‘What’s his name?’ Dad asked.
I took a deep breath. Here we go, I thought. ‘His –’ Before I had a chance to say, ‘Pierre,’ my uncle Tadhg came in, said they needed a hand with the float, and Dad rushed out.
‘What float?’ I asked.
Mum rolled her eyes. ‘Your father has decided to build the biggest float in this year’s St Patrick’s Day parade.’
I glanced out of the kitchen window to see Tadhg and my father trying to lift a giant wooden shamrock on to a cart. Despite myself I began to laugh. ‘Oh, God, Mum, it’s enormous.’
‘I know. They’ve been at it for weeks.’
‘I think it’s brilliant,’ said my ever-patriotic sister. ‘I used to love dancing in the parades.’ She sighed, looking down at her fat feet.
‘You’ll need to lay off the toast if you want to dance again,’ said Mum sternly, looking at Siobhan’s round frame.
‘It’s baby weight. I’ll lose it soon,’ huffed my sister.
‘The baby’s three, you’d want to get on with it,’ Mum muttered.
‘TO THE LEFT,’ we heard Tadhg roar from outside.
‘I’M DOING MY BEST, THIS THING WEIGHS A TON,’ shouted Dad.
‘JUST A FEW INCHES MORE AND WE HAVE IT,’ said Tadhg.
I watched Dad’s face turn purple with effort.
‘That man’s an idiot. He’s too old to be lifting that much weight,’ tutted Mum, and no sooner were the words out of her mouth than we saw Dad fall sideways. He lay motionless on the grass.
‘Mick,’ screamed Mum, as we sprinted out of the door, followed by a puffing Siobhan.
Dad was clutching his chest and gasping for breath. While Tadhg ran to call an ambulance, Mum and I lifted Dad’s head, loosened his clothes and tried to keep him conscious. Siobhan sat on the grass beside us and sobbed. ‘Daddy’s dying.’
‘Shut up and get him a glass of water,’ I snapped.
By the time the ambulance arrived, his breathing had improved slightly, but he was still gripping his chest and unable to speak. Mum and Tadhg went with him in the ambulance and Siobhan and I followed in the car. I rang Finn and Auntie Nuala on the way. But then I had to swap places with Siobhan and do the driving, because she was hysterical and swerving all over the road. I didn’t think it was fair to Mum if both her daughters died in a car crash on the same day her husband had a heart-attack.
By the time we got to the hospital, Dad had been rushed into intensive care and was having a variety of tests. Tadhg was pacing up and down the corridor, wailing.
‘’Tis all my fault. I should have been doing the lifting. Mick’s that bit older. I’ll die if anything happens him.’
‘He’ll be fine, don’t worry yourself. Now, could you do me a favour and get us all a nice cup of tea?’ Mum asked. He scurried off, happy to be doing something useful.
‘Bloody fool! How could he let poor Mick lift that shamrock?’ said Mum, slating Tadhg as soon as he was out of earshot. ‘He’s eight years younger! He should have been pushing, not giving instructions. I blame him for this.’
I decided not to mention that I thought the twenty cigarettes a day Dad smoked and his diet of cream and butter probably had a lot more to do with the heart-attack than the float.
‘Stupid bloody shamrock. I’ve always hated St Patrick’s Day,’ Mum grumbled.
‘Mum!’ said Siobhan, horrified. ‘How can you say that about our patron saint’s day?’
‘Because I hate wearing a lump of weeds on my coat, I never liked the colour green and, to be totally honest with you, I find the parade an almighty bore.’
‘You’re just emotionally traumatized,’ said Siobhan, refusing to believe that everyone didn’t love the parade. ‘I’ll go and help Tadhg with the teas. I might get some chocolate to keep us going.’
‘It’ll be OK, Mum,’ I said.
‘How do you know?’ she snapped.
Finn came running in. ‘Is he OK?’ he asked, as Mum stood up to hug him.
‘He’s stable. They’re running tests on him now,’ I answered, as Mum sobbed into Finn’s shoulder.
‘He’ll be fine, Mum. He’s a fighter,’ said Finn, as Mum gazed adoringly at him. You’d think she’d at least try to hide her favouritism.
