I’m actually turning the key in the engine, roysh, when all of a sudden she comes running out of the… I suppose it’s, like, a surgery? She’s going, ‘Ross, wait!’ and I’m thinking, Too late for regrets, Baby, but it turns out it’s not that at all.
She goes, ‘Ross, I need your help,’ and I’m there, ‘What, did he sleep through his alorm call?’ but she’s in no mood for jokes, even mine. She goes, ‘There’s a circus on the way from Rosslare. They’re in Gorey. They’ve a giraffe with an injured fetlock,’ and I’m there, ‘I actually wouldn’t know what to do. To be honest with you, Freya, I was just cracking on to know what you were talking about in there,’ and she goes, ‘I’m not asking you to go and treat the giraffe, Ross. I’m asking you to look after the surgery for an hour. Dad’s in town doing a necropsy,’ and I’m like, ‘No way. It’s, like, totally out of the question. What if he wakes up in there?’ and she goes, ‘I’ll probably be back by then. Even if he does, he’s just a pup. He’s very passive.’
And being basically too nice for my own good, roysh, I eventually give in, which is how I end up sitting there with my feet up on Freya’s desk, having a nosey through her drawers and watching this little baby seal basically spitting zeds. And of course after five minutes, roysh, you can guess what comes into my head. I’m there thinking, How cool would it be if Sorcha were here, roysh, what with her being into that whole Save the Animals vibe, and I’m thinking what a pity it is that she isn’t going to get to see this, I don’t know, caring side to me and then I end up getting this idea, roysh, which at the time, like most of my ideas, seems like the best idea that anyone’s ever had in the world – ever.
The focking thing weighs a tonne, roysh, and it’s a good job I’ve kept in shape since I quit playing rugby, otherwise I would never have got it out to the cor. I whip open the boot and sort of, like, slowly lower him into it, roysh, then I hit the road. A couple of times on the way I have to actually lower down the old Snoopster, roysh, because I keep imagining I can hear the thing, I don’t know, borking or whatever the fock seals do. I know they clap actually. But I check on him when I pull into this, like, petrol station in Bray, of all places, and he’s still out of the race.
I go up to the goy in the forecourt, who isn’t the brightest, it must be said – they don’t tend to recruit from the universities, these petrol stations – and I go, ‘I’m looking for some oil,’ and he goes, ‘Do you want me to check your oil, Sir?’ you know, in the way that people from Bray talk. I’m there, ‘No, I want used oil,’ and he sort of, like, scrunches his face up and goes, ‘That’s been bled from an engine, like?’ and I’m there, ‘Exactly,’ and he’s like, ‘What would you be wanting that for?’ and I go, ‘Never focking mind. There’s twenty focking sheets in it for you. All I’m looking for is a litre,’ and he takes the moolah, disappears around the back of the garage and comes back five minutes later with a 7-Up bottle filled to the top with this, like, black gunk.
I pork opposite the Dorsh station in Killiney, lash open the boot and manage to hoist the focking animal over my shoulder, which makes it easier to carry down the steps, under the railway tracks and onto the actual beach. A couple of old biddies out walking their dogs stort staring at me, roysh, so I turn around and I go, ‘MIND YOUR OWN FOCKING BUSINESS!’ and they look away and I hear them muttering about ‘language’ and ‘disrespect’.
I lie the seal down – actually I end up dropping him, but it’s, like, an accident – then I whip open the bottle and pour the oil all over him, though making sure not to get any in his eyes because I am actually a nice goy underneath it all. Then I bell Sorcha on her mobile. She answers by going, ‘Ross, I’m busy,’ and I’m like, ‘Drop whatever it is you’re doing, grab a bottle of washing-up liquid and get your orse down to Killiney beach – we’re talking NOW!’ and she’s like, ‘I said, I’m busy,’ and I’m there, ‘There’s a baby seal down here, Babes. Looks very much to me like he’s been caught in some kind of oil slick. I’m trying to keep him alive here. Not sure I can do it on my own,’ and then I shout, ‘DAMN YOU OIL COMPANIES – PLACING PROFIT ABOVE ANIMALS!’ but then I’m, like, worried all that I might have overdone it.
But I listen closely, roysh, and I can hear the Oh my Gods storting up and they get quicker and quicker, roysh, until she eventually goes, ‘Mum, I have to go out. Will you tape the end of ‘Family Affairs’?’ and five minutes later, roysh, she’s coming down the beach. Of course it’s only then that I remember the 7-Up bottle beside me, which I’m practically sitting on, and I end up burying it in the sand just as she arrives on the scene with a large bottle of Persil Citrus Burst, her old man’s gorden hose and a face on her like a bucket of smashed crabs.
