‘Can I touch it?’ asked Jack, reaching up to feel the scalp formerly occupied by my lovely hair.
‘Sure.’ I knelt down so the boys could feel it. They squealed with delight as they rubbed my fuzzy head.
‘Cool,’ said Jack. ‘I want to be bald.’
‘When you’re grown-up you can.’
‘I want to now,’ whined Jack. ‘I want to be like Bob the Builder and Mummy and Uncle Derek and Dojak.’
‘Me too, me too,’ said Bobby, slapping my head.
‘First of all you have to let your hair grow and then when it’s finished growing, when you’re eighteen and you have a good job like Bob the Builder, you can have it cut off. But not now. Besides, I don’t think Mrs Foleywould let you go to school with no hair.’
‘Is Daddy bald too?’ asked Jack.
‘No, sweetheart, but I think we should ask him to cut his hair off tonight when he comes home,’ I said, grinning at the idea of Professor Kennedy shaving his head.
20
Later that evening I was rummaging around in the kitchen drawers, looking for a tea-towel that could pass as a bandanna – I was thinking Yasser Arafat meets Mother Teresa – when I heard, ‘Take what you want. I don’t want any trouble. Just help yourself to the goods and go.’
I turned to find Dad wielding a golf club. ‘Jesus, Dad!’
‘Kate?’ he said, staring at my shorn scalp in horror. Subtlety was never his strong point.
‘What are you doing with the golf club?’
‘I thought a skinhead was robbing the place. What in God’s name have you done to your hair?’
‘Fiona’s fell out after the chemo so she had to shave her head, and Derek and I joined in as a gesture of solidarity.’
‘Oh, Katie,’ said Dad, coming over to hug me, ‘your beautiful hair.’
‘What the hell? It’ll grow back,’ I said, stifling a sob.
‘I’ve never been more proud of you,’ said Dad, getting a bit weepy himself. We were all turning into emotional wrecks.
‘What were you planning on doing with the golf club?’
‘Battering you round the head for daring to rob my house.’
‘Good thing I turned round. My chances of meeting a guy are prettyslim at this point, I think a facial scar would stamp out the last glimmer of hope.’
‘Sure any man’d be lucky to have you.’
‘Would you be going out with Sheryl if she was bald?’
‘Can’t you wear a wig or something till it grows?’ he side-stepped.
‘That bad, huh?’
‘No, you look grand, but a lad might find it a bit… ah… butch. He might mistake you for a girl who likes motorbikes and prefers other girls, if you get my drift.’
‘You know, Dad, telling me I look like a lesbian really isn’t doing anything for my confidence. Couldn’t you lie?’
‘What good would that do you? Lads like hair, so here’s a few quid to get yourself a nice long wig and sure they’ll be queuing up,’ he said. ‘ake Fiona with you and buy one each. You can swap them.’
Derek strolled in. ‘’Sup?’
‘Dad’s forking out for wigs. Want one?’
‘No way. Roxanne thinks the shaved look’s hot. She was all over me this afternoon. I’m never growing it back.’
‘And the beauty of it is that if she changes her mind – which she seems prone to doing – she can always tattoo some hair on to you,’ said Dad, chuckling.
‘How’s Fiona doing?’ Derek asked me.
‘Better. She was relieved that the boys took it well. They want to shave their own heads and Mark’s now.’
‘What did Mark say?’ asked Dad.
‘Oh, you know Mark. Mr Sacrifice himself. He said he’d love to join in, but he didn’t think the dean would approve.’
Derek and Dad rolled their eyes.
Shortly after the shaving of our heads, Derek and Gonzo – a.k.a. Rap-sodie – were playing their gig in a pub in town. Mark volunteered gallantly to babysit so he could avoid having to go. I picked up Fiona and we headed off, wearing colourful head scarves. Courtesy of Dad, we had each purchased a wig. I had gone for a fun platinum blonde one but Fiona had been much more practical and opted for one that was closer to her own dark curly hair. Neither of us felt totally comfortable in them: they felt fake and, after a while, they made your head itch, and Derek’s gig was in a basement so it was bound to be hot and uncomfortable. So we opted for scarves and looked like two charladies instead.
