Schmidt Happens

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  I walk into the kitchen. She’s feeding Hillary mashed-up something or other while Fionn’s shaking a little rattle at him and going, ‘Buenos días, Hillary! ¿Cómo estás?’

  They both turn and look at me at the exact same time. Sorcha looks terrible. I’m pretty sure she got zero sleep last night because every time I woke, I could hear sobbing in the bed next to me.

  She goes, ‘Ross, will you have some breakfast?’

  And I’m there, ‘I’m not hungry,’ which is total horseshit. But then, it’s so rare for me to find myself in a position where I’m not the actual bad goy that I decide to milk it for all it’s worth.

  Sorcha goes, ‘Ross, I’m so sorry.’

  And I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, so you said. I’ll have some French toast with bacon if it’ll make you feel any better. And a pot of coffee if you’re looking to take your mind off what you did to me.’

  Fionn snorts – he actually snorts? ‘Yeah,’ he goes, ‘you’re really milking this, aren’t you, Ross?’

  And I’m there, ‘How would you like it if I put Hillary on a plane and sent him to the other side of the world?’

  He doesn’t answer me. The back door suddenly opens and in her old man walks. He’s all, ‘You’ve seen the news, I take it? Micheál Martin says there’s no way he’s going to be bullied into releasing his Leaving Cert results and Leo Varadkar is going to the Park this morning to ask the President to dissolve the Dáil.’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Dad, I’ve got more important things on my mind this morning.’

  He’s like, ‘More important than the future of your political career?’ Then he looks at me. ‘And what happened to your intervention? Weren’t you supposed to tell the world that your father and his Russian friends were behind all of this?’

  I’m there, ‘I did the interview. They just decided not to run with it.’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Croía and Muirgheal actually want there to be an election? Oscail do bhéal, Hillary. Maith an buachaill! They think women could do very well in it.’

  His face lights up. He goes, ‘There’s the answer! You’ve got to run, Dorling! We always said we’d treat your time in Seanad Éireann as an apprenticeship before having a second run at a Dáil seat! We might even think about Dún Laoghaire this time!’

  ‘Dad,’ Sorcha goes, ‘I’m not sure it’s what I want any more.’

  ‘Well, you’d better make up your mind. They’re saying it’s likely to be a very short election campaign.’

  ‘Dad, you’re not listening to me. I think I need to step away from politics to spend more time with my family.’

  She smiles at me, waiting for my approval. It’s hordly a huge sacrifice. She wasn’t in the place a wet day.

  He’s raging with me, of course. He goes, ‘Oh, you think it’s something to smirk about, do you? A brilliant young woman, who could make a difference to the lives of millions of people both here and abroad, is turning her back on politics – and for what?’

  The back door opens and in walks Sorcha’s old dear. She goes, ‘One of your sons just called me a shitting ugly focktard.’

  I laugh. In a focked-up way, I’ve kind of missed the swearing.

  ‘So much for that school,’ she goes, ‘that was supposed to unlock their genius.’

  It suddenly dawns on Sorcha that they’re not actually there this morning. She goes, ‘Ross –’

  And I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, they got expelled. Cords on the table – Sasha said she tried everything, but in the end she just had to accept that she was pissing into the wind with them.’

  I look out the window. They’re booting a – yeah, no – soccer ball around the gorden. It looks like we’re back to square one with them.

  Sorcha goes, ‘In a way, I’m glad they were expelled. I realize now that I’ve been trying to fix the problems of the world while outsourcing the problem of my own children to Sasha, Erika and whoever else would take them.’

  Her old dear goes, ‘You’re not still beating yourself up over sending that girl away, are you? She was out of control!’

  Sorcha’s like, ‘She has a name, Mom. It’s, like, Honor?’

  For me the questionmork has always been silent.

  I’m there, ‘So presumably you’re going to apologize to her?’

  Sorcha doesn’t love the sound of that. ‘Apologize to her?’ she goes.

  I’m like, ‘Yeah, for accusing her of trying to poison a baby. And you can apologize to her for sending her away as well.’

