Whose Life is it Anyway?

by Sinéad Moriarty

  They left and it was just Pierre, Mum and me.

  ‘Did you show your mother the ring?’ Pierre asked.

  I fished it out of my pocket and put it on. Mum turned my hand this way and that. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said quietly. ‘May you wear it well.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I said, beginning to cry.

  Pierre came over to put his arm round me. I nestled into his chest, glad to have him by my side. ‘Mrs O’Flaherty,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry for the commotion we’ve caused. Believe me when I tell you that the last thing I wanted to do was cause problems for you or your family. Please remember that I want the same thing you do – to make Niamh happy.’

  Mum sighed and got up. ‘I appreciate that, Pierre. And I’d like to apologize for the awful way you’ve been treated this evening. We were shocked when Niamh told us and I’ve had longer to digest the news than poor Mick. He only found out a couple of minutes before you arrived, which is why you got the brunt of his anger. You seem like a very nice man and I can see how happy Niamh is with you. Let me talk to Mick tonight, and when he’s had time to reflect on the news, the four of us can get together and talk about the wedding.’

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ I said, hugging her.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs O’Flaherty,’ said Pierre.

  ‘We’ve a long rocky road ahead of us,’ Mum said, drying my tears with her tissue. ‘Your father’s as stubborn as you are, but we’ll get through it. Now that I’ve met Pierre I can see why you feel the way you do. Now, stop crying and put a smile on your face. You don’t want to scare him off,’ she said, kissing the top of my head. ‘She can be hard work, but she’s worth it.’ She smiled at Pierre. ‘Just like her dad.’

  40

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Pierre, sinking back into the couch

  ‘I told you they’d freak,’ I said, sitting down beside him.

  ‘I thought you were exaggerating. You’re prone to it.’

  ‘It went a lot better than I’d thought. It could have been worse.’

  ‘How exactly?’

  ‘Dad could have physically chucked you out.’

  ‘He slammed the door in my face.’

  ‘He thought you were a Jehovah’s Witness,’ I said, beginning to laugh.

  ‘I must say that did throw me a bit. I’d no idea what he was talking about.’ Pierre grinned. ‘I thought he was bonkers.’

  ‘He is a bit.’

  ‘Why did you leave it so late to tell him?’

  ‘He kept evading me. I was chasing him round all day.’

  ‘I thought he was going to have another heart-attack,’ said Pierre. ‘I’m still reeling. I need a stiff drink.’

  ‘I’ll get you one,’ I said, rummaging in the drinks cabinet and coming up with a bottle of whiskey.

  ‘Any mixers?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘OK, stick it in the tea. I’m desperate. God, I feel like a schoolboy, not a forty-two-year-old professor,’ he said, gulping whiskey-laden tea.

  ‘I think the worst is over.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear your father shouting, “over my dead body”?’ said Pierre.

  ‘He always says that.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Doesn’t your father ever shout?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Come on, he must have roared at you when you were younger and did something bold.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘So what did he do?’

  ‘He’d sit me down and talk to me about why I’d behaved that way and what the consequences were…’

  ‘And he never raised his voice?’

  ‘No. Did yours shout a lot?’

  I started to laugh. ‘Only about fifty times a day.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. He roared when the phone bills arrived, if we were rude to Mum, if we refused to eat while the children in Africa were dying, if we slagged off Ireland… He’s a very passionate man. He wears his emotions on his sleeve.’

  ‘I noticed. Did he ever hit you?’

  ‘God, yes. We were chased up and down the street with his slipper. If we were bold we got slapped with it on the backs of the legs. Did your dad hit you?’

  ‘Never. He thinks it’s the wrong way to raise children. Violence begets violence.’

  ‘A tap on the back of the legs with a slipper isn’t violent. We used to laugh about it.’

  ‘I dunno, your family seems like a bunch of nutters. I should reconsider my position.’

  ‘Back out?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Leave me high and dry at the altar?’

  ‘The madness could be genetic.’

  ‘Do you want to die at the hands of a slipper?’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Want to bet?’