Dad was waiting for us when we arrived, sticking out like a sore thumb in the dingy room, surrounded by yoof in saggy-arsed jeans and hoodies. He had invited Sheryl along – which I thought was a really bad idea – and, judging by the grumpyface on him, he regretted it now. ‘Thank God you’ve arrived,’ he muttered. ‘Jesus, will you look at the state of the crowd? They’re like a gang of car-jackers.’
‘Dad!’ I scolded. ‘You can’t go around saying things like that. It’s not politically correct.’
‘I don’t give a fiddler’s about political correctness. Why do young lads today have to go around with their trousers half-way down their arses and their faces covered with hoods? They need a good kick up the backside and an honest day’s work to sort them out.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ I hissed. ‘They’re Derek’s friends and fans.’
‘And we don’t want to get stabbed,’ said Sheryl, fearfully. Clearly she didn’t get out much – too busy shagging sixty-two-year-olds into early graves.
‘It’s not Hell’s Kitchen, Sheryl,’ I said.
‘Dublin’s one of the most dangerous cities in Europe now,’ she retorted. ‘People get stabbed and shot here every day. The police are far too tolerant. They should lock up all those criminals and throw away the key,’ added our liberal-minded marathon runner.
‘A bunch of wasters is what they are,’ said Dad, glancing at the motley crew. ‘That brother of yours had better smarten up his act. I’m having no more of this music rubbish. He’s coming to work for me full-time and that’s the end of it.’
‘You have to admire him for chasing his dream,’ said Fiona.
‘Not when it involves spending most of the last three years watching MTV while fat fellas in vests and big gold chains roar at each other. I’ve had enough,’ Dad fumed, warming to his theme.
‘He’s very talented,’ Fiona said, continuing her defence of Derek. ‘Some of his songs are really good.’
‘Pffff! Any fool can shout –’
‘I can’t understand this rap stuff at all. Why are they so angry all the time?’ asked Sheryl.
‘Too much time on their hands,’ ranted Dad. ‘In my day fellas were out ploughing fields from dusk till dawn. They’d no time to be moaning about everything. That’s what’s wrong with the world today, too much bloody complaining and not enough hard work.’
‘Shush, he’s coming over,’ I said, as Derek and Gonzo strutted to the table.
‘Dig the head decoration,’ said Gonzo, pointing to my scarf but, thankfully, refraining from licking it.
‘Thanks. Are you nervous?’ I asked.
‘Bricking it,’ said Derek.
‘No,’ said Gonzo.
‘Nice crowd,’ said Dad. ‘The future leaders of the country.’
‘Yes, great turn-out,’ I cut across him.
‘Mostly mates but the guy from Hot Press is here,’ said Derek, chewing his lip nervously.
Dad, Sheryl and Fiona stared blankly at him. ‘It’s a music magazine. It helped launch U2,’ I said, exaggerating slightly.
‘We’ve gotta go, bro, we’re on in five,’ said Gonzo, and hustled Derek towards the stage.
‘Good luck,’ said Fiona. Then, turning to me, she asked, ‘Is the magazine really that influential?’
‘Well, if he gets a good write-up it’ll help open doors.’
‘Will it get him a six-figure recording deal so he can stop sponging off me?’ asked Dad.
‘You’re too generous, Bill, that’s your proble
m,’ smarmed the elastic woman.
‘You never know, stranger things have happened,’ I said, ignoring Sheryl, just as she had ignored me for years in gym class. Immature, I know, but it felt great.
‘It’s hardly likely, though, is it?’ she retorted.
‘Every artist starts out doing small gigs,’ I snapped. How dare she insult my brother? Only family members were allowed that privilege.
‘We live in hope,’ said Dad, trying to defuse the tension.
‘You’ve great optimism, Bill. It’s very endearing,’ said Sheryl, squeezing his thigh. The cheek of her, molesting my father in front of me! I turned away in disgust.
‘Yo, dogs, zip it,’ roared Gonzo, into the microphone. The crowd hushed. ‘We’re Rap-sodie and we’re gonna blow you away with our lyrics tonight. My man MC D-Rek here got it goin’ on. N-joy.’
‘I take it MC D-Rek is my son, Derek John O’Brien,’ said Dad rolling his eyes.
