I’m there, ‘At long focking last!’ and then I tip over to the Shomera to find her husband and have a gloat.
He’s actually in there with Sorcha. She’s going, ‘Dad, I’m not going to change my mind, okay?’
I’m like, ‘Dude, you’re wasting your breath. You’re out of here. Get focking packing.’
Sorcha’s there, ‘We’re not talking about the move, Ross. Dad is still trying to persuade me to run in this election.’
The dude flicks his head at me. ‘His father,’ he goes, ‘was on Morning Ireland this morning saying all sorts of hateful things about women drivers, about members of the Travelling community, about people from Cork. And the response he got from the public was overwhelmingly supportive. Who is going to counterbalance these arguments, Sorcha, if not you?’
‘There are plenty of good people out there – for instance, Muirgheal Massey.’
Yeah, I wouldn’t hold your focking breath, I think.
He goes, ‘But, Sorcha, this is your moment! Don’t you see that? Just as Mary Robinson was born to lead the Campaign for Homosexual Law Reform, so you were born to lead the fight against this new breed of hateful populism that’s sprung up everywhere.’
She goes, ‘There are other ways of fighting it, Dad, without standing for the actual Dáil.’
‘How exactly?’
‘The best way to fight Fascism is to raise children to know better.’
That’s pretty weak, in all fairness. I don’t know how I manage to keep a straight face.
He goes, ‘Sorcha, you are giving up the chance to make a difference – a real difference – to the Ireland in which your children will grow up.’
‘I’m sorry, Dad, but I already have a very important job. And that’s being a good role model to my children.’
Outside, through the open door of the Shomera, I hear Brian go, ‘Shut your focking whore mouth!’
And that’s when Sorcha suddenly stands up. She looks at me and goes, ‘I’m really sorry, Ross. I should have done this a long, long time ago.’
She walks over to the door and she goes, ‘Brian, please don’t use bad language like that!’
And Brian looks at her – I swear to God – like he thinks she’s lost her mind. He’s like, ‘What are you shitting on about?’
‘Brian,’ she goes, ‘we don’t use bad words like that in this house, okay?’
Brian looks at me then. He goes, ‘Stupid focking bitch.’
I just burst out laughing. I know I shouldn’t but there you go.
And that’s when Sorcha all of a sudden loses her shit. And I mean loses her shit in a major, major way. She roars at Brian. Her face is, like, proper Munster red. She goes, ‘Don’t you ever speak about me like that again!’ and Brian – I swear to God – kacks himself. ‘I am your mother and you will show me some respect! That goes for the rest of you as well! If I ever, ever hear a word like that out of your mouths again, I will scrub them out with soap and water! Do you understand me?’
She doesn’t wait around for an answer. She doesn’t need one. From the looks on the faces of the boys, it’s pretty obvious that she’s coming through loud and clear. Brian and Leo actually burst into tears. But I also know at that moment that the swearing has stopped for probably good.
It’s, like, twenty minutes later when Honor rings. Tempted as I am to tell her that we know that she was innocent all along, I keep my promise to her old dear to say fock-all.
Instead, I dance around the subject of her having got her first you-know-what, trying to sound sympathetic but not so sympathetic that she decides to confide in me.
It’s a minefield for any father.
I go, ‘I was really sorry to hear about, you know – blah, blah, blah. Just to let you know, we’re all thinking about you and hoping that you’re on the mend.’
She’s there, ‘Are you talking about me getting my first period?’
I’m like, ‘Jesus Christ, Honor, can we maybe talk about it without going into actual specifics?’
‘It’s not an illness, Dad.’
‘It’s kind of an illness. Jesus, if you saw your mother doubled over with the hot-water bottle clutched to her stomach, horsing into the Ben & Jerry’s and losing her shit with me for literally nothing, you’d say it was a definite illness. Although they don’t seem to be any closer to finding out what causes it. You’d have to wonder how hord they’re trying. Sorry, I’m babbling here.’
‘Would you prefer not to talk about it?’
‘I would, Honor, if it’s all the same to you. My face is really hot all of a sudden.’
