Whose Life is it Anyway?

by Sinéad Moriarty

  For three days and nights a steady stream of relations, friends and people who just turned up for the free food and drink came through our front door. They cried, sang songs, told stories, recited poems and generally ran the full gamut of emotion on an hourly basis.

  Christmas Day had been a mere blur in the middle of crowds of family and strangers coming to pay their respects to Uncle Pat and his loved ones. People sat around our house day and night telling Pat stories, subtly leaving out the parts where he fell over drunk or passed out. His raving alcoholism was described gently as ‘high spirits’ and ‘his fun-loving side’. His embarrassing antics became his ‘little eccentricities’ and his failure as a father and husband was brushed aside and he was remembered as ‘a family man’. Although there were times when I wanted to shout, ‘He was a no-good drunk who terrorized his wife and drove his daughter to push him down the stairs,’ I kept my head down and my mouth shut. I was an adult now, privy to family secrets. Mentally I picked up the carpet and brushed my feelings under it.

  As we had to wait until 27 December to bury Uncle Pat, he had ended up spending Christmas Day with us after all. Gone was my mother’s sumptuous roast-turkey dinner, our presents and the afternoon spent lying by a roaring fire watching Christmas movies. Instead, Finn and I spent ten hours a day boiling the kettle, making sandwiches and washing up. I didn’t mind because it took my mind off Sally’s crime. Finn never mentioned it to me and I never said a word to him, but every time we were on our own there was an elephant in the room.

  Siobhan, loving the drama of a death in the family, became chief mourner. She spent her time sobbing into relatives’ shoulders, bemoaning the early demise of a treasured uncle. I could see she was getting on Sally’s nerves and I wanted to warn my sister to tone it down. Sally really didn’t need to be wound up and, much as Siobhan annoyed me, I didn’t want to find her face down in the bath or some such. So I tried to warn her. ‘I think you should stop telling everyone how upset you are,’ I said. ‘He wasn’t your dad.’

  ‘He was my beloved uncle and I’m devastated,’ she said. ‘Just because you’re a heartless cow it doesn’t mean I am.’

  ‘You didn’t even like him,’ I hissed. ‘All you ever did was give out about him.’

  ‘That’s not true. I was very fond of him in my own way.’

  ‘What way is that? Turning your nose up every time you saw him and telling Mum he was an embarrassment to the family?’

  ‘I’m grieving for Dad and Sally and Brian and Sheila.’

  ‘They don’t need your grief. They’ve enough of their own.’

  ‘Why do you care?’

  ‘Because it’s annoying for Sally. He was her dad and you’re going around wailing like a banshee. She’s getting fed up with you.’

  ‘She’s a weirdo. She hasn’t even shed one tear.’

  ‘People react to death differently. She’s probably bottling it all up.’

  ‘Well, she should let it out.’

  ‘If you gave her some air space she probably would,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe I should encourage her to talk about it. She needs to get it off her chest.’

  ‘No!’ I shouted, as Siobhan glared at me. ‘Don’t force her to talk. She’s a private person. She doesn’t want to tell you anything. She’s got nothing to say. Leave her alone.’

  ‘She needs to let it out,’ said Siobhan, standing up to go to Sally. I grabbed her by the jumper. ‘Get off me!’

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Mum asked. ‘What are you squabbling about?’

  ‘Siobhan wants to make Sally talk about what happened and I think it’s a bad idea,’ I said, staring into Mum’s eyes and wriggling my eyebrows so she’d understand my concern.

  ‘Siobhan,’ Mum said sharply, ‘Sally has been through a terrible trauma. She doesn’t want anyone asking her questions. You are to leave her in peace. Is that clear?’

  ‘Fine. God, I was only trying to be nice.’

  ‘I’d like less mourning from you and a lot more sandwich-making. Off you go,’ she said, ushering Siobhan out of the room. ‘You too,’ she said, looking at me.

  ‘That was a close one,’ I whispered, as I passed Mum on the way out.

  She stared at me blankly. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Now, get into the kitchen and make yourself useful.’

  Mum was a pro. No one, not even MI5 or the KGB, would make her talk.

