Whose Life is it Anyway? (28 page)

But by seven o’clock Dad’s head had begun to droop and Mum politely but firmly asked everyone to leave, which they did. After long goodbyes the last guest had gone and Mum sat down with a sigh of relief. ‘That’s the end of the visitors, Mick. They’ll wear you out. No more for a few days. I’m asking them to stay away and let you rest.’

‘Ah, sure I’ll go mad sitting here with no company,’ said Dad.

‘You’ll manage a few days and don’t think I can’t smell the cigarette breath off you. Let that be the last of it. The doctor said they’ll be the death of you.’

‘One puff here and there won’t kill me,’ muttered Dad.

‘What’s for dinner, Mum? The girls are hungry,’ said Siobhan, who had spent the day plonked on the couch beside Dad, holding court, while I had run around after her children.

Mum, who had spent the afternoon feeding the cast of
Gandhi
, was tired and grumpy. She glared at Siobhan. ‘That’s it. I’ve had enough. Out with the lot of you. I want to spend some time alone with your father. I’ve been working like a slave in that kitchen. Make your own food.’

I hustled my nieces into the playroom and went into the kitchen, followed closely by Siobhan. I made pasta for her children while she sat at the table, polishing off the left-over sandwiches. Finn came in from work – he had started in the family business the year he left school.

‘What’s going on with Mum?’ he asked. ‘She’s in a right fouler. I just went in to say hi to Dad and she snapped the head off me.’

‘She’s just fed up cooking for everyone,’ I said. ‘Pasta?’

‘Yeah, great, I’m starving,’ said Finn, grabbing the last sandwich before Siobhan ate it. ‘So, did you tell him about Pierre yet?’ he asked.

I shook my head. ‘I’m going wait until next week when he’s better. I’m afraid of getting his blood pressure up.’

‘It doesn’t matter how long you wait, he’s going to flip,’ said Siobhan. ‘The golden girl is not supposed to end up with a black man. You’re supposed to have met a nice Irish doctor from a good family, buy a house in Dublin and have sons that play Gaelic football.’

‘Yeah, well, he’s just going to have to get used to it,’ I said, trying to block out the doubt that was creeping in.

‘What’s Pierre like?’ Siobhan asked Finn.

He shrugged. ‘Seems like a decent bloke.’

‘Is that all you can say?’ I wailed.

‘Is he good-looking?’ Siobhan wondered.

‘How would I know? I’m a guy.’

‘Does he look like Denzel Washington?’

‘No, more like Mike Tyson,’ said Finn, finding himself very entertaining.

‘He doesn’t look like either,’ I snapped. ‘He looks like himself. If he was white you wouldn’t be asking who he looked like.’

‘Yes, I would,’ said Siobhan. ‘You told me your last boyfriend was like Rob Lowe and then I saw a photo of him. He was a lot more like Rob Lowe’s ugly cousin with bad skin.’

‘He did not. He was the head cut off Rob.’

Siobhan and Finn cracked up.

‘Anyway, the point is that Pierre is gorgeous in a unique way.’

‘Is he dark black or more milky?’ asked Siobhan.

‘I can’t believe you just asked me that. It’s so politically incorrect.’

‘Since when has anyone in this family ever been politically correct?’ she asked.

‘He’s kind of got the same skin tone as Denzel.’

‘Is he good in bed?’ Siobhan asked, as Finn choked on his sandwich.

‘Fantastic.’

‘Lucky you. Liam and I haven’t had sex in months. We’re too tired with five kids.’

‘Excuse me, ladies, but I really don’t want to know about your sex-lives, or lack of them. You’re my sisters – way too much information.’

‘Speaking of sex, you won’t believe what happened in the hospital today,’ I said, and proceeded to tell them about the doctor advising Dad to lay off sex until he could climb a flight of stairs.

‘I guess it’s a good thing we don’t live in a bungalow,’ said Finn, grinning.

35

The next morning I woke up early to work on my column and tiptoed down to the kitchen to make myself some coffee. I didn’t want to wake Mum, Dad or Finn, who was still living at home, but when I went into the kitchen, Dad was standing at the back door, in the new stripy pyjamas Mum had bought him for hospital. He was smoking.

When he heard me, he flung the cigarette on to the ground and pretended to do stretching exercises and deep breathing. ‘Ah, it’s good to be up early on a lovely day.’