Nuala rushed over. ‘Well? Is he dead?’ she asked, cutting straight to the chase.
‘Jesus, Nuala, what type of a question is that?’ said Tadhg, arriving back with the teas.
‘What kind of an eejit are you?’ she retorted. ‘It isn’t tea they need, it’s brandy.’ She pulled a bottle out of her bag and poured large quantities into the cups.
After an anxious wait, the doctor came and told us Dad was stable, he was going to be fine but he needed lots of rest, a strict change of diet, regular exercise – not of the heavy lifting variety – and that he was never to smoke again. We were all to make sure he didn’t.
‘Can we see him?’ asked Finn.
‘Only immediate family and only for a few minutes. He’s very tired and needs rest.’
We left Nuala and Tadhg sitting outside while we went in. Dad was lying in a bed, looking old and forlorn.
‘You gave us an awful fright,’ said Mum, holding his hand.
‘Oh, Dad, we thought you were dead,’ said Siobhan, throwing her arms round him as he flinched with pain.
‘I’m grand. Now go home and help Tadhg set up the float. I want it ready for the morning.’
‘Will you forget about that stupid float? It was nearly the death of you,’ snapped Mum.
‘I promised Father Hogan I’d have it ready in the morning and I never break a promise. Finn, will you go home and help Tadhg finish the job? Niamh, you can give it a lick of paint. I’ve a pot in the garage.’
‘I’m glad to see you’re all right, Dad,’ I said, leaning over to kiss his cheek.
‘Give it two coats of the paint to make sure it looks good,’ he said, as I backed out of the room before he could ask me to push the bloody float through the parade.
As Siobhan was driving me home, my phone rang. It was Pierre.
‘How did it go? Did he take it badly?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t tell him.’
‘Niamh,’ he said, sounding really fed up, ‘you promised you would. I can’t believe you chickened out again.’
‘I didn’t. He had a heart-attack just after I arrived,’ I said, beginning to get emotional.
‘What? Is he all right?’
‘Yes, he’s going to be fine. He just needs to rest and change his diet and stuff.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘He collapsed under a giant shamrock.’
‘Is this a wind-up?’
‘No, I wish it was. It was for the parade tomorrow.’
‘Do you want me to come over and be with you? I can be there in a few hours.’
‘No! Not now. It’s not a good idea. Look, I’ll call you later, I can’t really talk at the moment.’
‘OK. Well, let me know if you need anything. I love you.’
‘Thanks. I love you too.’
‘Love!’ said Siobhan. ‘Wow, it must be serious with this guy.’
‘It is. We’re engaged.’
‘What?’ She nearly crashed the car. ‘Engaged? And none of us have even set eyes on him. How long has this been going on?’
‘Six months, two weeks and three days,’ I said, smiling.
‘Why haven’t you mentioned him before? Why haven’t we met him?’
‘Well, it all happened so quickly, there wasn’t really time. Finn met him when he came over last month.’
‘Did he? He never said anything about it to me. So, what’s he like? What does he do? Where did you meet him? What’s his name?’
‘He’s tall, dark and handsome. He’s a professor and we met in a coffee bar. His name’s Pierre.’
‘What? That doesn’t sound very Irish.’
‘He’s not.’
‘Oh, no! Dad’s going to freak. He was convinced you’d meet an Ir
ish guy in Dublin. Where’s he from?’
‘He’s kind of French.’
‘And he’s a professor – is he older?’
‘Yes, he’s forty-two.’
‘Oh, my God, he’s practically old enough to be your father. Dad’s going to go mad,’ she said, staring at me in shock as she swerved all over the road.
‘I know,’ I said, clinging to the door handle.
‘Couldn’t you have found an Irish guy your own age? Why did you have to fall for an old French guy? You’re looking for trouble.’
‘Actually, he’s not exactly French.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘His parents are from Martinique but he was raised in France till he was ten and then they moved to England.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘It’s in the Caribbean.’
‘He’s not –’
‘Yes, he is.’
Siobhan stared at me open-mouthed as she crashed into a lamppost.
26
Thankfully the damage to the car wasn’t too bad, but I was blamed for the crash and asked to pay for the repairs.
