The Orange Mocha-Chip Frappuccino Years (22 page)

The old man rings, roysh, and he’s practically in tears. We’re talking tears of happiness here. He’s like, ‘Get over here fast, Kicker. I’ve got a cheque for you.’ I’m like, ‘Have they gone?’ He goes, ‘The For Sale sign went up an hour ago. Ross, this is the happiest I’ve been since Castlerock won the …’ I’m just like, ‘Cut the focking pleasantries. This is business. I’ll be up to you in an hour. Have the cheque written and ready for me when I get there.’

Which, of course, he doesn’t, roysh, he’s still farting around in the study, looking for his Mont Blanc pen when I arrive, which means I end up in the kitchen, listening to the old dear’s bullshit. She’s going, ‘How are you keeping?’ as if she gives a shit. I just, like, throw my eyes up to heaven, roysh, and go into the sitting room and turn on ‘Dream Team’. Linda Block, love goddess.

The front doorbell rings and nobody answers it, roysh, and it rings, like, six or seven times and I end up having to get up from Harchester’s vital UEFA Cup quarter-final clash to, like, go and see who it is. It turns out, roysh, it’s, I don’t know, whatever the fock the cream cracker next door calls himself, wanting to speak to the old man, or as he put it himself: ‘Howiya bud, is your oul’ fella in?’ Slip-on shoes and a football manager jacket. The
windfall’s
obviously done fock-all for the goy’s dress sense.

I’m like, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak working class,’ ripping the piss out of him, and I’m there, ‘You’ll have to speak slowly.’ He goes, ‘I’m, eh, looking for yisser fadder.’ I’m like, ‘Just caught the last word. I presume you’re looking for my old man. I’ll go and get him,’ and I leave him on the doorstep, roysh, put the security chain on – you can’t be too careful – and head into the study.

The old pair are there, the old dear’s helping him look for the pen and I’m like, ‘Is there something wrong with your ears or your legs?’ The old dear’s like, ‘Sorry, Ross?’ I’m like, ‘The
doorbell’s
been ringing for, like, ten minutes.’ The old man’s there, ‘Didn’t hear a thing, Ross,’ and I’m like, ‘Well you would have if you hadn’t been listening to that dead bird so loud.’ The old man’s like, ‘That’s Eva Cassidy, Ross. She has a beautiful voice. Helps me when I’m working.’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, yeah, shut up, your best mate’s at the door.’

I follow the old man out into the hall, roysh, just to get his
reaction when he sees who it is. He sees the chain, roysh, and turns around and gives me this sort of, like, strange look. He has to slam the door in the goy’s face first before he can take the chain off and, when he opens it again and he sees who it is, he goes, ‘Hello, there,’ then he turns around to me and he’s like, ‘The chain. Very good, Ross. You’re thinking.’ The goy’s like, ‘Alright, Charlie. What’s the crack?’ The old man just ignores this and goes, ‘Well, what is it now? Not another lad of yours doing a sponsored walk to pay for the school heating oil?’ He’s like, ‘Jaysus, no.’ The old man goes, ‘You’re not planning to block out our daylight upstairs as well, are you, with a new, giant-sized pigeon loft, a sort of Ballymun, if you like, for your feathered vermin friends?’ He’s like, ‘No, no. Actually, I’ve a bit of bad news for you, Charlie. Very bad news, as a matter of fact. Eh, we’re moving out.’ And the old man, roysh, goes, ‘YES!’ and shakes his fist at me.

The goy’s like, ‘It’s a real pity, I know. We never got to go for that game of golf at that club of yours.’ The old man’s there, ‘Shame.’ The goy goes, ‘A real pity. Sure herself was only saying the other night how well she gets on with your own missus. But, eh, don’t think we’re looking down our noses at you or anything but, eh, we just feel we don’t fit in around here.’ The old man goes, ‘Doesn’t have anything to do with the
foie gras
my wife sent in to you, does it?’ He goes, ‘What was that stuff?’ The old man’s like, ‘It’s a very expensive type of duck liver.’ The goy’s like, ‘It brought all the kids out in hives.’ The old man goes, ‘Very rich, you see. Not used to it, I dare say.’ The goy goes, ‘Anyway, it’s nothing to do with that. It’s just … well, it’s a lot of things. Sure the shop down the road doesn’t even have the papers. The real papers. They only have the big ones. With the big gobstopper
words. But sure they’re no use for the sport.’

The old man goes, ‘Yes, they’re catering for their market, you see. People in this area love
The Irish Times
. Always have.’ The goy goes, ‘And then there’s the off-licence. Sure they don’t even sell my beer anymore. Or cider. She loves cider, you see. And the other thing is the telly. Can’t get Sky Sports up here. The dish won’t pick up the signal for some reason.’ The old man goes, ‘Foxrock, you see. It’s very high up.’ The goy goes, ‘That’s
probably
what it is. Listen, I better get in out of this rain. Catch me death, so I will. Just wanted you to be the first to know. Hope you weren’t too upset when you saw the For Sale sign going up. Don’t worry but. We’ll stay in touch.’