She goes, ‘How is he?’ and she storts, like, petting his face and I’m like, ‘Pulse, temperature, oxygenation rate – everything’s normal. Be careful handling him – looks very much to me like a case of Marine Mammal Diving Reflex and, I don’t know, basically vascular systems and shit,’ and I’m thinking, If only I could have remembered stuff like that at school maybe I wouldn’t have got, like, nul points in the old Leaving. I can actually feel her looking at me, roysh, in total awe, and I actually mean total.
I whip open the washing-up liquid and I basically squirt it all over him, roysh, and Sorcha goes, ‘I’ll get water,’ and of course I’m looking at the sea, wondering how she’s hoping to persuade it to go up the hose. But she races over to the jacks, roysh, where there’s an outside tap and she, like, unravels the hose, fixes it to the tap, then turns it on and by the time she makes it back over to me, roysh, there’s water coming out of the top of it and she aims it at the seal, while I keep rubbing him down with a bit of cloth I found and lashing on more and more washing-up liquid.
Fifteen minutes later, roysh, the thing is, like, finally clean again and – un-focking-believable timing this – suddenly storting to wake up. Of course, Sorcha thinks this is a focking miracle. She’s practically hugging the focking thing to death, going, ‘We saved him, Ross!’ and I am SO tempted to go, ‘What’s this we, Kemosabe?’ but I don’t. I end up going, ‘I just hope and pray there aren’t more out there,’ and she stands up, squints her eyes and looks out to sea, like she’s expecting to see a focking oil tanker or something.
She goes, ‘I was on the Greenpeace Ireland website an hour ago and there was nothing about a spillage. I’ll have to ring them,’ and quick as a flash I go, ‘Okay, you do that, while I bring this little chap off and release him,’ thinking I’ve still got a chance to get him back down to Freya before she’s finished doing whatever she’s doing to that focking giraffe. But no, Sorcha has to throw a spanner in the works – she wants to come with me.
I’m like, I’m actually going to drive him pretty far. As in Wicklow. There’s seals down there. I saw them in the paper. He looks to me like he’s one of their crew,’ and she goes, ‘Ross, I have to be there. Please. I think this has really brought us closer together again,’ and there’s no answer to that of course except, ‘Kool and the Gang.’
So I hop into the jammer, roysh, and Sorcha sits in the back, with the thing across her lap, petting and making, like, baby-talk to him and I’m doing ninety on the motorway all the way to Wicklow, thinking, How the fock am I going to get out of this? And of course the answer is, I’m not.
I don’t know if it’s that she’s getting suspicious, roysh, but she’s certainly asking me a lot of questions all of a sudden. She’s like, ‘What were you doing on Killiney beach anyway?’ and I’m there, ‘Walking and thinking. About all the stupid mistakes I’ve made,’ and she goes, ‘How come you knew so much about seals earlier?’ and I’m there, ‘This might come as a bit of a surprise to you, Sorcha, but I actually love animals,’ and she’s like, ‘I didn’t think you did. You told me I was a sap when I sent my birthday money to the World Wildlife Fund,’ and I’m there, ‘I’m trying to concentrate on the road, Babes.’
There’s no getting out of this. I carry the seal over my shoulder down onto the beach.
There’s, like, six or seven other seals in the water and they suddenly stort borking in our direction. Sorcha goes, ‘I think I’m going to call him Persil,’ and I can see she’s got, like, tears in her eyes as she’s saying her goodbyes. She kisses him on the nose and, like, hugs him two or three times – she’s going to end up smelling like the focking Borza if she keeps that up. She goes, ‘I suppose we’d better put him back in the water,’ and I look up and I go, ‘Hey, wouldn’t it be cool to fock him off one of those cliffs?’ and she gives me this filthy, roysh, and I go, ‘HELLO? It was, like, a joke?’ which it most certainly was not.
I carry Persil down to the edge of the water and put him in and he swims straight over to his mates and suddenly, roysh, he’s borking louder than the rest of them and I like to think what he’s actually saying to them is, ‘See that goy there in the Leinster – he’s some man for one man.’