Siobhan kept staring at me and shaking her head. ‘You must have a screw loose,’ she said. ‘Why would you do this to Dad? You know it’ll kill him.’
I was sorely tempted to remind her that she had nearly pushed him over the brink with her teenage pregnancy, but decided to bite my tongue. She was wound up enough already. ‘I didn’t choose to fall for Pierre, it just happened. You don’t decide who you’re going to love,’ I said, pleased with how it sounded. I’d been practising that line for weeks.
‘If a black man made a pass at me I’d run a mile,’ said my progressive sister. ‘You just don’t entertain it. You marry your own. With all those Irish boys in Dublin, why the hell did you have to find the only fella from Martinee – or wherever it is?’
‘Because he’s special.’
‘It’s so typical of you, Niamh,’ hissed Siobhan. ‘You can never do things normally, like everyone else. You have to be different, you have to push the boundaries and upset Dad. This is just like when he asked you to do Irish dancing and you had to lie to him and do tap. Why can’t you be like everyone else?’
‘Have you got amnesia?’ I snarled. ‘Have you forgotten about your shotgun wedding? Have you chosen to erase the memory of Dad sobbing himself to sleep at night over it?’ I said, twisting the knife. I was sick and tired of Siobhan taking the moral high ground.
‘Liam is one of our own. Dad’s mad about him. He’s like a son to him. I don’t see him feeling the same way about an old black man.’
‘Pierre’s not old, and the fact that he’s black has nothing to do with anything,’ I said.
‘That’s rubbish and you know it. If you didn’t think it was a big deal, you’d have mentioned him before now.’ Sussed.
‘OK, I know it’s not ideal and I do realize Dad’ll go mad, but I was hoping you’d be on my side. I need allies when I tell him. And when you meet Pierre you’ll love him. He’s amazing.’
‘I’m sorry, Niamh, but I don’t approve. I think you’re mad. Everyone’s going to be shocked. No one in the family will support this and Mum and Dad will never accept it, so you’ll just have to break it off, find a guy your own age and make sure he’s white.’
‘Don’t approve? Who the hell do you think you are? Do you have any idea how racist you’re being?’
‘I’m not being racist, I’m being realistic. It won’t work.’
‘It will work because I’ve met the perfect person for me. What he looks like is irrelevant. He’s my soulmate and I’m going to marry him, regardless of what anyone else thinks. And I can’t believe that you, my own sister, won’t support me. I presumed you’d be happy for me. I stupidly thought you’d congratulate me and be thrilled that I’d met a great guy, instead of telling me to dump him.’
‘I’m being honest. You’re living in Fantasy Land if you think this wedding is ever going to happen.’
‘I love him,’ I said, using my best line of defence.
She looked at me. ‘I’m sure you do, but I can’t pretend it’s OK. The truth is that everyone’s going to freak out. You have to be prepared for that. No one is going to consider this a good idea. So you need to think long and hard before you blurt it out to Mum and Dad – particularly Dad in his current condition. He’ll probably have another heart-attack. Just wait a few months and see how you feel then. What’s the rush anyway?’
‘Pierre’s been offered a post as professor of linguistics in Vancouver. He’s moving to Canada in ten weeks’ time. I’m going with him and we want to get married first.’
Siobhan sat back in the crumpled car and groaned. ‘Oh, Niamh, I’d hate to be you right now.’
When we got home, Finn pulled me aside and asked if Dad’s heart-attack was really because of the shamrock or was it because I told him about Pierre?
‘It was the shamrock, and thanks for implying that my news could kill him.’
‘It can and, to be honest, I think it will. Older is bad enough, not Irish is worse, but black… Forget about it, Niamh. He’s going to flip.’
‘You met Pierre, you saw how amazing he is, how can you not be more supportive?’ I asked, completely exasperated that everyone was presuming Dad would die when he found out about Pierre.
‘He’s a good guy and he seems to be mad about you, but none of that will change Dad’s reaction.’
‘Well, he’s just going to have to get over it.’
‘You’re not planning on telling him now, are you?’ asked Finn, looking shocked.
‘Of course not. I’m going to wait a week or two until he’s feeling better and the doctor says his heart is strong again. Then I’ll break the news.’