‘It’s freezing cold. Close the door. You’ll get pneumonia.’

‘Not at all. Nothing like a good blast of fresh air to start the day.’

‘I saw it, Dad.’

‘What?’

‘The cigarette.’

‘What cigarette?’

‘The one you were smoking.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

I walked over to the door and pointed to the smouldering butt beside his foot. ‘That’s what I’m talking about.’

‘I’ve no idea how it got there.’

‘Come on, Dad, I saw you throw it down. You know you’re not allowed smoke any more. It’ll kill you.’

‘Don’t tell your mother.’

‘I won’t if you promise never to smoke again.’

‘I promise to try not to.’

‘Dad!’

‘It’s the one thing I look forward to in the morning. It helps me think straight. It’s bad enough that I’ve to eat tasteless food and walk two miles a day for exercise without a little treat every now and then.’

I decided not to point out that with Mum as his chef his food would still taste pretty good. ‘The doctor was very clear. Your heart can’t take the smoking. You have to give up. I don’t want you to die. I like having you around. Take up yoga or golf or hill-walking.’

He sighed. ‘When you get to my age, you want a bit of peace and quiet and a few little comforts – like a cigarette now and then.’

‘You can’t smoke, Dad. I want you to have a long, healthy life.’

‘You’re grown-up now, you don’t need me. You’ve a big career and a nice lad.’

‘Who’s going to give me away at my wedding?’

‘Are you getting married?’ he asked, excited.

‘Well, actually –’

The door swung open. ‘I saw you, Mick,’ hissed Mum. ‘I saw you smoking from the bedroom window. I’ll kill you.’

‘Apparently the cigarettes will do that for me.’

‘What kind of an eejit are you?’

‘’Twas only a little one.’

‘Give me the packet,’ Mum ordered. Sheepishly Dad handed it over. ‘Let that be the end of it,’ she said, throwing them into the bin.

‘Ah, Annie, what’d you do that for?’

‘I don’t want to hear another word. Now, would you like a nice fry for breakfast?’

‘Mum, he’s not allowed fries any more,’ I reminded her gently.

‘Nonsense. I’ll only use a tiny bit of butter. The man needs to build up his strength.’

I could see it was useless arguing with her so I left them to it and went back upstairs to work.

A little later Finn came into my room. ‘How’s it going?’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’m just working on my column and then I can focus on the wedding.’

‘Are you sure you really want to do this?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Pierre’s the one. Didn’t you like him?’

Finn nodded. ‘He’s a nice guy and he seemed mad keen on you.’

‘Did he?’ I asked, thrilled that he’d noticed.

‘Not as keen as you were on him. You were all over him. It was embarrassing.’

‘What?’

‘I’m only winding you up. Stop fishing for compliments. I’m off to work, I’ll catch you later. Let me know when you decide to tell them so I can make myself scarce.’

‘I’m relying on you to calm the storm.’

‘It’ll be more like a tornado.’

Later that morning my phone rang. It was Siobhan.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said. ‘I want to meet Pierre. Before you cause havoc in the family, I think I should be introduced to him and give you my honest opinion. I’m a very good judge of character, so I’ll be able to tell if he’s really serious about you or just a dirty old man.’

‘Jesus, Siobhan, he’s not a dirty old man. He just happens to be a bit older than me.’

‘It’s the same age gap as Charles and Diana. Look what happened to that marriage, and they were the same colour and religion, although I don’t think those royals are very religious.’

‘Well, thanks for that cheery analogy.’

‘I’m just being honest. You need someone to be upfront with you about the whole thing. So, when can I meet him?’

‘I’ll get him to come over next week, but don’t say anything to anyone yet.’

‘As if I would. By the way, what’s his surname? Liam wants to Google him.’

‘Siobhan!’

‘Of course I told my husband about him. We tell each other everything. That’s how successful marriages work, Niamh. You could learn a thing or two from us.’

I bit my tongue.

‘Have you met his parents?’ she asked. ‘What are they like?’

‘To be honest with you, they’re very posh and intellectual.’

I could hear her bristle. ‘And so are we. You come from prime Irish stock and you went to college, for goodness’ sake. I was the brightest girl in school and Dad’s a successful businessman, Finn’s following in his footsteps and Mum reads a lot.’

‘I know, you’re right, but they’re different. They’re a bit intimidating.’

‘In what way? Did they freak when they met you? Did they mind you being Catholic?’