My phone rings and I make the mistake of answering it. It’s Freya and she’s having a total focking conniption fit. I have to get out of earshot of Sorcha, then I go, ‘Calm down, will you. He woke up. I let him go. No big deal. Now, how’s the giraffe?’ and she’s like, ‘YOU LET HIM GO? WHERE? WHERE DID YOU LET HIM GO?’ and I’m there, ‘Wicklow focking Main Street! Where do you think I let him go? The beach!’ and she’s like, ‘YOU HAD NO RIGHT…’ and I just, like, blow into the phone a couple of times and go, ‘Freya, you’re breaking up,’ then I hang up and, like, turn the phone off because you basically can’t talk to birds when they’re like that.
I wander back down towards Sorcha, who’s staring out into the water with, like, tears streaming down her face. She doesn’t say anything for ages. I’m like, ‘I suppose we’d better get back,’ and she goes, ‘The way you handled that, Ross, it was like, OH! MY! GOD! Remember I said that you never do anything to actually impress me anymore?’ and I’m there, ‘No,’ and she goes, ‘It was when we were talking about that stuff Fionn wrote. I said you never did anything romantic. You never do anything to actually impress me anymore. Well, Ross, you just did. And it’s like, OH MY GOD!’
My face is actually sore, roysh, trying not to crack up laughing in her face. I go, ‘I just hate to think of animals suffering,’ and I put my orm around her and, with the sound of crashing waves and happy seals borking away, we walk slowly back to the cor.
She seriously focking smells, though.
Me and the goys are having a few scoops in Finnegan’s the night before we go away, roysh, and I’m making an extra-special effort with Fionn, asking how his PhD is going and blahdy blahdy blah. I actually think things are, like, Kool plus Significant Others between us now, and I seriously doubt that he’s going to be looking for revenge.
The goys are in cracking form. Oisinn’s been seeing this bird called Anna – used to be the best-looking bird in her year in Loreto on the Green – but he gave her the flick because the old PCS was wrecking his head, as in the Purring Cat Syndrome, as in she seems really relaxed and, like, chilled out, but as soon as you try to make a move she doesn’t like, she digs her claws in. He’s like, ‘Didn’t take too kindly to the idea of me going away with you goys, so she ended up getting the straight red,’ and we’re all there, ‘You da man, Oisinn! You da man!’
Fionn goes, ‘It’s a pity Christian’s not coming with us,’ and JP’s like, ‘Lauren’s not good, apparently. She’s talking about not sitting her finals. Too upset about her old man,’ and all this talk of, like, parents reminds me of something. I’m there, ‘Goys, have any of you heard from Simon recendy?’ and JP looks at me like I’ve got, like, three heads. He’s like, ‘He went to the old US of A, didn’t he? Got a rugby scholarship,’ and I’m like, ‘Yeah, I know, he got the place I turned down… em, has anyone heard about this, like, calendar that his old dear’s doing?’ and Oisinn’s there, ‘Oh yeah. MILF of the Month. I think it’s for, like, charity.’
JP’s like, ‘Hey, why the big interest, dude?’ and Oisinn goes, ‘Christian’s old dear’s obviously agreed to pose nude, has she?’ which she has actually, roysh, and the goys cracks their holes laughing, roysh, but I don’t, and JP’s the first one to cop it. He’s like, ‘Don’t tell me your… Ross? Your old dear’s going to be in it?’ and I’m like, ‘So she focking thinks. She won’t survive the editing process,’ and no one says anything.
I’m there, ‘Goys, she’s hordly yummy-mummy material,’ but everyone’s just, like, smiling to themselves and the only one who says anything is Oisinn, who goes, ‘I don’t know… speaking for myself…’ and I’m like, ‘She has a face like a focking blind cobbler’s thumb. Goys, you SO can’t be serious,’ and they just carry on smiling and eventually Fionn goes, ‘I think it’s my round.’
The goys have stitched me up, roysh, and we’re talking totally here. JP thinks I didn’t hear him asking the bird at the check-in desk to put him, Oisinn and Fionn together in one row, roysh, with me in the next row behind them, basically so I’d be left talking to some Holy Joe, which is exactly what happened, roysh, except they weren’t Holy Joes as much as Holy Josephines, we’re talking two old biddies here, de salt o’ dee ert Dooblin types.
‘Have you a devotion to Our Lady?’ That’s what one of these old biddies actually asks me, when we’re only in the air about ten minutes. She’s like, ‘Have you a devotion to Our Lady?’ I’ve a devotion to the ladies, I’m tempted to tell her, but I want to get to Tel Aviv with as few words as possible passing between us, so I pretend to be asleep, though that doesn’t, like, discourage her.
