vaincre (to vanquish)
The judges disagreed.
boire (to drink)
Ruadhan poured drinks in his brother’s empty flat for them after the debate, Shiraz and Merlots mixing in with the flagon of vodka that Peg had used for courage.
devoir (to have to)
Peg thought of the other women who had knelt in this position. Did Helen of Troy regret her fate when Menelaus gripped her by the hair and shoved her to her knees? Was crouching in front of Paris any better? Did Maud Gonne do it for W.B.? Princess Di? Marilyn Monroe? She was taking her place in a time-honoured tradition, securing her spot in history with each reflex of the lips.
pouvoir (to be able to)
The combination of a variety of fluids and a foreign appendage poking about required collective action from the body of Peg Doyle. At first, she feared murder by botched blow job, Ruadhan screaming in pain as teeth clamped too hard. Then, it was worse, something else stirred up inside her, a shade of vomit that comes only from an excess of red wine, defying gravity, reaching the white shirt, blue eyes and astonished face of Ruadhan Kennedy-Carthy.
aller (to go)
The bus home had never felt lonelier.
rire (to laugh)
‘It’s not funny.’
‘No, you’re right, it’s very serious.’
Denise Donnelly let out another peal of laughter.
gésir (to lie helplessly or dead)
‘It’s terrible. He won’t return my calls. Our relationship is a defective verb: there’s no future tense, we’re doomed!’
‘Jaysus, relax, you’ve spent too much time with those French Debate cunts. You know what I do in these situations?’
‘What?’
‘I ask myself, “What would Madonna do”?’
vouloir (to want)
Ruadhan answered the phone. Peg spoke the one French sentence everybody knew.
2
Chrism Ointment (1992)
Damien Patrick Francis Doyle floated back to his pew. His teacher had been unclear about the mechanics of Confirmation, vague about how tongues of fire or maturity would descend upon his soul once Father Shaughnessy dabbed a bit of chrism on his forehead. Damien fretted that he might mess the procedure up (especially without Peg, who was supposed to be his sponsor, until she fell ill and left his soul in the care of Mrs McGinty) but he needn’t have worried. The Holy Spirit had found him; he felt a lovely warm fire tickle his insides, while his legs floated down the aisle, wings likely to follow.
Damien knelt down and closed his eyes, no need for a glance at Jason Donnelly’s leather jacket. If St Francis of Assisi was happy to empty his pockets for the poor, then Damien Patrick Francis Doyle certainly wouldn’t covet a coat, no matter how nice and new it smelled. Damien felt warmed by the Holy Spirit and the possibilities of his new Confirmation name, only a few years before he floated off to cure the sick in Assisi (or some far-flung island, his teacher also vague about Assisi’s current leper population) and grew into the person God meant him to be. I’m ready, God! Damien said, the radio in his head pulsating with the Holy Spirit’s new frequency; in no time at all he’d be giving his clothes to beggars.
First, prayers for those in immediate need. One for John Paul, whose current symphonic farts suggested that the Holy Spirit had yet to discover his soul. One for Mrs McGinty, who had stepped in to be his sponsor at the last minute, and done a fine job, even if she’d only given him a prayer book as a present (he would not be covetous!) A prayer for Peg, too, he couldn’t forget that. Perhaps this was the most important one, the test of his future healing abilities. Poor Peg was sick at home, she’d have sponsored his soul otherwise, guided him gently down the aisle and calmed the thump of his heart, like she had when he’d made his Communion and she’d promised him that he wouldn’t choke.
Protect Peg, Damien asked the Holy Spirit, feeling the fire blaze brighter inside him. He could make her a hot water bottle and a cup of tea when they got home. Perhaps he could even try cooling her forehead with his fingers, which tingled at the prospect of goodness and glory.
3
Fallons French Regular and Irregular Verb Book (1992)
confirmer (to confirm)
‘What’s your Confirmation name, Doyle? Mary? Bridget? No, something more political would be your game, Doyle. Maud? Rosa? What’s Lady Gregory’s first name … Lady?’
Peg focused on the boiling kettle: a normal thing to be doing, making tea for a friend.
‘My Confirmation name is Hildegard,’ she lied.
She turned to Ruadhan.
‘What’s yours? Aloysius? Ignatius?’
‘You’ve got me all wrong, Doyle. I’m a humble Jedi: Luke.’
Peg allowed herself a glance.
‘Patron saint of boys with lightsabers?’
Peg turned back to the kettle, careful not to look for too long.
Ruadhan put his arms around her dressing gown.
‘Well, Doyle, I hope your young brother isn’t adrift without your expert sponsorship to steer him down the aisle.’