‘You were the one who brought it up.’
‘And I regretted it straight away. I just wanted to check were you okay now?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Anyway, I was just ringing to tell you that your stupid focking bitch of a wife has totally ruined my chances of staying in Australia.’
‘Has she?’
‘Er, she rang Erika and said she wanted me home because I’m going to be storting secondary school in a few weeks.’
‘You’ll be going to actual Mount Anville. That’ll be some day, Honor. Sorcha driving you there for the first time. There’ll be tears. I’m just warning you in advance.’
‘I told Erika to tell her to go fock herself.’
‘Right.’
‘I have no intention of going home. But now Erika is saying that I don’t have any choice in the matter – that I have to do what my mother says and that’s final.’
‘Am I detecting one or two cracks in your relationship? I’m sure your subscribers will pick up on it – yeah, no – if it storts to affect your on-screen chemistry.’
All of a sudden, I hear this, like, sobbing on the other end of the phone.
I’m like, ‘Honor? Honor, what’s wrong?’
She goes, ‘Dad, I don’t want to go home.’
I’m there, ‘Why not, Honor? Don’t you miss us?’
‘I miss you and I miss the boys.’
‘Well, then. Aren’t you looking forward to seeing us again?’
She goes, ‘I don’t want to go back to living in that house where they all hate me.’
‘They don’t all hate you, Honor.’
‘They do,’ she goes – and then she ends up really losing it. She’s suddenly crying so hord that her voice goes all high-pitched. ‘They think I poisoned … a baby, Dad … They think … I poisoned … a baby.’
And I’m there, ‘They don’t, Honor,’ and the words are out before I can stop myself from saying them. I’m just trying to comfort the girl – as her father. ‘They found out it wasn’t you after all.’
There’s just, like, silence on the other end of the phone. It seems to go on forever.
I’m there, ‘Anyway, Honor, it’s been lovely talking to you.’
But she won’t be so easily fobbed off. She goes, ‘What do you mean they found out it wasn’t me?’
I take a deep a breath. I know I’m going to possibly regret opening my mouth.
I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, Fionn found out that it was actually the boys dipping Hillary’s soother into the jacks, then sticking it into his mouth. That’s what was actually making him sick. So you’re off the hook. Anyway, I’m going to let you go.’
‘When did they find this out?’
‘Er, you’re kind of breaking up there, Honor.’
‘We’re both talking on landlines, Dad. When did they find this out?’
‘Okay, don’t go ballistic, but it was a few months ago.’
‘Months ago?’
‘Yeah, no, it was just after you left for Australia apparently. Although they didn’t tell me about it until last week.’
‘So why didn’t she ring me to apologize?’
‘Good question. Very good question.’
‘Well, what’s the focking answer?’
‘I don’t know. You’ve been pretty hord to get a hold of. You’ve been up to your eyes with the YouTube channel, then the whole Wellness Summit and Fashion F
actory things.’
She goes, ‘Dad, stop lying for her!’ and she roars it at me. ‘She accused me of trying to kill my brother. They all did. Why didn’t she ring me to say sorry?’
I’m there, ‘I presume it was because she felt bad about sending you away.’
Oh, shit.
She goes, ‘Sending me away? What the fock are you talking about?’
I’m there, ‘Look, I’ve said way too much already.’
‘Tell me!’
‘Okay, basically, they decided between them – we’re talking Sorcha, Fionn and her dickhead old pair – that they were packing you off to Australia. But then you decided that you actually wanted to go?’
‘So they let me think that going away was my idea?’
‘You wanted to go and they wanted you gone. Everyone was a winner.’
She’s suddenly not crying any more.
She just goes, ‘Thank you for focking telling me,’ and then the line goes suddenly dead.
So it’s, like, a few days later and I’m walking up Grafton Street and I pop into Brown Thomas for one of my famous shit-and-runs.
‘Toilets are for the use of customers only,’ the dude in the top hat goes, staring at me stony-faced, then he holds the door open for me and laughs. It’s been a running joke between us for as long as I’ve been coming here to snip one off.