  ‘Actually, it sounds a bit kinky. Maybe we should give it a try.’

  ‘Pervert.’

  ‘I prefer “randy professor”,’ he said, kissing me. Suddenly he stopped. ‘I’m finding the Pope staring down at me a little disconcerting,’ he said, pointing to the large picture of him behind my head.

  ‘He’s seen worse.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Confession. I have snogged boys in this room before and even gone to second base.’

  ‘You little slut,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘Ssh – listen.’ I jumped up. ‘Dad’s back,’ I whispered. ‘You have to go. I don’t think he should see you again tonight. Let Mum talk to him and let him sleep on it. Quick, I’ll sneak you out this way,’ I said, opening the window.

  ‘You’re not seriously suggesting I climb out of that?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. Now go, before he hears you and starts getting worked up again.’

  ‘This is insane.’

  ‘I know, but I promise you I’m worth it. Things will be better tomorrow.’

  ‘You mean I might actually be able to use the front door?’

  ‘As long as Dad hasn’t got a barring order.’

  ‘Hilarious.’

  ‘I try.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight. I love you.’

  ‘I love you too, but I’m not so sure about your family.’

  ‘They’ll grow on you, I promise, and if they don’t we’ll elope to Vegas.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ he said, leaning through the window to kiss me.

  ‘Isn’t this very Romeo and Juliet!’

  ‘OVER MY DEAD BODY,’ we heard, from the other side of the door.

  ‘Suddenly Vancouver doesn’t seem far enough!’ said Pierre.

  ‘I wish we were there now.’ I sighed. ‘I’d better go. I’ll call you first thing.’

  ‘’Bye… Ouch – fuck,’ he said, tripping.

  ‘Mind the leprechaun gnomes!’

  I snuck out of the good room and went down to the kitchen. The door was closed but I could hear Mum and Dad inside, arguing.

  ‘You have to calm down and stop shouting,’ Mum said. ‘You’re getting yourself into a state and the doctor said it’s very bad for you to get wound up.’

  ‘Wound up! I’ve never been more bloody wound up. How can she do this to me? Bringing that man in here and telling me she’s getting married. It won’t work, Annie, they’re too different.’

  ‘He’s a very nice man, Mick. You should talk to him before making up your mind. We’re not racists in this house. Everyone deserves a fair chance.’

  Good on you, Mum, I cheered silently, from my childhood seat on the stairs.

  ‘He didn’t even have the decency to ask me for her hand in marriage, like a proper young man should.’

  ‘To be fair, he didn’t get the chance. You slammed the door in his face.’

  ‘How was I to know he wasn’t one of those bloody Jehovah’s fellas again?’

  ‘He really loves her, Mick, and she’s as happy as I’ve ever seen her. You should see them together. They’re totally smitten with each
other.’

  ‘That won’t last. What happens when they run up against trouble, financial or health or children? That’s when the rot will set in and that’s when they’ll realize they’re too different to make it work.’

  ‘Maybe the only difference is their skin colour. He has the same principles and morals she does. He wants the same kind of life she does. They’re not so different, Mick.’

  ‘What about their children? They’ll be half white, half black. Sure they won’t know if they’re coming or going.’

  ‘Times have changed, Mick. Look around you. Even Dublin is multicultural now. They’re not so unusual.’

  So, Mum had been listening. She was quoting almost word for word what I had said to her.

  ‘How many mixed couples do we know?’

  ‘Harriet and Jason, and Sammy Davis Junior was engaged to Kim Novak,’ said Mum, as I smiled to myself.

  ‘Sammy Davis Junior?’ said Dad. ‘Is that the best you can come up with?’

  ‘All right, we don’t know many mixed couples, but that doesn’t mean it can’t work.’

  ‘Of all the fellas she could have met! Of all the men in Dublin she has to choose a black one! Why does she always have to be different? Why is she so stubborn? Can she not see what she’s doing to me?’

  ‘This isn’t about you, Mick. It’s about Niamh. She’s in love. If we push her away, we’ll lose her. Don’t make her choose.’

  ‘Is he right for her, Annie? Can he make her happy? Can he look after her and give her a good life?’

