“You’re trying too hard. The fact of the matter is that no matter how red you get, you’ll never, ever, in a million years turn any shade of brown. All you’ll do is feel pain.”
“But if I don’t get a tan I’m all purple, and corned-beefy – no one will ever fancy me looking like that.”
“Trust me, no one will fancy you looking like a radioactive raspberry. And the blistering and the peeling ain’t pretty either.”
“But once you’ve peeled, isn’t the tan underneath? I was going to use some baby oil to get as burnt as possible – that’ll do the trick . . .”
“No, you bloody moron! Haven’t you even heard of skin cancer in 1984? You’re fair-skinned. People who get tans aren’t. Factor 50. Go on, that’s it. Wear sunscreen. There’s even a song about it . . .”
“Who the hell are you and how did you get in here anyway?”
“Tell you later. What are you reading?”
“It’s about a girl who had a really hard life and had a cruel stepmother who told her she was going nowhere and how she’d never amount to anything and she meets this really wealthy businessman’s son and they fall head over heels but she gets pregnant and has to run away and –”
“She thinks she’ll never see the love of her life again and she faces all sorts of adversity and yet she overcomes the odds and meets up with yer man totally by chance and they live happily ever after, especially seeing as how the wicked stepmother was crushed under a collapsed slag heap?”
“Ah here, don’t ruin the ending – have you read it?”
“Well, clearly I have but . . . never mind. I thought you liked horror stories? Stephen King and stuff?”
“Well, I do, but everyone will think I’m a weirdo if I read those. Anyway, you learn stuff from the women in these books.”
“Like what, exactly?”
“Like how to be tough. How to be sharp and cut people down with a single line and then they respect you.”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“It does. I think girls who can do that are great – it shows they can really stand up for themselves once they put people down. They always seem to get exactly what they want.”
“Did you get all that from bodice-rippers?”
“And on TV and in the movies. No one messes with them.”
“Putting someone down isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Pointy Ribs.”
“So why are you calling me names?”
“Because it’s a very difficult habit to kick once you start. You’re not enjoying being on the receiving end of it, though, are you?”
“No.”
“And does it make you like me?”
“No.”
“And does it make you respect me?”
“It’s annoying me.”
“See. Told you.”
“Anyway, she finally meets back up with this guy and she’s a self-made success and wears lovely peach suits and white shoes and has a gorgeous perm and he falls in love with her and they get this second chance at love really late in life . . .”
“Peach, you say. Nice. How late is really late?”
“Nearly thirty, I think . . .”
“That’s not so late.”
“Not too late, I suppose – but by then most people are married ages. I’ll probably have teenage kids by then and all that jazz.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“What did you say?”
“Look – stick to the horror. It’ll stand to you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Just trust me.”
“So you reckon that you don’t have to be hard as nails to get places?”
“Look, it’s the eighties – of course, you think that you have be a tough girl to succeed but it won’t be all Thatcher and terrible shoulder pads forever.”
“What’s terrible about shoulder pads? Fergie and Princess Di wear them all the time!”
“Precisely. Besides, you’re not a shoulder-pads kind of person.”
“So I’m not a sunbathing or a shoulder-pads person? You seem to know an awful lot about me?”
“Cool your jets. I’m just older than you. What do you want to do with your life then?”
“Be an author. Write books. It probably won’t work out though . . .”
“It might.”
“What? Sorry, I didn’t hear you?”
“Nothing. What else?”
“Emmm, get married, I suppose. To someone like Tom Cruise . . .”
“You’ll change your mind on that one, trust me.”
“. . . who makes loads of money and I suppose we’ll get a house with four or five bedrooms. It’ll all get boring though when I get to about forty and it’s just same thing, different day.”
“Wow! You have a pretty sucky attitude.”
“Look, no offence, but why do you keep putting me down?”
“Firstly, don’t start a sentence with ‘no offence’. It actually means the complete opposite and it’s horribly passive-aggressive. Secondly, I’m not putting you down – why are you so sure that life gets stale at forty?”
“Well, it’s all over by then, isn’t it? Your kids have left home and it’s just you and your husband . . .”
“Tom Cruise, right?”
“Well, hopefully – although knowing my luck I’ll get Rowan Atkinson or somebody . . .”
“Don’t judge books by covers. Anyway, you could hit a total jackpot. You shouldn’t think so negatively, you know.”
“Well, according to you I’m not going to get anywhere in life.”
“I didn’t say that. I said you weren’t going to get anywhere with a put-on ‘I’m a tough broad’ attitude when clearly you’re not.”
“Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Lots of people are good at tough but there’s actually nothing wrong if you’re not. It’s being true is what matters. It’s being yourself.”
“I can’t do that! Who wants a wimp who gets bored sunbathing? Who can’t keep her room tidy? Who cries if she’s away from home? Who’s all swotty and wears knitted Fair Isle jumpers and Clarks shoes?”