  Sorcha’s old man sticks his ample hooter in then. He goes, ‘Thankfully, she has no idea she was sent away.’

  And I’m there, ‘She’s going to – because I’m going to tell her everything.’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Ross, please! She’s had the time of her life in Australia! If we tell her that it was a punishment, she’s going to end up hating me even more than she already does!’

  I’m actually thinking about this when there’s suddenly a loud crash – the sound of breaking glass – then Sorcha and her old pair scream as a soccer ball comes flying through the window, then bounces across the floor of the kitchen.

  Leo looks at us through the broken window. ‘Pack of focking fockpricks!’ he goes.

  Fionn’s there, ‘For God’s sake, Hillary could have been hit by that glass! He could have lost an eye!’

  And Sorcha’s old man goes, ‘Those three boys are on the same path to ruin as the other one.’

  The other one being my daughter. I just decide, that’s it. I’m not listening to this shit any more.

  I’m there, ‘Sorcha, you don’t want me to tell Honor the truth, right?’

  She goes, ‘I just don’t think it would be helpful in terms of my relationship with her going forward.’

  ‘Okay, if you want me to keep the truth from her, this is what it’s going to take. Honor’s coming home in, what, three weeks’ time? I want these two focking knobs gone by then.’

  I flick my head in the direction of Sorcha’s old pair.

  Her old dear goes, ‘How dare you speak about us like that!’

  I’m there, ‘I don’t want them in the house. I don’t want them in that shed out there. I want them gone.’

  Sorcha’s old man goes, ‘Good luck with that. I expect you’re about to be very disappointed.’

  Then I flick my thumb at Fionn and, without even looking at him, I go, ‘Same with him. He’s caused nothing but trouble since he moved in here. I don’t want him here when Honor comes home either.’

  He’s there, ‘I’m not moving out.’

  I’m like, ‘Dude, you can’t threaten us with protection orders any more. You’ve got fock-all to borgain with. That’s the deal, Sorcha. You either fock these three jokers out of the gaff or I’m telling Honor the full story.’

  And Sorcha – without even looking at Fionn or her old pair – goes, ‘Fine, Ross. They’re gone.’

  ‘Oh my God, Mark Twain – you are such a sexist prick!’

  Woke Reads operates out of a room in the basement of Tallant, Gammell and de Paor Solicitors in Merrion Square, where Croía’s old man happens to be a portner.

  I tip down the steps and I realize that it’s actually Huguette’s voice I can hear coming through the open window.

  She’s like, ‘He says here, “I think I could write a pretty strong argument in favour of female suffrage – but I do not want to do it.”’

  I hear gasps from a few people.

  Croía’s there, ‘It doesn’t surprise me even a little bit. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, for instance, is full of misogyny. And racism. I’m going to put it on the list.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to tweet this quote,’ Huguette goes. ‘We need to get everything he ever wrote removed from the shelves of our libraries until we can produce, like, clean versions?’

  I press the buzzer.

  I hear Croía go, ‘Who’s that?’ and then another voice – not hers or Huguette’s – go, ‘Oh my God, it’s a focking man!’

  Seriously?


  A few seconds later, Croía opens the door with an already angry look on her face. She’s like, ‘Oh, for fock’s sake!’

  I’m there, ‘I want to know does the deal still stand?’

  ‘What deal? What are you talking about?’

  ‘As in, you telling your niece to get off my son’s case.’

  ‘I can’t tell Huguette to do anything.’

  ‘Can you ask her, then?’

  She goes, ‘Why don’t you ask her yourself?’ and she opens the door to let me in.

  It’s a pretty poky office with, like, six or seven desks, each with a – not sexist – but woman sitting behind it? They all look at me like I’m an alien.

  ‘I thought this was supposed to be a safe space,’ one of them goes.

  I’m like, ‘Don’t worry, I’m not staying.’

  I look at Huguette. I’m there, ‘Putting the Students’ Union on my son – that was a nice touch.’

  She goes, ‘He shouldn’t be using social media to spread hate messages. He might find women in burqas funny, but to hundreds of millions of women all over the world it’s an instrument of male oppression.’