She goes, ‘I’ve a devotion to Our Lady. I’ve had a devotion to Our Lady me whole life,’ and then, like, thirty seconds later, she goes, ‘Haven’t I, Mrs Mulligan?’ and Mrs Mulligan – who’s, like, sitting at the window and who’s totally Mutt and Jett – goes, ‘WHAT?’ and the biddy beside me – Mrs Holt is her name; they’re friends for fifty focking years and they’re still not on first-name terms – she goes, ‘I’M JUST TELLING THE YOUNG MAN HERE… THAT I’VE A DEVOTION… TO OUR LADY,’ and Mrs Mulligan goes, ‘Our Lady, yes,’ and I swear to God, roysh, we’re talking literally five minutes later, she turns around and goes, ‘I WAS TELLING HIM… I’VE HAD A DEVOTION TO OUR LADY… ME WHOLE LIFE,’ and Mrs Mulligan goes, ‘Life, yes.’
Of course, the goys are loving this. Oisinn shouts back to me, ‘Did you get any numbers yet, Ross?’ and JP and Fionn think this is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. We’re barely out of Ireland and I’m already losing the will to live. I call one of the flying waitresses and I go, ‘Does this plane have, like, parachutes?’ and she’s there, ‘No, but if you were listening to the safety instructions earlier, you’ll know that there’s a lifejacket under your seat in the event–’ and I’m like, ‘Are we over water now?’ She looks out the window and goes, ‘Yes, we’re over the English Channel,’ and I go, ‘Get that door open and tell the pilot to fly low. I’m going to take my chances,’ and she laughs, roysh, thinking I’m not actually serious.
Half-an-hour into the flight, roysh, the trolley arrives, offering us basically a drink before our meal. I ask for, like, eight JD miniatures, roysh, deciding that the only way to cope with these two is to get totally focking mullered. Of course, Mrs Holt doesn’t approve. She goes, ‘I’ve a grandson your age and he’s a pioneer. I’M JUST SAYING, MRS MULLIGAN… I’VE A GRANDSON HIS AGE… ALICE’S SON… AND HE’S A PIONEER,’ and of course back comes the response, ‘A pioneer, yes,’ and I knock back the first four bottles by the neck, roysh, not even bothering to pour them.
I conk out, roysh, and end up missing dinner. An hour later, not asleep but not really awake either, I can hear Fionn chatting to the goy across the aisle from him, going, ‘I’m not a believer myself, but I’m going to enjoy seeing the holy sites from a purely historical perspective,’ and I’m thinking, He’s off again.
I open my eyes and sit forward, to see are the goys getting any of this, but they’re, like, both asleep. Fionn’s like, ‘To me, Jesus was just a religious charismatic who was judicially put to death – an unremarkable e
nough event in Palestine under Roman occupation. And yet, in death, he became the most influential human who ever lived, shaping world history, even setting the template for a morality shared by believers and non-believers such as myself.’ The goy he’s talking to – he’s a septic – goes, ‘The One Commandment. Love one another as I have loved you,’ and Fionn’s there, ‘What a wonderful world that would be,’ and I swear to God, roysh, I’m practically reaching for the vom-bag.
‘Mrs Mulligan needs the toilet.’ I’m like, ‘What?’ She goes, ‘Mrs Mulligan needs the toilet,’ which means I’m going to have to get up out of my seat again to let her out. I’m there, ‘This is, like, the third time in an hour,’ and she goes, ‘Oh, she’s a martyr to her waterworks is Mrs Mulligan,’ and she turns around, roysh, and goes to say something to her friend and I go, ‘Do NOT repeat that, I swear to God!’
She brings her to the toilet, as in actually goes into the little cubicle with her and, no, I don’t want to think about it either. Ten minutes later, they’re back, just as I’m knocking back the last of the JDs. I go, ‘Would it maybe make more sense if I sat at the window? That way, you can get out more easily,’ and she goes, ‘Oh no, Mrs Mulligan has to have her window seat,’ and Mrs Mulligan goes, ‘Seat, yes.’
Four-and-a-half hours later, roysh, the pilgrimage has already witnessed its first miracle: we arrived in Tel Aviv without me focking the two of them out the window. The plane hits the tarmac and as we’re, like, taxiing to the terminal, Oisinn rubs his hands together and shouts, ‘Jew ish Princesses, here we come!’
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightdress Page 12