‘I could probably make the ceremony if I tried.’
‘No. Confirmer. Con, together. Firmare, strengthen.’
Peg felt Ruadhan’s hands glide downwards.
‘I’m sure we could find some alternative way of strengthening things together.’
The essence of Ruadhan Kennedy-Carthy: a seventeen-year-old whose idea of foreplay was a lecture on Latin.
Even so, Peg switched off the kettle and turned around.
4
Lynx Deodorant (1992)
‘Mind you, you’re better off not splashing out, aren’t you? I mean, between Jason’s jacket and the cost of a table at Clontarf Castle, it adds up, doesn’t it? Mind you, only once in a lifetime they get confirmed, isn’t it? Where is it you’re eating? Not at the Castle anyway, Jason told me, aren’t you the wise ones!’
John Paul scanned Granny Doyle’s face nervously. Usually, Granny Doyle could dismiss Mrs Donnelly with a snort. Something was up. John Paul turned to Jason, who mouthed ‘Two hundred and eighty-five,’ the lucky git. Boyler had two hundred. Keifo had one hundred and eighty, apparently, though the gobshite could barely count. Not to worry. John Paul had managed one hundred and thirty pounds fifty (cheap Mrs McGinty with the fifty pence): a tidy sum for a piggybank. He might manage new runners and deodorant that would make Clodagh Reynolds notice him. Who cared about the Donnellys?
‘Anyway, we’d better dash! Parking will be only mad at the Castle! I hope you have a great meal; I’m sure the Yacht is much improved.’
Granny Doyle cared, that was what had her agitated. John Paul saw the problem immediately. Peg would have been grand to share a children’s meal with one of them, but Granny Doyle couldn’t ask the same of Mrs McGinty. Mrs Nugent had been his sponsor and Mrs Fay had sponsored Rosie and now Granny Doyle didn’t have the money in her purse to treat the lot of them. He could donate the money from his cards, John Paul decided, anything to stop the blush on Granny Doyle’s cheek and the fret of her fingers. He was on the verge of offering as much (the deodorant that might make Clodagh Reynolds stop and sniff him evaporated) when another idea struck him.
‘I’d murder a takeaway!’ Mrs Nugent agreed, ever an ally. ‘There’s not a food that isn’t improved with a bit of batter!’
Mrs McGinty lamented that far too much fuss was made of Confirmations, these days, and the Fays thought a takeaway would be lovely and Granny Doyle demurred just enough, until they all agreed, and then John Paul saw he’d done it, brought a smile back to her face, saved the day; his insides glowed with relief.
‘Maybe we can check in on Peg and see if she wants some,’ Damien suggested, inspired by altruism.
‘A lovely idea,’ the Fays thought.
Mrs Nugent wasn’t so sure.
‘A spicy burger might be the last thing she wants if she’s feeling queasy, in and out faster than Bishop Casey into an American floozy, that’s what I’d worry about! Ah, Maureen
, what are you staring at me for? I’m only joking and aren’t they old enough now! Sure, this one will be doing a line with a young one soon, won’t you?’
I will, John Paul thought, enjoying the walk and the notes in his pocket that meant he wouldn’t have to choose between Lynx’s Nevada or Oriental range; he could buy the whole shelf, all the sets, the world in his grasp.
5
Fallons French Regular and Irregular Verb Book (1992)
permettre (to allow)
‘You’re sure this is what you want?’
He looked lovely, standing naked in the middle of the bedroom, his face lit up by the scrap of light poking through the curtains and the red of the statue, a vulnerability to his smile, the rare moment when it felt as though they were equals.
‘Yes.’
admettre (to admit)
‘I broke it when I was practising,’ he said, that rare moment when he looked younger.
Neither of them were old enough to buy condoms in Brennan’s, even if they’d had the nerve.
She gripped his hair.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
mettre (to put)
‘We can try again, if you want.’
‘No, that was fine.’
remettre (to postpone)
Lying in his arms was fine, more than fine, time stretchy and wonderful, possible to stay there for ever.
admettre (to admit)
‘My favourite part of The Symposium is the part where the four-legged creatures are split in two and then they hop about the world trying to find their other … half.’
Soulmate remained stuck in her throat.
‘Aristophanes’ speech? You do know that bit is satirical?’
remettre (to put back in; to postpone)
Even so, they fitted better, the second time.
promettre (to promise)
The words were easier to say in French: Je t’aime.
That he responsed in the formal tense (‘that’s what they’ll use in the oral exam!’) diminished the moment, but only slightly.