  I’m tempted to comment on that, but I don’t really know what she’s talking about.

  Instead, I’m there, ‘I was hoping you might lay off him. Ronan, I mean. Give him a break.’

  ‘And why would I do that?’ she goes.

  ‘Because he’s a good person.’

  ‘He slept with my friend Rachel.’

  ‘He’s a horny person. I’m not denying that. I could say it takes two to tango and blah, blah, blah. But I won’t. I’m just going to say this. What Ronan has come through in his life, Huguette, is pretty amazing. He was raised by a single mother in – I know you don’t want to hear the word – but Finglas? You wouldn’t believe the disadvantages he’s had to overcome in his life – he got my genes, for fock’s sake. But thankfully he didn’t inherit my brains. You see, he’s super smort, as you already know. And he’s decided to study Law because he wants to use his brains to help the people in the community where he lives – the poor, the vulnerable, the accident-prone. Man or woman, it doesn’t matter a fock. He’s a good goy. And he could make a serious, serious impact on the world as long as you don’t destroy him. Because that power is in your hands.’

  The office is just, like, silent. I’d love to think that I’ve got through to them all, except then I hear a woman go, ‘Look, everyone, the white cisgender male is showing he has a heart after all! You woman-hating, Ernest Hemingway asshole!’

  But I notice Huguette’s face definitely soften. She looks at Croía and goes, ‘What do you think?’

  Croía’s there, ‘I told you, he was happy to give us all that stuff about his dad.’

  Huguette looks back at me. ‘Okay, I’ll give him a break.’

  I’m there, ‘You mean you won’t put him on trial in September?’

  ‘We don’t have trials. We have hearings.’

  Tell poor Phinneas McPhee that. I don’t say that, though. I’m just like, ‘Thanks, Huguette. I’m, er, pretty grateful to you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she goes, ‘like I need your focking gratitude.’

  Everyone goes back to work then. ‘Your tweet about Mark Twain,’ one of the women goes, ‘has already got eighty-five Likes and thirty-two retweets, Huguette. Oh my God, someone says that the N-word is mentioned 219 times in Huckleberry Finn! Oh my God! That is, like –! Unless he’s black, of course. Do we know if he’s black?’

  ‘Mark Twain?’ Croía goes. ‘No, he’s white. He’s also dead.’

  ‘Right. Because my next question was whether we could call out this racist asshole on Twitter?’

  I’m there, ‘I’ll, er, leave you ladies to it,’ and I head for the door. I end up running into Muirgheal on her way in. She’s wearing, like, a white suit, with a humungous blue-and-white rosette – and on it are the words ‘Massey – An Independent Voice for Dublin Bay South’.

  She’s there, ‘Is Sorcha running?’ because they were, like, constituency rivals last time? ‘Please tell me she’s not.’

  I’m there, ‘No, she’s decided to concentrate on her family.’

  ‘That’s good. I was going to say it would end up splitting the Independent vote. I always thought she was more suited to Dún Laoghaire anyway. Thanks again for doing the interview.’

  ‘Hey, I meant every word I said about the wanker. The focking pair of them. My only regret is that you’re not going to end up using it.’

  She goes, ‘Oh, don’t worry. Like I said, we’ve got something even better planned for your father,’ and then she looks at Croía. ‘The ropes are going to need to be pretty thick if they’re going to hold him down.’

  Okay, that gets my attention.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I go, ‘what are you planning to do with him?’

  Croía’s there, ‘We’re going to tie the racist, misogynistic asshole up and throw him in the focking sea.’

  I stare at her. She’s actually serious.

  I’m there, ‘I’m not sure I one hundred percent agree with that,’ surprised at myself for actually giving a shit?

  But then ten seconds later, she laughs and I realize that – yeah, no – she’s not serious after all. She looks at Muirgheal and goes, ‘Will I show him?’

  Muirgheal’s there, ‘Why not? He hates him more than we do.’

  Croía grabs this, like, photograph from her desk – it’s of a giant balloon version of my old man, with a mobile phone in his hand, and he’s naked except for a nappy.

