‘Kate,’ said Dad, ‘if you don’t get out of my sight I will send you to a boarding-school where they only let you out to go to mass and pray for your lost soul.’
I never made it to that disco, but after a weekend of following Dad around in my pyjamas crying, and asking him to drive me to the Samaritans so I could get counselling on how to cope without friends, he let me go the following month. Anything for an easy life.
As I walked through the Arrivals door, I felt nervous. I had no idea what the next six months would hold. Would Fiona get better? How would I cope with the twins? What was I going to do when they didn’t need me anymore? I had no job, no life. I wanted to turn round and run. ‘Get a grip,’ I muttered angrily to myself.
I took a deep breath and walked through the Arrivals door, dragging my enormous suitcase. Dad was at the barrier, hopping from one foot to the other, with Derek beside him, eyeing up the young bronzed chicks coming back from their holidays.
Earlier, Dad had told Derek that I was moving home because Fiona was sick and asked him to come to the airport because he was afraid he might have a heart-attack in the car. He didn’t want to die on the way to the airport, and have me arrive with nobody to collect me. Derek pointed out that if he did have a heart-attack while he was driving the car, the chances were that Derek would die in the crash, too, or end up paralysed, so maybe they should get a taxi. But Dad said he needed to drive: it would keep his mind occupied and stop him panicking about Fiona.
‘So what exactly is wrong with her?’ asked Derek, clutching the dashboard as Dad skidded out of the driveway on two wheels.
‘She’s found a lump and they think it cancer.’
‘Bummer,’ said Derek, exhaling deeply.
‘I’ve just told you your sister might have cancer and all you can say is “bummer”. That’s all you can come up with after I spent thirty thousand shagging pounds on a private education for you?’
‘Chill, Dad, she’ll be fine.’
‘And tell me, Einstein, how do you know that?’
‘Cos,’ said Derek, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, ‘Fiona is this family.’
‘How right you are,’ said Dad, marvelling at the fact that, once in a while, when you least expected it, Derek would come out with something that made sense.
He looked at his son, who was dressed, as usual, in baggy black T-shirt and jeans with the backside hanging down to his knees. His shaggy black hair stuck out in tufts from underneath a woolly hat. He spoke like one of those American rappers and half the time Dad didn’t understand what he was saying. All Derek wanted in life was to make it in the music business, and if he had one prevalent characteristic it was his eternal optimism. He firmly believed that he was destined to be a famous rap star and no amount of criticism was going to sway him.
On his twenty-sixth birthday Dad had sat him down and told him that he had one more year to make it and after that he had to get a real job. He said he was sick of all this messing about. Derek would have to face reality at some stage and this time next year, if he wasn’t on M-bloody-TV morning, noon and night, he was going to work for Dad full-time. Not part-time as he did at the moment, to earn money to pay for studio bookings: he was going to learn the ropes and take over as manager of the cinemas. Derek had nodded and smiled and told Dad not to sweat it: he was on the cusp of fame.
Now Dad rushed over to hug me. I snuggled into his jumper and we tried not to cry. Derek was staring lustfully at a young blonde in a very short denim mini.
‘Hi, Derek,’ I said. ‘Sorry for being a cow on the phone. I was a bit stressed out.’
‘No worries. Dad told me Fiona’s got the big C. He’s totally freaking out, he nearly crashed, like, fifty times driving out here,’ he said.
‘Don’t mind him, I’m fine. Come on, let’s get you home. Derek, grab Kate’s suitcase there, will you?’ said Dad, trying not to look at my swollen red eyes.
When we got to the car, Derek tried several times to lift my suitcase into the boot and eventually had to ask Dad for help.
‘I can’t with my back,’ said Dad.
‘Dad! It weighs more than I do. I need some help.’
Dad bent down and tried to pick it up. ‘Jesus wept! What in God’s name is in here, Kate?’
‘I didn’t know what I’d need, or how long I’d be staying, so I brought pretty much everything.’