Up three flights of escalators I go. I’m thinking about my conversation the other day with Honor. She’s not replying to any of my WhatsApp messages. I’m just hoping she’ll have calmed down by the time she comes home next week. It’ll be a nice surprise for her when she finds out that Fionn and those other two fockwits are moving out.
The gaff that Sorcha’s old pair are moving into is tiny. There isn’t room to turn over in your sleep apparently. And I’m focking delighted, of course.
I reach the top of the final escalator and that’s when I see the massive queue of people, snaking from one end of the homewares floor to the other, then back again, then doubled over on itself a third time. There must be, like, six or seven hundred people here. I haven’t seen a queue like this in Brown Thomas since the height of the Celtic Tiger, when Michael Bublé was helicoptered in to launch his own range of paleo, refined sugar-free macarons in association with Ladurée.
And that’s when I spot JP and Christian smiling at me across the floor of the homewares deportment.
I’m like, ‘No focking way!’ quickly walking towards them. ‘No! Focking! Way!’
JP just nods and goes, ‘Yes focking way, Ross! Yes focking way!’
A high-five turns into a chest-bump turns into a hug. Christian gets the same.
‘You did it!’ I go. ‘You actually did it!’
Technically, he did it when he flogged the patent for ten mills plus a percentage from each bed sold. But seeing people queuing up in BTs to buy his Vampire Bed is the real confirmation that he’s arrived.
‘Your old man is up there and he’s smiling down on you, Dude. And I’ll tell you something else. I’d be shocked if Father Fehily isn’t standing next to him, saying, “The boy did good!”’
I look at Christian then. I’m there, ‘You as well. You back your friends and look what happens. Did he give you your two mills, by the way?’
Christian laughs. ‘Yes, Ross,’ he goes, ‘he gave me my two mills.’
‘Well, I hope Lauren apologized to you for doubting you. That girl would want to get off your case and stort appreciating what she has. Seriously, this thing couldn’t have happened to two nicer goys even if it happened to George Clooney and Ryan Gosling.’
JP goes, ‘Will we tell him our other news?’
I’m like, ‘Other news?’
‘The Russian firm that bought the bed have asked me to head up the operation for Europe, the Middle East and Africa. And guess who I’ve just hired as my Head of Morkeshing?’
‘Christian?’
‘You got it.’
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa – what does this mean for Hook, Lyon and Sinker?’
‘I’m selling it, Ross.’
‘Seriously?’
‘It’s time to move on. I’m just so buzzed about the future. Look at the queues, Ross. There’s a piece in the Irish Times this morning that says the Vampire Bed will allow developers to build aportments up to fifty percent smaller in size. Which means they’ll be able to provide up to twice as many homes every year.’
‘And all because people came around to the idea of sleeping standing up.’
‘This is what the Government meant when they said they trusted the morket to fix the problem of homelessness.’
‘I’m going to buy one.’
‘What?’
‘I came in to take a shit, but that can focking wait now. I’m joining this queue and I’m buying a bed.’
Christian laughs. He’s there, ‘Do you think Sorcha will be cool with sleeping vertically?’
And I’m like, ‘It’s not for us. It’s for Sorcha’s old pair. Yeah, no, they’re moving into a gaff in Smithfield that’s so small, apparently you can’t fart and brush your teeth at the same time.’
I say goodbye – and fair focks – to the goys again, then I join the queue. While I’m standing there, I end up ringing Sorcha.
I’m like, ‘Hey, Babes, I’ve decided to buy your old pair a little moving-out present – just to show there’s no hord feelings.’
She goes, ‘That’s, em, really decent of you, Ross.’
‘Hey, it’ll be worth it just to see the look on their faces.’
‘Oh my God, did you hear the RTÉ News this morning?’
‘Er, you do know who you’re talking to, Sorcha, don’t you?’
‘Your dad is, like, five points ahead in the latest opinion poll, with, like, a week to go until the election. I’m still waiting to see what Muirgheal and Croía’s big plan is going to be.’
