Whose Life is it Anyway?

by Sinéad Moriarty

  ‘Your dad’s been telling us all about you,’ said one of the nurses.

  ‘Poor you!’ I said.

  ‘It’s lovely to hear a father praising his daughter. You’re very lucky. Mine didn’t even hang around for my birth,’ she said, with a half-laugh.

  ‘I know he’s great,’ I said, sitting down beside Dad. ‘I’m so glad he’s better.’

  ‘He’s a real charmer,’ said one of the other nurses. ‘I’d wrap him up and take him home.’

  ‘Go away out of that,’ said Dad, thrilled.

  ‘Well, we’d better be off. Mind yourself, Mick,’ they said, and one by one they hugged him.

  ‘Good luck with the exams,’ Dad said to the first.

  ‘Send your young fella down to me. I’ll give him some honest work and we’ll keep an eye on him for you. You need to get him away from bad influences,’ he said to the second.

  ‘Tell your husband-to-be he’s a very lucky man,’ he told the third.

  ‘Don’t worry about getting pregnant. I’ll say a prayer for you,’ he said to the fourth.

  ‘Thanks.’ She smiled.

  ‘You’re all like angels sent from heaven,’ added Dad. ‘It’s because of you that I got better so quickly. Don’t mind the doctors. It’s you nurses that are the backbone of this hospital.’

  They beamed and left the room. I’d forgotten what an impact Dad made on people. He was always so interested in everyone else. He asked questions, and if he could help or give advice, he would. He was a kind and Christian man. He’d made an impression on the nurses and you could see they were fond of him. He had a way of listening that made people want to confide in him, and when they did, he always said something comforting. Maybe I was worrying about nothing. He was as concerned about those four black nurses as he would have been about four white ones. He’d always been nice to people, regardless of their skin colour. He always invited Mr Chow in for a drink when he delivered our Christmas tree and he was very fond of Mrs Singh in the dry cleaner’s – he’d hired her son to work for him when he left school. Maybe he’d accept Pierre and not mind about the agnostic and black part.

  ‘Did you see that little nurse there?’ he asked me. ‘Her son’s got into a bad crowd and is doing drugs.’

  ‘Oh, God, poor her.’

  ‘She’s sending him off to counsellors. I told her to stop wasting her money and send him down to me. He needs a good kick up the arse and an honest day’s work. That’ll sort him out,’ said the tolerant Christian.

  I was delusional – he’d go bananas about Pierre.

  I helped him pack a few final things into his bag and then the doctor arrived. ‘Now, Mr O’Flaherty, we need to have a little chat before you head home,’ he said.

  ‘OK, fire ahead,’ said Dad.

  ‘You might like to do it in private.’

  ‘Not at all, I’d prefer Niamh to be here. She’ll remember all the bits I don’t.’

  ‘OK. Well, first and foremost, you are never to smoke again. It will kill you.’

  Dad groaned. ‘I’ve been smoking for thirty years. It’s a comfort to me.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr O’Flaherty, that’s non-negotiable. I’ve mentioned a change of diet, and you need to stay away from salt, cream, butter and all high-cholesterol foods. Now, you may find that you feel a bit depressed when you go home, which is normal after having surgery. But you have a very supportive family so I’m sure you’ll recover quickly.’

  Bloody hell – depressed! I needed him in full health and on top form before I landed my bombshell on him. Now he had a dodgy heart and a bad case of the blues.

  ‘You’ll need to rest and try not to do too much. Listen to your body. If you feel tired go and lie down for a while,’ the doctor advised.

  ‘Can I get back to work?’ Dad asked.

  ‘I’d like you to take a week of complete rest, then ease yourself into it. Now, on the subject of resuming sexual relations with your wife, again, I’d advise that you take it slowly. There’s a saying that if you can climb a flight of stairs without feeling out of breath, you’re ready for intercourse and –’

  I was purple with embarrassment. I couldn’t believe I was in the middle of a conversation about my father’s sex life. I didn’t know where to look.

  ‘That’s enough information for one day,’ said a horrified Dad, cutting across the surgeon before he could say any more. ‘I think we’ll go now.’