  After buttering a thousand slices of bread, I felt rigor mortis setting in (stiffer than Uncle Pat’s), so I snuck upstairs to my room for a rest. I could hear my mother and father talking in their bedroom.

  ‘… had to rule out foul play,’ said Dad, sounding upset.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mick, it was just a formality. I’m sure the police have to do it with any accident in the home.’

  ‘But they’ve enough to deal with without the authorities questioning them. It’s not right,’ Dad grumbled.

  Police! My God, the Old Bill must have been in, sniffing around for possible murder weapons. It’s a good thing Sally didn’t knife him or something where the weapon might have been found. Thank God they hadn’t questioned me. I’d definitely have cracked under police pressure.

  ‘It’s over now they’ve been cleared of any wrong-doing. Forget about it,’ said Mum.

  ‘Wrong-doing! As if those young children would hurt a fly, and poor Sheila’s a wreck. I know he was my brother and I loved him, but he wasn’t much use to his family.’

  ‘Well, he’s gone now and it’s up to us to support them as much as we can. Actually, I was thinking we might get some counselling for the kids,’ Mum said.

  ‘Counselling?’

  ‘Yes, Mick. They’ve been through a lot, having a drunk for a father, and it’d be good for them to have some professional help getting over this. I’ve got the name of someone very good and I’d like to set it up.’

  ‘OK, if you think it’ll help then go ahead. I’ll write you a cheque. I want the best for those kids. They’re my responsibility now.’

  Responsibility! Oh, no. I prayed they weren’t going to come and live with us. It was bad enough knowing Sally was a killer, but having to face it every day over breakfast was too much. I’d need counselling myself.

  ‘You’re a good man,’ Mum said. ‘I definitely got the pick of the O’Flaherty crop.’

  ‘I’m the lucky one,’ said Dad, and then I heard them kiss. I ran to close my door.

  Later that day Mum told Finn and me that Sally, Brian and Auntie Sheila were going to be staying the night because the coffin was due to leave our house at ten o’clock the next morning to go to the church for the funeral and they wanted to spend the last night in the same house with him.

  ‘So, Finn, you’ll be sharing with Brian and, Niamh, you’ll be sharing your room with Sally.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I said, praying I’d misheard her.

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘Mum, I’m not sharing my room with her.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I don’t want to be strangled in the middle of the night because I snored or made a noise that annoyed her.’

  Mum grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. ‘Don’t ever let me hear you say anything like that again. Go to your room and make up the spare mattress on the floor this minute.’

  I stomped off in a fury. I was fed up with my family – mother, sister, cousins, the whole stinking lot of them. I threw myself down on the bed and stifled a scream in my pillow.

  Finn came in and sat on the bed. He was grinning.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ I moaned.

  ‘Yeah, it is. You get to sleep with the psycho killer,’ he said, chuckling. ‘You’d better be careful not to piss her off.’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘Where’s your sense of humour?’

  ‘Sense of humour? There is a man lying dead in a coffin in our good room because his daughter shoved him down the stairs in a fit of rage and now I have to share a room with her. Not to
mention the fact that Mum is forcing us to pretend nothing happened and I’ve spent the last three days, including Christmas Day, listening to made-up stories about Uncle Pat being a great guy. What’s funny about that?’

  Mum walked in. ‘You can stop sulking,’ she said. ‘Sally’s going to sleep with Sheila in Siobhan’s old room and Brian can sleep in Finn’s room and Finn can sleep on the floor in here. Is that better?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  ‘Look, kids,’ she said, and paused to find the right words. ‘I know the last few days have been strange and tense and upsetting. But once the funeral’s over, we can put all of this behind us. Unfortunately life is complicated sometimes, and we have to muddle through as best we can. The most important thing right now is that you’re kind to your cousins. The accident has been very hard on them and we need to be supportive, not judgemental. You’ve been a great help with the food and drinks and I need you to help out for one more day. Then everything will be back to normal. Will you do that for me?’