‘Shush,’ I said, suddenly feeling very nervous for Derek.
He came forward, microphone in hand (shaking slightly) and introduced the first song. It was about losing your virginity in a hedge. Dad squirmed in his seat while Sheryl – who was in no position to take the moral high ground on sex – tut-tutted.
The crowd swayed and whooped every time Derek said ‘fuck’ or ‘pussy’ – which was frequently.
The song ended after five graphic verses, during which the former virgin contracted herpes from the ho’ he’d slept with.
‘If Father Brendan could see him now,’ said Dad, shaking his head. ‘Fifteen years of Yeats, Shakespeare and Dickens, and this is how he chooses to express himself.’
‘You did your best, Bill. That’s all you can do.’
‘Have you children yourself, Sheryl?’ Fiona asked.
‘No, I don’t, and I can’t say I’m sorry. It seems like a life sentence. You never stop worrying, do you, Bill?’
Dad shrugged. Even he drew the line at slagging off his children in front of their faces.
‘And how are you doing, Fiona?’ Sheryl asked, laying a hand on Fiona’s arm and tilting her head in a lame attempt to be sympathetic. ‘I hear you lost all your hair. You’re very brave to be out and about.’
‘I like getting out. It helps me forget about it for a while,’ said Fiona, pointedly.
‘Good for you, although I’d say the bald head is a constant reminder.’
‘Not if people stopped referring to it,’ I murmured.
Before Sheryl could reply, Derek announced that he was going to sing a new song. ‘I wrote this last night and I’m dedicating it to mysister Fiona, who inspired it. Yo listen up,
‘“So my big sista found out she got da big C,
We is all scared coz of what it might mean,
We don’t know nothin’ all we can do is try
To keep it together an’ not start to cry.
We gonna help her thro this difficult stage
And it ain’t hard, man, coz she bein’ so brave
But then last week after the chemotherapy
We is in the house and we hear a squeal
She freakin’ big coz when she wakes up
Her hair’s fallen out and dude that suck
Coz the bald look, man, it ain’t so hot.
So my other sista Kate went and got
My man Gonzo here to shave our heads too
Coz we don’t want our sista feeling so blue.
She need to know that we always be
Supportin’ her and showin’ our solidarity.
So now we all is bald because of our sista
But we don’t care coz we wanna be with her
Coz we is a family dat stick together
In times of trouble now and for eva.”’
Fiona and I stood and cheered. Eminem wouldn’t exactly be shaking in his boots, but it was a good effort and had come from the heart. Derek looked chuffed at our enthusiasm. Even Dad clapped.
‘That was brilliant,’ said Fiona.
‘Well, at least it was clean and no one contracted venereal disease,’ said Dad, and we laughed. Even Sheryl managed to crack a smile.
A couple more songs followed. One about ‘my bitch who went off with my bro’ though we weren’t sure if it was his imaginary brother or just his friend bro’. Another dealt with feuding gangs and drive-by shootings, and there was a long one about racism.
‘He’s a lively imagination, I’ll say that for him,’ said Dad. ‘The closest that boy ever got to a drive-by shooting was getting hit by bird shit on his tricycle.’
21
A few days later when I went to pick the twins up from school they were both in the bold corner. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked Mrs Foley. ‘What heinous crime did they commit this time?’
‘They were seen kicking Nigel in the shins,’ said the old witch. ‘If this continues, I’m going to have to seriously consider their position here at the school. We cannot allow unruly behaviour to upset the other children. The twins seem to have lost the run of themselves recently,’ she said, staring at me. Clearly I was an Unfit child-minder, with a capital U.
‘Mrs Foley, do you understand how ill their mother is?’ I asked, as if she was one of her pupils. ‘Are you aware of what chemotherapy entails? Do you realize how traumatic it is for children to see their mother go through physical and emotional hell? Because I’d be glad to bring in some breast-cancer information leaflets to help you get a grasp on what the boys are dealing with.’
She was furious at being spoken down to. ‘That won’t be necessary. Lots of the children here have difficulties at home and my school is the one place they can come to get away from it all. They need routine, discipline and consistency. It makes them feel safe and shelters them from upheavals at home.’