‘Oh, God, oh, no – I think I’ve slipped a disc.’ Dad staggered around in a circle, gripping his back. Derek and I glanced at each other and tried not to laugh. Dad was obsessed with his back. He had slipped a disc fifteen years ago, and although it had mended itself perfectly, we had been hearing about it ever since. Everywhere you sat in the house you were attacked by some form of orthopaedic support. They would thump you in the spine as you sat down in an armchair to watch TV, and in his car was a veritable treasure trove of back support cushions: he had rattan cool covers, lumbar-support and doughnut-pillow cushions, inflatable pads… If you wanted to know anything about backs, Dad was your man.
‘Here, give it to me,’ I said, and hauled the suitcase into the boot, much to Derek’s amusement. Meanwhile Dad was sitting in the driver’s seat, inflating his back pad for the journey home. I climbed in behind him.
Home sweet home.
7
I always liked the first five minutes of arriving into the house. The familiarity of my bedroom, the photos on the wall in the hall, the warmth of the kitchen… The brief period before I began to feel claustrophobic and edgy was the best part of coming back.
As I began to unpack there was a knock on the door. I opened it and came face to face with Derek’s best friend and bandmate, Gonzo.
‘Any chance of some lovin’?’ he asked, grinning.
‘Zero,’ I said, ducking as he lunged.
Gonzo had been trying to have sex with me since his considerable hormones had kicked in when he turned twelve. Fiona, at eight years older than him, was out of his league so he focused all his energies on me – with the mere four-year age gap. He had spent his teenage years skulking around the house behind me, even though I had slapped him, thumped him, kicked him, roared at him and once even resorted to hitting him over the head with a saucepan. He never stopped trying.
Like Derek, Gonzo was an eternal optimist. Unlike Derek, he was only interested in the band because he thought it would attract girls and get him laid. So far it hadn’t been working very well – and I could tell, from his lunge, that he was badly in need of a shag. Hell would freeze over before I’d oblige. Apart from being my little brother’s friend, Gonzo was smaller than me, thinner than me and had some serious personal-hygiene issues.
He sat down on my bed and picked up a bra. ‘Ooh,’ he said, holding it to his face.
‘Stop it, you pervert,’ I said, grabbing it back.
‘So, like, Derek tells me you’re home for good.’
‘No, just for a few months to help out.’
‘Cos Fiona has the big C.’
‘Yes.’
‘Great ass.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, sorry, did I say that out loud? I was just admiring your derrière.’
‘Jesus, Gonzo, we were talking about Fiona being sick – can’t you stop thinking about sex for ten seconds?’
‘Not with that kind of perfection in my face.’
I ignored him and carried on unpacking.
‘So I totally watch you all the time on your show.’
‘Do you think it’s good?’
‘I think you’re good. I like the short skirts – great pins should be shared with the world.’
‘Oh, God, Gonzo, how long has it been?’
‘Too long, dude.’
‘There must be some girl your age who’d take pity on you.’
‘That’s the problem. Girls my own age are too immature. I need an older woman.’
‘Well, you’re barking up the wrong tree here. It’s been fourteen years now. It’s time to look elsewhere.’
‘Perfection is worth the wait. Besides – you complete me.’
‘Get some original chat-up lines and stop quoting from movies. Everyone knows that line from Jerry Maguire. Tom Cruise is the only man who can get away with saying it.’
‘Are you getting any?’ Gonzo asked.
‘None of your business.’
‘Well, if you get lonely while you’re home, you know where to find me,’ he said, and winked as he stood up to leave.
‘Knickers, please,’ I said, holding out my hand for the red thong I’d seen him hide in his pocket.
Derek arrived at the door as his friend handed it back. ‘Dude, she’s my sister.’
‘Sorry, dude, I’m in love,’ said Gonzo, and walked out of the room.
Derek rolled his eyes. ‘Dad told me to tell you Fiona rang. She wants you to call over now.’
‘OK.’
I was dreading seeing Fiona. I knew the minute I clapped eyes on her that I’d want to hug her and cry, but she hated displays of emotion. Having been dragged into adulthood at twelve, she had learnt to deal with everything that came her way calmly and efficiently.
When we were younger Dad had tried to help out, but he had a business to run. In the end he’d hired Molly, who came in to clean and cook from Mondays to Fridays, but Derek and I hated the food she prepared and refused to eat it, so Fiona ended up with the cooking. Molly stuck to cleaning, ironing and telling us sad stories about her ten brothers and sisters and their thirty-two children.