‘Yes, of course,’ the old man goes, closing the door while the goy’s still talking. Then he looks through the spyhole and when he’s, like, disappeared out the gate, he turns around and goes, ‘
Yeeessss
!’ He high-fives me and he goes, ‘I think it was the
foie gras
that clinched it, Ross. Did you like that little detail? Your mother’s idea.’ I’m like, ‘Don’t give me that,’ and I put this big lump of metal with, like, wires hanging out of it, into his hand. He goes, ‘What in heavens is this?’ I’m like, ‘Don’t know exactly. I broke it off his satellite dish last Sunday night.’

I tell him he owes me five grand. He goes back to his study to look for the pen.

Me and Oisinn are in Club Knackery Doo and we meet the birds. Aoife asks me whether I’ve seen Sophie since she, like, came out of hospital. Me and Oisinn just look at each other and we both go, ‘No,’ at the same time, a little bit overeager actually, but she doesn’t seem to, like, notice and shit. She goes, ‘Ingrown toenail, my orse. I know a rhytidectomy when I see one.’ I’m like,
‘Really?’ She goes, ‘Oh my God, you
SO
wouldn’t recognise the girl. I walked straight past her in Blue Eriu.’ And Jayne with a y goes, ‘It’s weird. She was supposed to come out with us tonight, but when she found out you goys were going to be here …’

Aoife goes
OH! MY! GOD!
she is
SO
not looking forward to Christmas this year, roysh, because she
SO
knows that her points are going to go, like, totally off the scale, and we’re talking
TOTALLY
here. Oisinn heads up to the bor to, like, get a round in while Aoife storts, like, counting up how many points she ended up eating last year. She’s going, ‘Two slices of turkey is, like, three points and it’s, like, three for the ham, five for the roast potatoes, or seven given the amount of them my old dear ends up doing, and then Christmas cake is another five and pudding with, like, brandy butter is another, I don’t know, seven. And that’s not even counting drink.’

‘And what about, like, sweets?’ Emer goes. ‘One Quality Street is, like, one-and-a-half. You could eat, like, twenty of those
without
realising.’ And Aoife’s like, ‘Well
you
certainly could,’ and Emer gives her this filthy, roysh, and Erika breaks it up, going, ‘If I’d wanted to listen to bulimics and anorexics bitch-fighting, I’d have stayed home and watched ‘Ally McBeal’.’

Oisinn, fat bastard and proud of it, roysh, he comes back with the pints, Ken for me and him, Miller for Fionn, and he goes, ‘Which one of you is wearing DKNY?’ Emer goes, ‘I am, do you like it?’ He sort of, like, sniffs her neck, roysh, and goes, ‘An urban floral with accords of blood orange, tomato leaf, orchids and daffodils for a woman who appreciates the natural and the authentic,’ and he says this in, like, a French accent. Emer goes, ‘It is
such
a cool perfume,’ and I think Oisinn’s basically in there
tonight if he wants to be, though I have to say, roysh, he’s welcome to her. I’m with Fionn on this one: she’s a focking bus stop with eye shadow.

Fionn is telling Aoife how he’s basically pissing his way through second year psychology, roysh, and when the three birds go off to the jacks, he turns around to me and asks where JP is tonight. I’m like, ‘He’s still in a fouler with me.’ He pushes his glasses up on his nose and he goes, ‘Third week of the month, Ross. The boy’s menstruating.’ I’m there, ‘No, we’re not talking period costume dramas here. It’s work stuff.’ He goes, ‘I have noticed a bit of tension there. Heard you’re whupping his orse, saleswise.’ I’m like, ‘The goy just can’t sell houses like I can.’ Fionn high-fives me – I think he must have thought I said
something
else – then heads off.

Claire comes over then, roysh, and tells me she got a
Christmas
cord from Sorcha and an e-mail and a couple of text
messages
as well, and that her and Killian are, like, back together and they’re
really
happy and, like,
SO
looking forward to their first Christmas in Australia, even though it’s going to be
TOTALLY
weird eating, like, turkey and ham when it’s a hundred and ten degrees outside, and they’ll probably end up actually having, like, a barbecue, maybe even down on Bondi, blah blah focking blah.

I just get up and walk off. It’s, like, last orders at the bor and I still haven’t copped off yet and though that wouldn’t usually bother me, roysh, tonight for some reason I don’t want to go home on my own. I spot Fionn chatting up Fiona, this Mountie who all the goys say is
SO
thick she carries ID around just to, like, remind her of her name. He’s going, ‘Personally, I lean more towards Jung than Freud,’ which I must remember to slag him
about later. I walk around the boozer a couple of times, roysh, and realise my options basically boil down to either Kelly, this complete psycho who I’ve been with twice, or Treasa, this total focking bunnyboiler who’s only really here tonight because she knew I was going to be here. I end up going for Treasa. She might be flaky as fock but she’s the image of Jennifer Connelly. She goes through the motions of pretending she’s not interested, of course. She tells me I’m a total dickhead and bastard when it comes to women, but by the time she finishes her vodka and diet 7-Up, I’ve got her eating out of my hand. I head back to where we were sitting, roysh, to grab my jacket, and Oisinn goes, ‘I see you’ve pulled Miss Cacharel again,’ and I’m like, ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’

Claire is asking Aoife what Mass she’s going to on Wednesday morning, roysh, and Aoife and Erika just, like, look at each other and Aoife goes, ‘
Mass
?’ Claire’s like, ‘Yeah, Mass.
Hello
? It’s, like, Christmas Day.’ And Erika goes, ‘We’ve got loads of money, Claire. We don’t
need
to be praying.’