‘They don’t think I’m good enough for Pierre. I’m not stylish, bilingual or an expert on history and philosophy, so to them I’m a big fat loser.’

‘You are not,’ said my sister, jumping to my defence. ‘He’s lucky to have you. You’re very pretty, since you went blonde, and clever. What’s so great about them?’

It took me a moment to get over the shock of Siobhan being so complimentary. ‘His mother looks like a model and thinks that women who wear tracksuits are lazy, slovenly wenches. She looks like she’s going to dinner in Buckingham Palace every day. Head-to-toe Chanel. And Mr Alcee doesn’t talk to you, he lectures you. It must be all the years at Oxford, but he can’t seem to have a conversation, just goes off on tangents. They’re different, very French.’

‘But I thought they were from Martinique?’

‘They are, but they moved to France when they were eighteen to study there and became more French than the French themselves.’

‘Do they speak fluent English?’

‘They speak it better than Shakespeare. It puts me to shame.’

‘Your French isn’t bad. I remember you being quite good at school.’

‘Siobhan, I can just about order a sandwich and ask to go to the loo. It’s not the same thing.’

‘Well, they sound stuck up to me.’

‘They’re not really, they just have that French superiority complex where everyone else is less cultured than they are.’

‘That’s rubbish.’

‘It’s not really. They do have a lot to be proud of.’

‘For instance?’

‘Food, wine, fashion, literature.’

‘And so do we,’ said Siobhan, sounding furious.

‘Corned beef isn’t quite the same as
foie gras
.’

‘James Joyce and W. B. Yeats are as good as any writers they have.’

‘Good point,’ I said, filing that one away for future conversations with my in-laws. ‘But Aran jumpers aren’t exactly Chanel.’

‘Chanel’s overrated. A check suit is a check suit. Why don’t they do something different for a change? There’s nothing original about it. Mrs Alcee should put on a tracksuit and relax.’

I giggled at that vision. Oh, to see Fleur in a saggy-arsed tracksuit!

‘Seriously, Niamh, you should be proud of who you are and don’t let anyone make you feel second best. I’ll tell Pierre myself when I meet him.’

‘Hang on, Pierre isn’t like that. He’s a brilliant mixture of French and English. English sense of humour with French panache.’

‘I’m going to hang up now before you start telling me how wonderful he is – again.’

‘Siobhan?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Thanks for the support and the pep talk.’

‘Anytime. I have to fly, the girls are dancing in a
fèis
this afternoon. I’ve to go and curl their hair.’

‘Where is it on?’

‘Church hall at three.’

‘Can I come?’

‘Of course. I didn’t think you’d want to. You always hated
fèis
,’ said Siobhan, plainly shocked that I’d want to attend.

‘That’s because I had to take part in them. I’d like to see the girls dancing and check out if they’ve inherited their mother’s talent.’

‘Oh, they have, they’re all very talented. Wait till you see them,’ said the proud mother. ‘I actually think Muireann could go on to win a national.’

‘Fantastic! I look forward to seeing her in action,’ I said, hanging up and shuddering at the memory of my mother forcing my unruly hair into ringlets.

∗

Later that day I arrived at the town hall with Dad – the doting grandfather – to see the girls dance. Mum had said she was busy with something or other; clearly the idea of spending hours in a draughty town hall watching Irish dancing had not grown on her over the years.

When we arrived, the girls were being given last-minute instructions by Siobhan. They looked adorable in their dresses with their perfectly ringleted hair. Siobhan was obviously a lot more talented at doing hair than Mum had been. None of them appeared to have baldy patches where their hair had been pulled out by trapped curlers. It all seemed much more civilized. At only three, Ailbhe was a picture in her little green dress with her big blue eyes wide with excitement.

While Dad shook hands and spoke to everyone there – most of whom he knew from the community – I sat down and watched Muireann practising. She was really good, a natural. She caught my eye and came over to sit beside me. The youngest dancers were going first, so she had plenty of time before it was her turn.

‘Are you nervous?’ I asked my eldest niece.

She shook her head.

‘I used to be terrified,’ I confessed. ‘Then again, I was useless and it was embarrassing having to go on and stumble through my dance. Your mum was really amazing. She used to make it look so easy.’

‘Can I tell you a secret?’ Muireann asked. She had turned into a beautiful girl, the image of Siobhan at the same age, tall and slim with green eyes and auburn hair.