“Well, some things never change. But look on the bright side – you won’t always be scrawny!”
“What? How do you know all this? Oh my God, are you me? Have you been sent from the future or something?”
“Keep your voice down. Something like that.”
“You’re me! Actually me . . . and you’re right – clearly I’m not always going to be scrawny.”
“Touché.”
“So what happens to me? How old are you? When have you come from?”
“I’m really old by your standards but not by most people’s. And I can’t tell you exactly what happens but I can tell you that I’m from a time when you’re happy.”
“Is that it? Happy? Not a world-famous actress winning Oscars or a big-time Hollywood director?”
“I thought you wanted to be a writer.”
“I can always change my mind. Can you tell me more about this ‘happy’? Doesn’t sound amazing.”
“Like you say – you can always change your mind. It all depends on where you set the bar.”
“So am I just ordinary?”
“Don’t sound so disappointed.”
“I just thought . . . it’s going to be alright, though, is it? Everything is just going to plod along as normal until I get to fifty or whatever? Nothing really bad is going to happen?”
“I can’t guarantee that. Really bad stuff happens to a lot of people. You’ll get through.”
“I’ll get through? That doesn’t sound great? What the hell is going to happen?”
“I can’t tell you specifics. And I don’t know the whole future, just what’s happened up until now.”
“So, like up to fifty?”
“I’m not fifty! I come from when you’re forty, okay? So I only know what’s happened up until then.”
“Forty.”
“Yes.”
“That’s a bit scary.”
“Try getting here. Ah, it’s not bad – trust me.”
“You keep saying that. Why can’t you tell me more? Like, do I become something I want to? Do I get married? Do I have kids? Am I rich?”
“I can’t tell you all that. All I can tell you is that I come from . . . a summer when you’ll be driving along in your car . . .”
“A Ferrari? Like Magnum PI?”
“No . . .”
“Do we all drive kind of space cars? Hovercraft? Wow – what’s the future like? Is everything totally different, like with the government and stuff?”
“Not entirely . . . anyway . . . you’ll be driving along in your car and the trees will be so green and the sun so bright and you’ll feel a moment of . . . well . . . contentment. With everything.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, it’s a pretty big deal.”
“To you maybe – I think I’d like a bit more in my life than just one moment of contentment. Are you serious? Is everyone miserable in the future? Is everyone poor and it rains all the time?”
“Emmmm . . .”
“Oh my God, it is?”
“No . . . look, I can’t tell you specifics but there are things I need to say to you.”
“Life is going to be desperate, isn’t it? It’s going to be . . . like . . . this terrible ruined planet! Is there going to be a nuclear war? I’m not going to succeed at anything, am I? I’m never going to be good enough . . .”
“Stop worrying. Being happy – content – is fantastic. Stop doubting yourself – but try to stay humble. And count your blessings – that’s important.”
“What blessings? Like a crust of bread and no nuclear holocaust?”
“Among other things. Always keep learning too. Absorbing stuff, watching stuff. Keep doing the things that you like, that you’re good at. But that doesn’t mean you don’t try at stuff like maths.”
“But I’m so bad at maths!”
“I know. You don’t get better. Look – don’t sweat too much about stuff like theorems . . .”
“Like what?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. You do need to pay attention to problem-solving though. You’ll have to do a lot of that.”
“Great.”
“Sarcasm. That’s good. Just not too much, and not too nasty. Don’t try to be someone you’re not – just stay true to yourself. Be kind, be considerate, be thoughtful – if you can’t say something nice then don’t say it at all – or at least try to keep your voice down. Tell the truth. Try new things. Don’t get a big head. Sort out problems when they’re small – they have a habit of getting bigger if you ignore them and hope they’ll go away. And do it with a smile. Work hard. Ignore nasties. Try to gravitate toward nice people. There are a lot of them about. Kind and good people who are on your side. Value your friends. Things happen for a reason and most of the time they can work out fine.”
“That’s a lot to remember. And none of it sounds very cool.”
“It is cool. You are luckier than most. There will be times when you won’t feel it but you are. Look – your future’s so bright you’re gonna have to wear shades.”
“That’s a good line.”
“Glad I can still speak eighties. And . . . em. . . don’t stop believing – there’s a song about that too.”
“I think I know it.”
“That’s it for now. That should cover us till we get to forty – and possibly beyond, but I don’t know any more than that. I’m just keeping everything crossed.”
“I will too then. But so far so good, eh?”
“Yeah, Skinny. So far so good.”
Helen Moorhouse is originally from Mountmellick, County Laois and lives in Dublin with her husband and two daughters. She is a full-time novelist, speechwriter, copywriter and regular contributor to the Irish Independent. Her third novel, Sing Me To Sleep, was published in 2013 and is, along with her previous novels, The Dead Summer and The Dark Water, available from Poolbeg Press.
Story 31: Stop and Smell the Roses
Sinead Moriarty
If I was a child again I’d be in less of a hurry to grow up. I wouldn’t wish my life away. I was always waiting to be eighteen so I could leave school and go out into the “big bad world” and discover what life was really about.