‘Yeah, I wouldn’t invest too much hope in that. You’re not storting to suddenly regret it, are you? As in, not standing?’
‘A little bit. I would love to be a member of Dáil Éireann, pointing out the factual inaccuracies in all the statements that your dad and members of his porty make in the House. But then I look at the boys – and that includes Hillary – and I think, oh my God, I already have a job? We don’t need expensive Montessori schools to teach our children how to behave, Ross. That’s our job as parents.’
Who would have thought that stopping your kids from swearing was as easy as just telling them to stop focking swearing?
I’m there, ‘There’s no right and wrong way to raise kids, Sorcha. A lot of it, I’ve learned, is just making it up as you go along.’
All of a sudden, I hear this woman’s voice behind me, go, ‘Can we skip ahead of you in the queue? These ladies are pregnant … Thank you so much!’ and then, a few seconds later, the same thing again. ‘Can we skip ahead of you in the queue? These ladies are pregnant … Thank you so much!’
There’s no mistaking that focking voice.
I’m there, ‘Sorcha, I’ll see you at home,’ and then I hang up on her.
‘Can we skip ahead of you in the –’
I turn around and I’m like, ‘No, you focking can’t.’
She gets a fright when she sees me. It’s not half as big as the fright that I end up getting? She’s standing, like, six inches away from me – invading your personal space is a tactic she uses when she wants something – and I can see her face close up, the cracks and wrinkles showing through her foundation, her chin covered in patches of grey hair like blackberries on the turn.
‘Ross?’ she goes. ‘What are you doing here?’
I’m there, ‘Er, I’m buying a bed – what do you think I’m doing?’ and then I look at her six surrogates. Szidonia. Roxana. Loredana. Brigita. Lidia. And then another Lidia. Again, they’re in identical smock dresses – this time black – and they’re all beginning to show. I’m like, ‘Hang on a second, you’re not putting them in Vampire Beds, are you?’
She goes, ‘We
haven’t the space for them all any more. We have the decorators coming to turn all of the spare rooms into nurseries for the children. So the girls are going to have to share a bedroom for the duration.’
‘You are seriously twisted. And I don’t mean twisted as in drunk. Even though you’re that as well. I can focking smell it off you.’
‘You’ve probably heard that your father’s streaking ahead in the opinion polls. Are you coming to the rally on Sunday?’
‘I told you. I don’t want anything to do with you – or him.’
‘I was rather hoping that you and I could put all of our history behind us. These babies are going to be your brothers and sisters, Ross, whether you like it or not.’
‘I don’t want anything to do with them either.’
She bitch-smiles and goes, ‘I’m sure you won’t always feel that way, Ross,’ and then she takes a step forward, taps the woman in front of me on the shoulder and – standing uncomfortably close to her – goes, ‘Can we skip ahead of you in the queue? These ladies are pregnant … Thank you so much!’
The grunt at the security gate won’t let me through. This six-foot-five Russian dude goes, ‘If your name is not on list, then you cannot come in,’ and I get a sudden flashback to being turned away from Club 92 back in the day and the long, drunken walk down the Leopardstown Road in search of a taxi.
I’m there, ‘You’re not listening to me. Chorles O’Carroll-Kelly is my actual father. Do you think I’d admit that if it wasn’t focking true?’
Suddenly, I spot Kennet through the wire-mesh fence. I call his name. I’m like, ‘Kennet!’ except he just ignores me, even when I shout it three or four times. He actually goes to walk away. So I shout, ‘The R … R … R … R … Rowuz of F … F … F … F … Finglas!’ and that gets his attention.
He comes walking over, all smiles. He’s wearing his driver’s uniform and he’s got a laminate pass hanging around his neck. He goes, ‘Ah, howiya, R … R … R … R … R … R … Rosser. I ditn’t see you theer.’
I’m there, ‘You tried to ignore me, you mean – until I reminded you that I knew your sordid little secret. Talk to this dude and tell him who I am.’
Kennet nods at the Russian dude to tell him it’s okay and the dude opens the gate and lets me into the backstage area.
Schmidt Happens Page 37