  ‘Any questions or queries, call me and I’ll talk you through it.’

  ‘No, that was all crystal clear,’ said Dad. Then, turning to me, he said, ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  We drove most of the way home in awkward silence until Dad broke the ice by asking me how long I’d be home for.

  ‘I was thinking I’d stay until you’re back on your feet,’ I answered, hoping he didn’t think I was implying I’d stay until he was back having sex with my mother.

  ‘Haven’t you deadlines for the paper?’

  ‘Yes, but I can work from here on my laptop.’

  ‘What about your lad? Won’t you miss him?’

  ‘Uhm, yes, but it’s only a week or two. I’ll survive.’

  ‘I suppose he could always come over and see you. I’d like to meet him. You seem very keen.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I’m glad for you, pet,’ he said, patting my arm.

  Thankfully, before he asked any more questions, found out about Pierre, and I had to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, we pulled up outside our house, where Mum was waiting for us. She rushed over to help Dad out of the car.

  ‘Don’t fuss,’ he grumbled, as she supported his arm.

  ‘I’m only helping. You need to take it easy,’ she said.

  ‘I’m grand.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re after having a heart-attack, so just behave yourself.’

  They bickered all the way into the kitchen, delighted to be together again.

  Mum served up the food and Dad declared it was the best meal he’d ever had. She reminded him that the best meal he’d ever had was their thirtieth wedding anniversary meal that she’d spent four days preparing.

  After lunch, Dad went to sit in the good room, read the papers and rest. But the doorbell rang all day as a steady stream of family and friends trooped in to wish him well and welcome him home. Before long a party was taking place in the front room with everyone smoking and Dad taking the odd, clandestine puff when he thought no one was looking. Food was produced and drinks were poured as the crowd settled in for the night.

  But by seven o’clock Dad’s head had begun to droop and Mum politely but firmly asked everyone to leave, which they did. After long goodbyes the last guest had gone and Mum sat down with a sigh of relief. ‘That’s the end of the visitors, Mick. They’ll wear you out. No more for a few days. I’m asking them to stay away and let you rest.’

  ‘Ah, sure I’ll go mad sitting here with no company,’ said Dad.

  ‘You’ll manage a few days and don’t think I can’t smell the cigarette breath off you. Let that be the last of it. The doctor said they’ll be the death of you.’

  ‘One puff here and there won’t kill me,’ muttered Dad.

  ‘What’s for dinner, Mum? The girls are hungry,’ said Siobhan, who had spent the day plonked on the couch beside Dad, holding court, while I had run around after her children.

  Mum, who had spent the afternoon feeding the cast of Gandhi, was tired and grumpy. She glared at Siobhan. ‘That’s it. I’ve had enough. Out with the lot of you. I want to spend some time alone with your father. I’ve been working like a slave in that kitchen. Make your own food.’

  I hustled my nieces into the playroom and went into the kitchen, followed closely by Siobhan. I made pasta for her children while she sat at the table, polishing off the left-over sandwiches. Finn came in from work – he had started in the family business the year he left school.

  ‘What’s going on with Mum?’ he asked. ‘She’s in a right fouler. I just went in to say hi
to Dad and she snapped the head off me.’

  ‘She’s just fed up cooking for everyone,’ I said. ‘Pasta?’

  ‘Yeah, great, I’m starving,’ said Finn, grabbing the last sandwich before Siobhan ate it. ‘So, did you tell him about Pierre yet?’ he asked.

  I shook my head. ‘I’m going wait until next week when he’s better. I’m afraid of getting his blood pressure up.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how long you wait, he’s going to flip,’ said Siobhan. ‘The golden girl is not supposed to end up with a black man. You’re supposed to have met a nice Irish doctor from a good family, buy a house in Dublin and have sons that play Gaelic football.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he’s just going to have to get used to it,’ I said, trying to block out the doubt that was creeping in.

  ‘What’s Pierre like?’ Siobhan asked Finn.

  He shrugged. ‘Seems like a decent bloke.’

  ‘Is that all you can say?’ I wailed.