  ‘Yes, I think he can. He’s a very responsible man. He’s older than her and more mature, which is a good thing. And the way she looks at him when he’s talking, it’s pure adoration. And he’s the same with her. You should see them, Mick. It’s the real deal.’

  ‘She’ll meet someone else. It might take her a few months to get over him, but we can help her meet a nice Irish lad.’

  ‘She could marry an Irish man who treats her badly. Is that better than a black man who loves her?’

  ‘Of course it isn’t, but she could have both. Don’t tell me there isn’t a decent Irish fella out there that would make her happy.’

  ‘Well, if there is, she hasn’t found him. Have you forgotten, Mick? Has it been so long? Have you forgotten what it feels like when you’re in love? Nothing matters to them at the moment except each other. They’re in their own world.’

  ‘I should never have left Ballyduff. None of this would have happened. Siobhan wouldn’t have got herself pregnant and Niamh would never be marrying a black man.’

  ‘Stop your nonsense,’ snapped Mum. ‘We all left Ireland because there was nothing there for us. We wanted to make a better life for ourselves and to give our children choices. We’ve raised three wonderful children and had a good life. We’re not going to start regretting it now. Besides, it was in Ireland that Niamh met Pierre, not here, in case you forgot.’

  ‘What’ll everyone say when they find out? We’ll be the laughing-stock.’

  ‘Since when did you care what other people think? The only thing that matters is that Niamh is happy.’

  ‘We don’t know anything about this lad. He could be a criminal, he could be married already, he could have a violent streak in him… We know nothing about him at all.’

  ‘The only way to get to know him is to talk to him instead of slamming doors in his face and storming out of the house.’

  Well said, Mum. Maybe now Dad would agree to meet Pierre and be civil to him.

  ‘I was in shock.’

  ‘I know, Mick. It’s not easy to accept, but from the chat I had with him, he seems a very decent man. I’ll get Niamh to bring him over tomorrow and we can sit down and you can ask him all the questions you want. We need to get this sorted out before they go to Canada.’

  ‘Canada?’ said Dad. Shit. I’d forgotten he didn’t know. I hadn’t had time to tell him.

  ‘Yes, Pierre’s got a job in Vancouver and they’re off in a few weeks.’

  ‘OVER MY DEAD BODY.’

  I sighed and climbed the stairs to bed. I’d need as much sleep as I could get, so that I could face the music tomorrow.

  41

  The next morning when I came down for breakfast, Dad was waiting for me. ‘Sit down,’ he said.

  I sat.

  ‘I’ve been up all night. Not a wink of sleep did I get with all this nonsense going on. What’s this about you going off to Canada with that man?’

  ‘Pierre has been offered a professorship in Vancouver and we’re going there after we get married,’ I said firmly. He wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept all night. At four in the morning, I’d finally decided that Dad needed to understand one thing and one thing only: I was marrying Pierre with or without his approval.

  ‘Are you trying to put me into an early grave?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Dad. I fell in love. That’s all. I haven’t committed any crime.’

  ‘But he’s black, Niamh. You’re chalk and cheese. Your children will be –’

  ‘Loved by their parents and, I hope, their grandparents. I never meant to cause you any upset, Dad. I didn’t move to Africa and hunt down a black husband. I met Pierre in Dublin and I knew within five minutes that he was The One. Nothing and nobody is going to change that. And I would really appreciate it if you could treat him with a little respect.’

  ‘I’d like some respect too – telling me about him two seconds before he arrives on my doorstep and me with a bad heart! ’Twas an insult to me.’

  ‘I tried to tell you earlier but you were in meetings. Just give Pierre a chance, that’s all I’m asking.’

  ‘Your mother’s been at me all night. On and on she went about love and happiness and choosing sides and losing a daughter if I refused to accept this lad and so on. So what I’ve agreed to do is to sit down with both of you and talk to you. If after that I still don’t like him and I still think it’s the worst decision you could ever make, I’ll do everything in my power to stop the wedding.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I want him over here in an hour.’

  ‘I’ll call him now.’