  Finn and I nodded, then he slunk out of the room. Mum came over to me. I sank back into the pillow in case she decided to shake me again. There seemed to have been an epidemic of violence in our family lately and I wasn’t taking any chances.

  ‘Niamh, I’m very sorry for shaking you. You’ve been really great over the last few days. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’

  I sighed. ‘It’s OK. I know you didn’t mean it. I just want our house back. It’s been a horrible Christmas.’

  ‘I know, pet,’ she said, patting my arm. ‘We’ll make it up to you all, I promise. We’re going to celebrate Christmas late this year, but we’ll celebrate none the less. Now, lie back and have a little rest. You deserve it.’

  I certainly did. I was exhausted, mentally, physically and emotionally. I lay back in the bed and closed my eyes.

  But before I had a chance to relax I heard Siobhan bellowing up the stairs: ‘Niamh, we need your help. We’ve run out of sandwiches.’

  ‘Make them yourself.’

  ‘I can’t, I’ve to feed Muireann. Auntie Nuala wants you down here right away.’

  I rolled off the bed and went back to the production line. Children in the sweat-shops in Bangladesh didn’t have to work this hard and at least they got paid.

  31

  The funeral went off without a hitch. Father Hogan skirted around Uncle Pat’s drunkenness and talked about his ‘joie de vivre’. Uncle Peggy, my mother’s cousin, had offered to do the music and she even brought a tear to my eye when she sang ‘Be Not Afraid’. It made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. At that point everyone started crying and I suddenly realized how sad it was. My anger disappeared and I was left with sorrow for a wasted life and sympathy for a broken family left behind.

  Much to everyone’s surprise, Brian got up to speak at the end of the mass. His voice was shaky and wobbly but you could hear him. ‘My dad was a deeply flawed man,’ he said. I began to worry. Was he going to slate his father on the altar in front of all the relations? ‘But he was my dad and you only get one of those in your life. Although the last few years have been difficult for us as a family, I do remember good times when he wasn’t ruined by alcohol. I remember playing hurley with him in the back garden, going to Brighton to the beach, listening to him singing while he shaved… Nice memories. Alcohol destroyed him, and ultimately killed him, but I want to remember him as he was before it completely consumed him, when he behaved like a real dad, when he enjoyed his family and made us proud, not ashamed. I also want to take this opportunity to thank my dad’s family for being such a support to us over the years. I don’t like singling anyone out, but I must mention Uncle Mick, Dad’s oldest brother, who spent so much time and effort trying to get Dad better. He never gave up hope, he never gave up trying, and I’ll always be grateful to him for that. I want to thank his family as well, Auntie Annie, Siobhan, Niamh and Finn, who opened up their house and allowed us to say a proper goodbye to Dad. We’ll never forget your kindness and generosity. It’s made the last few days a little easier to bear. Finally, I’d like to thank you all for coming today and for being friends to us and my dad over the years. I promise to do my best to look after Mum and Sally now.’

  Everybody began to clap and soon the church was thundering with applause. I saw Dad wiping away tears and watched Mum squeeze his hand. I was bawling and even Finn was watery-eyed. Siobhan, needless to say, was howling beside me. I looked at Sally and Auntie Sheila, who were leaning into each other, sobbing. Brian went over to them and they put their arms round each other for comfort.

  Dad leant over to us and said, ‘I’m proud of all you kids. You’ve been a credit to me over the last few days,’ but then he had to stop because he got emotional again.

  I was a bit cheesed off that Siobhan had been credited with being helpful, seeing as all she’d done was be chief mourner and boss me around. Personally I thought I deserved most of the credit, because even Finn had kept sneaking off when no one was looking so I’d been left to butter the lion’s share of the sandwiches and do the washing-up.

  We left the church and went out to the graveyard. When we got to the plot, we were met with three grave-diggers holding up a placard saying they were on strike because they hadn’t received their Christmas bonus. Dad was furious and tried to talk them down, even offered them money, but they said they had their principles to stick to and that was that.

  So, on a freezing cold day in December, my father and his brothers took off their good funeral-going coats and dug Uncle Pat’s grave in their best suits, while the rest of us looked on, shivering. Everyone gave advice – including the striking grave-diggers who tut-tutted about the way the grave was being dug until Uncle Tadhg told them if they weren’t going to dig they could stick their opinions where the sun didn’t shine.