Over the years we heard about relations who ‘suffered terrible from their nerves’, others who had gone down the slippery slope of gambling, drinking, cavorting outside wedlock, drug-taking, teenage pregnancy– but the final straw for Molly was when one of her nephews turned out to be ‘queer’. This apparently was worse than all the rest put together.
We had no idea what it meant, but from the look on Molly’s face it was very bad news. Fiona looked it up in the dictionary when Molly left and read out: ‘“Strange, odd, eccentric, ill, homosexual.”’
‘What’s that mean?’ I asked.
Fiona shrugged and turned to ‘homosexual.’ ‘“Feeling or involving sexual attraction to people of same sex.”’ She went red and shut the dictionary, but I still didn’t understand. She told me to forget about it and left the room.
When Dad came home later, I decided to ask him. ‘What’s “queer”?’
‘Strange,’ he said, shovelling mashed potato into his mouth.
‘What’s homosexual?’
‘What?’ he spluttered. ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Molly said it. What’s it mean?’
Dad put down his fork and chose his words carefully. ‘It’s when a boy likes a boy or a girl likes a girl.’
‘I like Tara so am I homosexual?’
‘No, pet, it’s more than that – it’s when a boy wants another boy to be his, uhm, well, I suppose to be his boyfriend. So instead of a boy and a girl being together it’s a boy and a boy or a girl and a girl together.’
I wasn’t sure how to process this. ‘Like Derek and Frank?’ (This was before Frank was renamed Gonzo and developed hormones.)
‘No. It’s when a boy loves a boy and wants to marry him. Or two girls want to marry,’ said Dad, floundering.
I frowned. Boys getting married was news to me. For some reason I wasn’t so bothered by the idea of girls doing it. Tara and I were always playing husband and wife. ‘Do they kiss other boys?’
‘Yes, they do.’
‘Yuck.’
‘Well, I’d have to agree with you there. It wouldn’t be my cup of tea.’
‘Do we know any?’
‘Rock Hudson,’ said Dad, deciding to use someone I idolized as a positive role model.
‘But he kisses Doris Day and they’re married.’
‘In the films they are, but not in real life. In real life, Rock likes to kiss boys.’
I was devastated. I had planned to marry Rock when I grew up and spend my days in yellow headscarves driving around in open-top cars drinking martinis and generally having a swell time. This was long before I saw Dirty Dancing and gave my heart to Patrick Swayze. Molly had done untold damage to my future by bringing queerness into my house and ruining my marriage prospects. I never fully forgave her and decided to write Doris Daya letter to inform her of Rock’s sexual leanings – after all, the poor woman was making a fool of herself in all those films as his wife. Dad promised he’d post it for me, and produced it eleven years later on my twenty-first birthday when he read it out to Fiona and Derek’s hysterical laughter.
I took a deep breath and rang the bell. Fiona answered the door, looking wretched. Her eyes were in the back of her head and her face was a shade of pale I’d never seen before. I hugged her and blinked back the tears that were forming in my eyes.
‘Good to see you, Kate,’ she said, prising herself away from me.
‘You too. Now tell me what you want me to do,’ I said, in an over-cheery voice.
‘I’m feeding the boys,’ she said, leading the way to the kitchen where pandemonium was taking place.
Jack was trying to throw his carrots on to Bobby’s plate and he in turn was chucking broccoli on to Bobby’s. Teddy, meanwhile, was lapping up the bits that fell on to the floor.
Mark’s surname was Kennedy and he had insisted on naming the twins Jack and Bobby and the dog Teddy. I suppose it showed he had a sense of humour – although he kept it well hidden.
‘Say hello to Auntie Kate,’ Fiona said, as the boys stared at me. They saw me only twice a year and, truth be told, I wasn’t exactly full-on then. I never knew what to say to or do with them, so I did the usual adult thing and asked them questions, which they tired of pretty quickly. Now I felt nervous – I had absolutely no idea how to relate to or look after these two little boys.
‘Hello, Auntie Kate, do you have more presents for us?’ shouted Jack, the more boisterous of the two.