I longed to shed my school uniform and wear my own clothes. I wanted to spread my wings and fly. Dublin was too parochial, Ireland was too small. I was going to head off and discover exotic places and far-flung lands.
I was far too impatient to shake off my childhood. In my naïveté I thought being a kid was no fun. Being an adult was so much better! When you were an adult people treated you as an equal. You could earn your own money and buy your own house and clothes and furniture and be independent. That’s what I wanted.
I can see my own children’s impatience to grow up and I wish I could stem it. I wish they’d stop longing for adulthood.
My seven-year-old son recently sighed and said, “I can’t wait to be a grown-up.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because then I can do what I want.”
“What is it you want to do?” I enquired, presuming he’d say be a fireman or a footballer or some such. How wrong I was . . .
“I want to buy a humongous TV and eat Nutella sandwiches all day,” he said, eyes misting over at the thought of the blissful days he would spend flat on his back eating chocolate spread.
These are not the kind of dizzy heights I’d hoped he’d aim for, but it reminded me of how all children can’t wait to grow up.
I didn’t want to burst his bubble so I said nothing. I didn’t tell him of the job he’d have to get to pay for the big TV. I didn’t mention the money he’d have to save to have time off to watch the giant screen and eat Nutella sandwiches.
I didn’t tell him of the dole queues and the ever-rising unemployment figures. I didn’t mention that inflation has gone up, that trade surplus is down, that the GDP has fallen. I omitted to talk about bail-outs and banking crises.
Nor did I tell him that when times were good we partied like it was 1999 and forgot to save for a rainy day. And when the rains came, they were monsoons.
I didn’t tell him that where once America was the Holy Land for Irish youths, it is now crippled by its own recession. I decided not to explain global economic meltdown, defaulting on mortgages or the spate of suicides amongst middle-aged Irish men with huge debts. Who said growing up was fun?
That’s what I miss most about being young: the innocence. That’s why we all must try to protect our children, and shield them from the difficulties of “real” life. It is up to us to preserve their sweet naïveté for as long as we can. Why be in a rush to grow up? It brings with it so much responsibility and so many complications.
I want to shout out to all children: “Stay young for as long as you can! Be a kid, be goofy and silly and foolish and carefree for as many years as possible. You’ll never get the time back. Enjoy it, embrace it and have fun. Laugh until your stomach aches, climb trees, put on plays, make forts, sleep in the garden in a tent, roll down grassy hills, splash in muddy puddles . . . be happy.”
If I was a child again I would choose the same friends. I was lucky, I chose well. Children need to choose their friends wisely. When you’re a child you should feel good about yourself when you’re with your friends, not bad. Your friends should make you feel comfortable and not ill at ease.
Don’t waste any time trying to be in with the “cool” gang. It’s not worth it, you’ll never fit in. Be with like-minded people. Spend time with other kids who have the same interests as you, kids you can be yourself with, kids who are loyal and trustworthy friends.
A child can’t know it, but friends are a vital part of life. In thirty years’ time, that kid you sat beside in Biology may be the very person whose shoulder you cry on when your life is in tatters. That person could be someone who helps you when you’re down, supports
you when you need it most and cheers you on when things go well. That person will be someone who will stand by you through thick and thin. Good friends are the invaluable treasures of life.
I wish I’d known back then that I would become a writer. It would have been wonderful to know that those English essays I slaved over would stand to me in later years as I wrote novels. If only I’d known those essays were to be my apprenticeship for future books!
I definitely would have worked harder and concentrated more in typing class if I’d known how many hours, days, weeks, months and years I’d spend typing words in the future.
If I was a child again I wouldn’t worry so much about what people thought of me. I wouldn’t try to please everyone so much. I would understand that teachers are human beings with complicated lives. I’d realise that they have bad days and when they snap at you for no apparent reason that it isn’t personal, they’re just stressed.
I’d also understand that exams, while important, are not the be-all and end-all of life. I would worry so much less about results and grades. I’d know that it takes a long time for most people to figure out what they want to do with their lives and that lots of people never do.
I’d realise that finding the right career can be a slow process and that sometimes it’s a process of elimination. You have to try different things until you find the right fit. I’d love to have known that I’d be one of those lucky people who manages to turn their hobby into a job. I would have fretted so much less about college and career options.
If I was a child again I’d know that boys are shyer and more awkward than girls. I wouldn’t believe those kids who boasted about “going all the way”. The kids who made you feel so inadequate for not even having got to “second base”. I’d know they were lying and I wouldn’t feel so useless.
I would dance like no one was watching instead of being so self-conscious all the time. I’d talk to boys I liked instead of running away from them because I could never think of anything to say. I wouldn’t waste time on boyfriends who drank too much or flirted with other girls or didn’t ring when they said they would.
If I Was a Child Again Page 18