  ‘Is he good-looking?’ Siobhan wondered.

  ‘How would I know? I’m a guy.’

  ‘Does he look like Denzel Washington?’

  ‘No, more like Mike Tyson,’ said Finn, finding himself very entertaining.

  ‘He doesn’t look like either,’ I snapped. ‘He looks like himself. If he was white you wouldn’t be asking who he looked like.’

  ‘Yes, I would,’ said Siobhan. ‘You told me your last boyfriend was like Rob Lowe and then I saw a photo of him. He was a lot more like Rob Lowe’s ugly cousin with bad skin.’

  ‘He did not. He was the head cut off Rob.’

  Siobhan and Finn cracked up.

  ‘Anyway, the point is that Pierre is gorgeous in a unique way.’

  ‘Is he dark black or more milky?’ asked Siobhan.

  ‘I can’t believe you just asked me that. It’s so politically incorrect.’

  ‘Since when has anyone in this family ever been politically correct?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s kind of got the same skin tone as Denzel.’

  ‘Is he good in bed?’ Siobhan asked, as Finn choked on his sandwich.

  ‘Fantastic.’

  ‘Lucky you. Liam and I haven’t had sex in months. We’re too tired with five kids.’

  ‘Excuse me, ladies, but I really don’t want to know about your sex-lives, or lack of them. You’re my sisters – way too much information.’

  ‘Speaking of sex, you won’t believe what happened in the hospital today,’ I said, and proceeded to tell them about the doctor advising Dad to lay off sex until he could climb a flight of stairs.

  ‘I guess it’s a good thing we don’t live in a bungalow,’ said Finn, grinning.

  35

  The next morning I woke up early to work on my column and tiptoed down to the kitchen to make myself some coffee. I didn’t want to wake Mum, Dad or Finn, who was still living at home, but when I went into the kitchen, Dad was standing at the back door, in the new stripy pyjamas Mum had bought him for hospital. He was smoking.

  When he heard me, he flung the cigarette on to the ground and pretended to do stretching exercises and deep breathing. ‘Ah, it’s good to be up early on a lovely day.’

  ‘It’s freezing cold. Close the door. You’ll get pneumonia.’

  ‘Not at all. Nothing like a good blast of fresh air to start the day.’

  ‘I saw it, Dad.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The cigarette.’

  ‘What cigarette?’

  ‘The one you were smoking.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  I walked over to the door and pointed to the smouldering butt beside his foot. ‘That’s what I’m talking about.’

  ‘I’ve no idea how it got there.’

  ‘Come on, Dad, I saw you throw it down. You know you’re not allowed smoke any more. It’ll kill you.’

  ‘Don’t tell your mother.’

  ‘I won’t if you promise never to smoke again.’

  ‘I promise to try not to.’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘It’s the one thing I look forward to in the morning. It helps me think straight. It’s bad enough that I’ve to eat tasteless food and walk two miles a day for exercise without a little treat every now and then.’

  I decided not to point out that with Mum as his chef his food would still taste pretty good. ‘The doctor was very clear. Your heart can’t take the smoking. You have to give up. I don’t want you to die. I like having you around. Take up yoga or golf or hill-walking.’

  He sighed. ‘When you get to my age, you want a bit of peace and quiet and a few little comforts – like a cigarette now and then.’

  ‘You can’t smoke, Dad. I want you to have a long, healthy life.’

  ‘You’re grown-up now, you don’t need me. You’ve a big career and a nice lad.’

  ‘Who’s going to give me away at my wedding?’

  ‘Are you getting married?’ he asked, excited.

  ‘Well, actually –’

  The door swung open. ‘I saw you, Mick,’ hissed Mum. ‘I saw you smoking from the bedroom window. I’ll kill you.’

  ‘Apparently the cigarettes will do that for me.’

  ‘What kind of an eejit are you?’

  ‘’Twas only a little one.’

  ‘Give me the packet,’ Mum ordered. Sheepishly Dad handed it over. ‘Let that be the end of it,’ she said, throwing them into the bin.

  ‘Ah, Annie, what’d you do that for?’