Damn, I should have brought them something. Mind you, with my track-record of present-buying they’d probably have hated it. ‘Sorry, boys, no presents today, but I’ll get you something tomorrow.’
‘Don’t be silly. They don’t need anymore presents,’ said Fiona, firmly. ‘Jack, it’s rude to ask for presents. Now eat your dinner.’ Jack fed Teddy another broccoli floret.
‘Are you going to take us to school tomorrow?’ asked Bobby.
‘Yes, she is,’ said Fiona. She turned to me and said, in her best teacher’s voice, ‘I’ve been telling the boys you’ll be looking after them when I’m feeling a bit tired from the medicine that’s going to make me better.’
‘Mummy’s sick,’ said Jack. ‘She has a cancer.’
‘She’s got a bad lump,’ said Bobby.
‘But the doctor’s going to take it out and throw it in the bin,’ said Jack.
‘And then she’s going to get medicine to kill the bad cells,’ said Bobby.
‘And then she’ll be better.’
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘You guys have it all under control.’ Then, to Fiona, ‘So they know about everything?’
‘It’s important for them not to be afraid. Information takes away fear,’ she said, then kissed them and told them how clever they were for remembering all the information. They basked in her praise. Then, pointing to me, she said, ‘Now, you know that Kate will be putting you to bed tomorrow night while Mummy goes to the hospital. It’s only for one night, so you’re to be good for her.’
The boys nodded.
‘Will we show Kate what we do at bedtime so she can follow the routine?’ asked Fiona. ‘Let’s start with our bath.’
With that the two boys raced up the stairs and flung off their clothes.
8
After a noisy bath, which left both Fiona and me drenched, I helped her put the twins into their pyjamas and then she read them a story from Inventors and Inventions. The way she read it made it sound interesting even to me. I leant back against the wall and watched the two bent
heads hanging on her every word. She was a natural-born educator – maybe if I’d had a maths teacher like Fiona, I wouldn’t have been such a dunce with numbers.
After she had qualified with a first in pure maths – Mark got a first too, but Fiona’s marks were higher – Fiona decided to devote her life to teaching. Having seen how bad Derek and I were at maths, she was determined to make it more interesting and appealing to young people. She had landed a job teaching at an all-girls school and, by all accounts, was liked, respected and feared by her pupils. Maths was a vocation for Fiona. She wanted to rid it of its nerdy-and-boring reputation and spent a lot of time and energy making her classes interesting.
To be fair, she also loved teaching because it afforded her so much free time with the twins. They meant the world to her and she was determined to be with them as much as she could. To be a mother on her own terms, as opposed to having the role foisted on her at twelve, was a completely different experience. She had found it a chore to bring up Derek and me but raising the twins was pure joy. She relished her role and, as usual with Fiona, she became the best she could be – cooking them home-made organic meals, reading to them every night, teaching them the piano and playing stimulating games with them when she was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open. She had the patience of a saint – a virtue that had passed me by. Clearly she had got my share too. But all this, plus looking after Mark, preparing and correcting class work had left little time for Fiona to look after herself. As a result she seemed tired and older than her thirty-four years.
Mark had chosen a more ambitious route and gone on to become a college lecturer. He had spent nine years playing the political game like the chess master he was, which had led to his recent appointment as head of mathematics at Dublin University. At thirty-five, he was the youngest person ever to hold the post – which he wasn’t shy about telling you.
It was all very well for him to focus on his career, but it left Fiona to do the lion’s share of parenting and home-making. No wonder she was tired: it was a one-woman show. Whenever I had raised this with her in the past, she had laughed and said marriage was about compromise and that Mark’s success provided them with a lifestyle they wouldn’t otherwise have had. Because of him, the boys would be going to the best private school in Dublin and would have all the extra-curricular lessons and tutoring they needed. When I said I thought they’d be better off going to the local national school she shook her head and said that gifted children needed special guidance. The twins seemed bright enough, but I wasn’t sure about gifted. High-spirited, maybe, but I didn’t see any signs of genius, but then, hey, what did I know? I was single and in a job that required little or no intellect.
In My Sister's Shoes Page 4