I was a bit taken aback. She had a point there. They loved school and seemed to be thriving. Knowing Fiona, I’m sure it was the best school in Dublin. Still, I thought that a little extra understanding and a bending of the rules under exceptional circumstances would be all right.
‘Did you find out why they kicked Whatshisname?’ I asked.
‘Apparently Nigel Boyd said something about Mrs Kennedy’s hair loss. He asked them why she had no hair or some such and they reacted with violence, which, as I said, is unacceptable.’
‘Well, maybe Nigel Boyd needs to be told to keep his gob shut,’ I retorted.
‘Nigel is a gentle boy and an only child. He’s traumatized by the incident.’
I decided not to tell her what I thought Nigel needed to toughen him up, and went over to the boys. ‘OK, guys, it’s time to go home.’ Two little tearstained faces turned towards me. I threw my arms round the boys and they let me hug them – which was rare as they normally squirmed when I showed them affection. ‘Hey, it’s OK, don’t mind Mrs Foley. I think you’re the best boys in Ireland.’
‘Mrs Foley said we were the boldest.’
‘Well, Mrs Foley’s wrong. What did that Nigel boy say to you anyway?’ I asked, as we were walking to the car.
‘He said Mummy looked like a scary monster and that she was going to die from the bad cancer,’ said Bobby.
‘He said what?’ I hissed. ‘Where is he? Which one is Nigel? Point him out to me now.’
‘There,’ said Jack, pointing to a pasty Kid with glasses, who was standing just inside the schoolroom.
‘Stay here and don’t move,’ I said. I strode back in, leant down to Nigel’s ear and whispered, ‘Listen here, nerd boy, if you ever say anything about Jack and Bobby’s mother again I will pull your hair out so you will look like a freak and no one will ever play with you again. Do you understand?’
Nigel gaped at me.
‘Everything all right, Nigel?’ asked Mrs Foley, from across the room, as I put my arm round Nigel’s shoulders.
‘Fine, thanks.’ I smiled. ‘Just checking that Nigel here has recovered after his traumatic day.’ Turning back to him, I whispered, ‘Don’t even think about telling anyone what I just said
to you.’
With that, I left the schoolhouse and walked out to the boys, feeling pleased with myself. I was the defender, the tigress protecting her cubs. No one messed with Kate O’Brien’s family.
‘Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad!’ I heard behind me, as Nigel sprinted past and threw himself into the arms of his father. ‘That nasty woman said she was going to pull myhair out,’ he whined, pointing at me.
Nigel’s father – who was surprisingly attractive and non-nerdy– grabbed his son’s hand and strode over. ‘Is this true?’
‘No,’ I lied.
‘Yes, you did,’ said Specky-four-eyes, landing me in it. ‘You said you were going to make me into a freak.’
The cute father glared at me. He was obviously going to believe his onlychild over a chubby, sweatshirt-wearing woman in a dodgy platinum wig.
‘Did you say that, Auntie Kate?’ asked Jack, plainly thrilled.
‘I think there’s been a misunderstanding,’ I said, coming over all formal. ‘Nigel upset the twins this morning by saying something nastyabout their mother – mysister – I’m not married myself.’ Well, you never know, he might be divorced and at this stage I was getting desperate, although if it meant having Nigel as a stepson Mr Boyd would have to be sensational in bed.
Mr Boyd looked at his son. ‘What did you say, Nigel?’
Nerd-boy might be good at chucking insults around but he was no liar. ‘I said she looks like a scarymonster,’ he admitted.
‘Why would you say something so unkind?’
‘Because she has no hair. She’s all baldy.’
I decided to fill the handsome father in. ‘My sister’s having chemotherapy at the moment and her hair’s fallen out.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘It’s been tough for the boys so they reacted badly, kicked Nigel and ended up in the bold corner. When we were leaving I just said to your son here that it wasn’t nice to call people names because they were bald,’ I said, bending the truth. This man was never going to ask me on a date if he thought I’d threatened to rip his five-year-old’s hair out with mybare hands.
‘Nigel, I’m very disappointed,’ said my future husband. ‘The twins’ mummyis sick and you should be extra nice to them and not say nasty things. Your mummy’s going to be very cross when we get home and I tell her what you did.’
In My Sister's Shoes Page 13