‘When is Pierre off to Canada?’
‘Ten weeks.’
‘And you still want to get married before then?’
I nodded.
‘Why not say you’re going to Canada to study and tell Dad about Pierre later?’
‘Because Pierre wants to get married now and have kids straight away. He doesn’t want to be too old to pick them up and I don’t want to have kids unless I’m married. I guess it’s the Irish Catholic guilt. Some of it’s obviously sunk in. I’m traditional about marriage and kids. Besides, I know Mum and Dad would be even more upset if I did that.’
‘I wouldn’t describe an inter-race marriage as traditional.’
‘You can’t help who you fall for. Come on, Finn, I need your help with Mum and Dad. I need you to sing Pierre’s praises, tell them how wonderful he is.’
‘I’ll do my best, but if you get excommunicated, I’m jumping ship,’ he said, grinning at me.
‘Do you think it’ll be that bad?’
‘Worse.’
27
Having promised Dad we’d finish the float, Finn and I woke up early on St Patrick’s Day and went out to the garden to salvage the shamrock. We somehow managed to lift it on to the cart, while Tadhg – who, having seen his brother’s heart give out, wasn’t taking any chances himself in case it was hereditary – shouted instructions. Then we painted it three times for good measure. It looked utterly ridiculous and wonderful at the same time.
We wheeled it down to the parish hall where we were met with a startling array of floats, marching bands, baton twirlers and dancing curtains. Siobhan’s five daughters – Muireann, eleven, Saibhe, nine, Morag, seven, Blathnaid, five and Ailbhe, three – were all dressed in green Irish-dancing dresses and were leaping about, high as kites with excitement. They were going to be dancing on a float that Liam’s law firm was sponsoring. As a former Irish-dancing champion, Liam was keen that his daughters enjoy jigs and reels as much as he and Siobhan had done. Within five years of setting up his own law firm, he had made a name for himself within the Irish community. He was highly respected as a lawyer, although my regard for him stemmed from the fact that he was able to put up with my sister on a daily basis without strangling her.
‘
Is that it?’ Siobhan asked, pointing to the shamrock.
‘Yes,’ I said, proud of our achievement.
‘You didn’t do a very good job. The paint’s all streaky.’
‘We’ve been up since seven after four hours’ sleep. It’s a bloody miracle we managed to get here at all,’ growled Finn.
‘No need to be so grumpy. I’m just saying Dad wouldn’t like to see his hard work displayed like that.’
Finn sighed, pulled out a paint pot and began to smooth the streaky parts, while Siobhan ordered him around.
I went to find Father Hogan amid the chaos to tell him that the shamrock had made it but Dad hadn’t. I eventually found him crouched down, trying to persuade a young boy that wearing a green velvet jacket didn’t mean he was gay.
‘I won’t wear it, it’s a fag’s jacket,’ insisted the boy.
‘Not at all, Diarmuid, it’s a big man’s jacket. It’s not girly at all.’
‘I’m not putting it on.’
‘But your poor mother spent weeks making it for you.’
‘I’ll be slagged in school for looking like a gay leprechaun.’
‘But you were specially chosen to portray St Patrick as a youngster.’
‘I don’t want to be him.’
‘But he’s our patron saint. It’s an honour. Sure didn’t he banish all the snakes from Ireland?’
‘Fuck Ireland, fuck St Patrick and fuck his stupid snakes,’ shouted Diarmuid.
‘Don’t speak to Father Hogan like that,’ I interrupted. ‘And if you really think St Patrick’s so lame, give the jacket to someone else and let them be a star for the day.’
‘Fine, take it,’ he said, throwing it at me.
‘Are you blind? Haven’t you seen how gorgeous the girls are out there? They’ll all want to talk to the guy playing St Patrick on the main float. You must be mad not to want to wear the jacket and get loads of attention from girls.’
Diarmuid glanced around at the array of girls dancing, twirling batons and playing musical instruments.
I held out the jacket.
‘OK. I suppose a few hours wouldn’t kill me,’ he said, putting it on and strutting over to a group of girls.
‘Well done, Niamh,’ said Father Hogan. ‘Before you arrived I was definitely losing that battle.’
Whose Life is it Anyway? Page 17