  ‘I don’t want to hear another word. Now, would you like a nice fry for breakfast?’

  ‘Mum, he’s not allowed fries any more,’ I reminded her gently.

  ‘Nonsense. I’ll only use a tiny bit of butter. The man needs to build up his strength.’

  I could see it was useless arguing with her so I left them to it and went back upstairs to work.

  A little later Finn came into my room. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’m just working on my column and then I can focus on the wedding.’

  ‘Are you sure you really want to do this?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Pierre’s the one. Didn’t you like him?’

  Finn nodded. ‘He’s a nice guy and he seemed mad keen on you.’

  ‘Did he?’ I asked, thrilled that he’d noticed.

  ‘Not as keen as you were on him. You were all over him. It was embarrassing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m only winding you up. Stop fishing for compliments. I’m off to work, I’ll catch you later. Let me know when you decide to tell them so I can make myself scarce.’

  ‘I’m relying on you to calm the storm.’

  ‘It’ll be more like a tornado.’

  Later that morning my phone rang. It was Siobhan.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said. ‘I want to meet Pierre. Before you cause havoc in the family, I think I should be introduced to him and give you my honest opinion. I’m a very good judge of character, so I’ll be able to tell if he’s really serious about you or just a dirty old man.’

  ‘Jesus, Siobhan, he’s not a dirty old man. He just happens to be a bit older than me.’

  ‘It’s the same age gap as Charles and Diana. Look what happened to that marriage, and they were the same colour and religion, although I don’t think those royals are very religious.’

  ‘Well, thanks for that cheery analogy.’

  ‘I’m just being honest. You need someone to be upfront with you about the whole thing. So, when can I meet him?’

  ‘I’ll get him to come over next week, but don’t say anything to anyone yet.’

  ‘As if I would. By the way, what’s his surname? Liam wants to Google him.’

  ‘Siobhan!’

  ‘Of course I told my husband about him. We tell each other everything. That’s how successful marriages work, Niamh. You could learn a thing or two from us.’

  I bit my tongue.

  ‘Have you met his parents?’ she asked. ‘What are they like?’

 
‘To be honest with you, they’re very posh and intellectual.’

  I could hear her bristle. ‘And so are we. You come from prime Irish stock and you went to college, for goodness’ sake. I was the brightest girl in school and Dad’s a successful businessman, Finn’s following in his footsteps and Mum reads a lot.’

  ‘I know, you’re right, but they’re different. They’re a bit intimidating.’

  ‘In what way? Did they freak when they met you? Did they mind you being Catholic?’

  ‘They don’t think I’m good enough for Pierre. I’m not stylish, bilingual or an expert on history and philosophy, so to them I’m a big fat loser.’

  ‘You are not,’ said my sister, jumping to my defence. ‘He’s lucky to have you. You’re very pretty, since you went blonde, and clever. What’s so great about them?’

  It took me a moment to get over the shock of Siobhan being so complimentary. ‘His mother looks like a model and thinks that women who wear tracksuits are lazy, slovenly wenches. She looks like she’s going to dinner in Buckingham Palace every day. Head-to-toe Chanel. And Mr Alcee doesn’t talk to you, he lectures you. It must be all the years at Oxford, but he can’t seem to have a conversation, just goes off on tangents. They’re different, very French.’

  ‘But I thought they were from Martinique?’

  ‘They are, but they moved to France when they were eighteen to study there and became more French than the French themselves.’

  ‘Do they speak fluent English?’

  ‘They speak it better than Shakespeare. It puts me to shame.’

  ‘Your French isn’t bad. I remember you being quite good at school.’

  ‘Siobhan, I can just about order a sandwich and ask to go to the loo. It’s not the same thing.’

  ‘Well, they sound stuck up to me.’

  ‘They’re not really, they just have that French superiority complex where everyone else is less cultured than they are.’

  ‘That’s rubbish.’

  ‘It’s not really. They do have a lot to be proud of.’

  ‘For instance?’

  ‘Food, wine, fashion, literature.’

  ‘And so do we,’ said Siobhan, sounding furious.

  ‘Corned beef isn’t quite the same as foie gras.’