a while,’ said Fiona, pointedly.

‘Good for you, although I’d say the bald head is a constant reminder.’

‘Not if people stopped referring to it,’ I murmured.

Before Sheryl could reply, Derek announced that he was going to sing a new song. ‘I wrote this last night and I’m dedicating it to mysister Fiona, who inspired it. Yo listen up,

‘“So my big sista found out she got da big C,

We is all scared coz of what it might mean,

We don’t know nothin’ all we can do is try

To keep it together an’ not start to cry.

We gonna help her thro this difficult stage

And it ain’t hard, man, coz she bein’ so brave

But then last week after the chemotherapy

We is in the house and we hear a squeal

She freakin’ big coz when she wakes up

Her hair’s fallen out and dude that suck

Coz the bald look, man, it ain’t so hot.

So my other sista Kate went and got

My man Gonzo here to shave our heads too

Coz we don’t want our sista feeling so blue.

She need to know that we always be