  ‘Fine.’

  We both stomped back upstairs, equally annoyed with each other for not giving in. Mum was right. We were as stubborn as each other.

  Pierre arrived exactly an hour later, wearing a blue shirt and a smile. I brought him into the lounge and we sat down to wait for my parents to come in for the grilling. Five minutes later they entered the room. Pierre stood up, shook hands with Mum and Dad, then everyone sat down.

  Silence.

  Pierre cleared his throat. ‘Mr O’Flaherty, I’m sorry about the mix-up yesterday. I had presumed you’d been informed of my existence before I arrived on your doorstep to ask for Niamh’s hand in marriage.’

  Mum poked Dad in the ribs. ‘Ah, uhm, yes. Well, thank you, and I suppose I should apologize for my reaction. I was taken very much by surprise.’

  ‘I can imagine, sir,’ said Pierre, formal and respectful. ‘I realize that I’m not the son-in-law you would have hand-picked for your daughter. I know how important your culture and homeland are to you, but I hope I can convince you that I love your daughter more than any other man possibly could and that I will take great care of her.’

  ‘What does your father make of it?’ Dad asked.

  ‘He was a little tentative at first because they had hoped I’d marry a French girl, but once they met Niamh and saw how happy she makes me, he supported my decision.’

  ‘I see,’ said Dad, as I silently cheered my fiancé’s clever and ever so subtly pointed answers.

  ‘I take it you’re not Catholic,’ Dad said, as I shuddered.

  ‘No, sir, I’m not.’

  The door opened. We looked up. It was Father Hogan. ‘Sorry to barge in, but the kitchen door was open, so I popped in that way.’

  ‘Welcome, Father,’ said Dad, jumping up. To me he said, ‘I asked Father Hogan to call in today to meet your boyfriend and give us
some advice.’

  ‘Hello, nice to meet you,’ said Father Hogan, shaking Pierre’s hand. Then he bent down to kiss my cheek and whispered, ‘Don’t worry, I’m here to help.’

  ‘We need it,’ I whispered back.

  ‘Father Hogan is an old friend of the family,’ said Mum to Pierre, by way of explaining why there was suddenly a priest in the room.

  ‘How nice,’ said Pierre, looking a little apprehensive.

  ‘He’s not Catholic,’ said Dad, pointing at Pierre.

  ‘Are you Christian?’ Father Hogan asked Pierre.

  ‘Agnostic, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mum, disappointed.

  ‘But he acts like a Christian,’ I piped up. ‘He’s really kind and always gives money to the homeless people on the street.’

  ‘How do you feel about Niamh being Catholic?’ Father Hogan asked.

  Pierre shrugged. ‘I’m fine with it.’

  ‘If you were blessed with children, would you object to them being raised Catholic?’ the priest asked.

  Pierre paused, then looked at my pleading eyes and said, ‘If Niamh really wanted it, then I’d certainly be open to it.’

  ‘That’s good news,’ said Father Hogan, beaming.

  ‘Can they get married in the church?’ Mum asked.

  ‘They can. As long as Niamh declares her intention to continue practising her faith and do all in her power to share that faith with children born of the marriage, we can go ahead with the church wedding.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Mum, getting emotional. ‘I thought we were going to end up in a register office.’

  ‘Over my dead body,’ said Dad, as I saw Pierre stifle a smile.

  ‘Where is it you’re from?’ Father Hogan asked.

  ‘Born in France, raised mostly in Oxford, but my parents are from Martinique.’

  ‘It’s in the Caribbean,’ said Mum. ‘Siobhan looked it up on the Internet for me.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Pierre, smiling at Mum.

  ‘And what is it you do?’ asked the priest. Dad had obviously told him to do the grilling so Mum couldn’t give out to him.

  ‘I’m a professor of phonetics.’

  ‘Well, now, a professor,’ said Father Hogan, suitably impressed.

  ‘He’s very well thought of,’ said Mum. ‘Siobhan read me out some articles this morning from the Internet about you. They were very complimentary. He’s very highly regarded in his field of expertise,’ she added, looking directly at Dad.