  ‘It’s the Charles O’Carroll-Kelly Baby Blimp!’ she goes.

  And I’m like, ‘Right,’ at the same time wondering what the fock they’re planning to do with it.

  Croía obviously reads my mind because she goes, ‘Your dad is having a rally in the Phoenix Pork the Sunday before the election. All his supporters are going to be there.’

  I’m there, ‘Er, okay.’

  ‘And we’re going to launch this in the middle of the pork so that everyone can see it.’

  Muirgheal’s there, ‘Oh my God, can you imagine how pissed off he’s going to be when he sees it?’

  I look at Muirgheal, then back at Croía.

  ‘Er, obviously I know fock-all about politics,’ I go, ‘but is this definitely better than telling the world that he’s in league with the Russians?’

  And Muirgheal’s there, ‘You’re one hundred percent right, Ross. You know fock-all about politics.’

  I ring Ronan but there ends up being no answer, so I leave a message on his voicemail to tell him he has nothing to worry about, that I’ve squared it with Huguette and he can go back to college in a few weeks’ time without having to worry about facing a trial.

  I’m there, ‘I hope it hasn’t put you off the idea of playing the field. I’d still hate to see you settling down too young. Especially with someone from that family. Anyway, give me a shout back, will you? We haven’t properly talked in ages.’

  I tip downstairs, then into the kitchen I go. Fionn’s in there, feeding little Hillary from a spoon. He’s going, ‘Das ist gut, Hillary! Yum-yum! Ja?’

  I’m there, ‘I’m not going to miss that when you finally move out,’ and I laugh. ‘My head is full of stupid foreign words that I have literally no use for.’

  He goes, ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

  ‘You’re spot-on I’m enjoying it. I haven’t seen my daughter for months and that’s down to you. So if you’re asking me to feel sorry for you, you’re borking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘I accept I should have told you when I found out.’

  ‘Yes, you focking should have – but you didn’t. When are you moving out, by the way?’

  ‘My parents said I could have their spare room until –’

  ‘I didn’t ask where you were going? I couldn’t give a fock if you end up living on Killiney Beach.’

  ‘Hey, I said I’d be gone by the time Honor comes home from Australia and I will, okay?’
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br />   ‘What, so you’re going to drag it out until the very last minute?’

  ‘I’m going to spend every second I can with my son, yes. And I’m sorry if that inconveniences you, Ross.’

  ‘Well, Honor’s back at the end of next week. Just make sure you’re out of here before I go to the airport to collect her. Otherwise, I’ll tell her that you accused her in the wrong.’

  And that’s when Hillary’s face suddenly lights up. He points at me and – I swear to God – goes, ‘Dada!’ and I end up having to laugh.

  I’m there, ‘It sounds like you’ve got a lot of explaining to do to the kid, Fionn. I’m just going to go out and check when these two other fockwits are going.’

  Out into the gorden I go. The boys are kicking a ball around. A soccer ball, I probably don’t need to add? There’s a rugby one lying on the ground next to the fence – an actual Gilbert – but it might as well be a focking Sudoku book for all the interest they have in it.

  Sorcha’s old dear is looking up into the branches of a tree. I don’t know what kind it is – I find trees boring and a bit pointless, to be totally honest.

  I’m there, ‘Are you two still here?’

  She goes, ‘I’m just thinking that’s very unusual, isn’t it? That ash has already shed its leaves,’ obviously trying to change the subject.

  I’m like, ‘So focking what?’

  ‘I’m just saying it’s very unusual,’ she goes, ‘for August, I mean.’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, thanks for that, Diarmuid Gavin. Should you not be out flat-hunting or something?’

  ‘We’ve found a place, if you must know.’

  ‘Where is it? Please say the Beacon South Quarter,’ because I know they absolutely hated living there. ‘That would make my literally day.’

  ‘It’s in Smithfield – very close to Edmund’s new office.’

  ‘It’s probably a focking dump, is it – hopefully?’

  ‘It’s very small –’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘There’s only one bedroom, but it’s perfectly sufficient for our needs. You’ll be pleased to know that we’ll be moving out tomorrow.’