  Eventually, the hole was declared deep enough by the majority of the mourners, although some felt they should keep digging. Mum was getting into a fury because she could see that Dad and the others were exhausted and on the verge of collapsing, while the rest of us were in danger of hypothermia.

  ‘The hole is big enough and deep enough. Now, can we please lay this poor man to rest?’ she said in her don’t-mess-with-me voice.

  The uncles then lowered the coffin into the not-so-big hole and you could see it didn’t fit properly, it was a bit lopsided, but no one dared to complain. They were all afraid of my mother. I was worried that his head would be squashed up against the side of the coffin, but then he was dead anyway so it wouldn’t bother him.

  Father Hogan said a few prayers, then Auntie Sheila and Sally dropped flowers into the grave and Brian threw in Uncle Pat’s favourite cap.

  ‘He’d be better off putting a bottle of whiskey in,’ muttered Finn.

  ‘Don’t be so disrespectful,’ I said, coming over holy now that I knew my help was appreciated and not taken for granted like it normally was. I had a new-found respect for my cousin Brian and his family and I wasn’t going to be mean about Uncle Pat any more.

  ‘Killjoy,’ said Finn, teeth chattering.

  ‘Shush,’ I hissed.

  ‘Amen,’ said the mourners, as Dad and his brothers finished putting the soil back over the coffin.

  Siobhan was standing on the edge of the grave keening like an old pro.

  ‘Get your sister,’ Mum said. ‘She’s making a show of herself.’

  I grabbed her by the arm and yanked her backwards.

  ‘Piss off,’ she snapped. ‘I’m saying my last farewell to Pat.’

  ‘Mum said you were making a fool of yourself and I was to stop you.’

  ‘She did not.’

  ‘Did too. You’re being a drama queen. He wasn’t your dad.’

  ‘You’re just cold and unemotional. No wonder you don’t have a boyfriend,’ she snarled.

  ‘Any lad would be lucky to have her,’ said Dad, putting down his shovel and placing an arm round me.

  Brilliant! For once Siobhan was caught out b
eing mean to me.

  ‘I didn’t mean it, Dad, I’m just overcome with it all,’ said the actress.

  ‘Lookit, girls. My brother is lying in that grave and I’ll never have the chance to talk to him again. Family is the most important thing in life. Don’t fall out with each other because when the going gets rough it’s only your family you can rely on. So I want you to be nice to each other. No more squabbling. OK?’

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ we said.

  ‘Now, let’s go home. We’ve only a few more hours of entertaining and then we’ll have the place back to ourselves and we can celebrate Christmas properly.’

  Later that afternoon, when everyone was leaving, Sally came over to me. I was, as usual, washing dishes and when I saw her standing beside me I dropped one on the floor. She bent down to help me pick up the broken crockery.

  ‘We’re leaving now,’ she said, ‘and I just wanted to say thanks. I always thought you were a bit self-centred but you’ve been really nice over the past few days.’

  Self-centred! The cheek of her! I was en route to being canonized for my selfless acts. I bit my tongue. ‘Uhm, you’re welcome.’

  ‘You’re very lucky,’ she said. ‘You’ve got a brilliant father.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry yours was such a bad one.’

  She shrugged. ‘Well, he’s gone now so we can move on. I guess it’s just luck. My Mum’s great and so is Brian, so two out of three isn’t bad.’

  ‘You got Uncle Pat and we got Siobhan,’ I said, as my cousin laughed for the first time – probably – ever.

  ‘Well, I’ll see you around.’

  ‘OK. Good luck, Sally,’ I said, diving back into my washing-up. I was afraid she might hug me and I was worried her killer instinct might rub off on me via osmosis or something.

  She left and I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, everyone was going and we could get our house and our lives back to normal. I vowed there and then to block the whole murder episode out of my mind for ever.

  Finn came in. ‘They’re nearly all gone,’ he said, sitting down on a kitchen chair.