6
Walkman (1992)
Peg was lucky to be sick, Rosie thought, as Dunluce Crescent loomed into view and soggy chips and chat about Coronation Street beckoned. Maybe she could babysit Peg; Granny Doyle probably wouldn’t even notice her absence. She hadn’t even commented on her Confirmation name. I haven’t heard of Saint Danielle Mr Fay had admitted and it’s a lovely name Mrs Fay had offered but Granny Doyle hadn’t even bothered to snort.
Danny Doyle would have been her sponsor, if he hadn’t gone and died. Rosie hadn’t realized how nice it had been, to have her father depend upon her. She had done it for him, she thought, the cheery chat about her day and the let’s go for a walk before it gets dark and the maybe you’ll win big on the next one. She hadn’t realized how much these chats had kept her going too, especially with all the girls in her class ignoring her, because she’d never mastered the rituals of fancy paper swapping or Take That worship. Other older sisters might have provided some counsel but Peg was no help; nobody else managed to make ‘Rosie!’ sound like such an insult.
‘Rosie! Are you coming in or out?’
Though Granny Doyle could give Peg a run for her money, when she remembered. They had reached the porch of 7 Dunluce Crescent and Rosie was dawdling and daydreaming as usual, no harm, for who really wanted to pay attention to Mrs Nugent’s account of the ill-advised time she’d tackled a battered sausage on top of a tummy bug.
In, Rosie decided, her legs pushing into the hall as Granny Doyle and the others fussed in the porch. She could make sure Peg hadn’t died. And, as long as she was still sick but not dead, Rosie might be able to borrow her Walkman. With Nevermind in her ears, Rosie might be able to get through the dinner. Rosie had almost tried to smuggle it into the church; Nirvana could have cleansed her ears from the hymns. She might have chanced Kurt as a Confirmation name – or at least Courtney – if her Dad hadn’t gone and died. Danny Doyle would have been a cool sponsor, seeing the funny side. He might have loved the tape too – his room had been full of records – and here was another thing to make a heart heavy and send feet trudging up stairs, her ears in search of the only voices that knew just how broken the world was.
‘Rosie, hurry up!’
Some affection in John Paul’s tone, at least, though his legs charged past, his piggybank calling. Damien was right behind, eager to be the first to check on Peg, which annoyed Rosie, so she picked up her pace until three two one they bundled up the stairs, lightly pushing and shoving each other, the way they used to, still friends then, motivations tangled, until somehow it was John Paul who opened the door to Rosie’s bedroom.
7
Fallons French Regular and Irregular Verb Book (1992)
voir (to see)
For once, John Paul Doyle was speechless.
The girl in the bed looked like his sister, but she didn’t bear any resemblance to the bookwormish wagon who could sour a room with her face. The cow who was always making sure that John Paul knew how much smarter she was couldn’t be scooping a sheet up around her, with the curtains drawn and the red light glowing, as if she were in some tawdry porno that even Keifo’d be embarrassed to watch. Yet there she was, Peg. Who the fuck knew who the lad was, some gobshite whooshing out of the bed and scrambling for his clothes.
John Paul’s brain whirred into overdrive as Peg caught his eye, desperate. Granny Doyle and the other biddies were still in the porch. He could call her, heroically. Or he could push the blond gobshite down the stairs and boot him onto the street, man-of-the-house style. Peg would deserve it and all, the cheeky cow; he’d never disrespect Granny Doyle like that, not under her own roof.
Or …
He could fix this. Peg knew as much, her eyes flashing in desperation. The man of the house could help everybody. Shield a sister. Spare Granny Doyle a broken heart.
And …
John Paul could help himself too, he realized, his brain whirring ahead, aware that every opened door had to reveal an opportunity.
8
Nike Runners (1992)
John Paul stretched out his legs, the better for Clodagh Reynolds to notice his new runners. Bright enough to blind, the runners couldn’t be missed, yet somehow Clodagh Reynolds’ eyes continued to display no interest. John Paul gripped his fag and exhaled in a way he hoped was cool. His heart was doing its thump-bump, its rhythm attuned to the bounce of Clodagh Reynolds’ tits, though it wasn’t just that: a glimpse into the blue of her eyes was enough to send John Paul’s heart a-plummet, a wonder it was possible to breathe afterwards.
Clodagh Reynolds leant against the wall and waited for her friend to buy cigarettes from John Paul. She was thirteen like the other Holy Faith first-years, but she’d easily get into a 15 film, 18 if she had her make-up on. She lived in a posh house off the Coast Road and ironed her auburn hair so straight it could slice envelopes, and was a secondary school principal’s daughter and was perfect in every way, except that she never noticed John Paul, even when his shoes were fluorescent.
‘Thanks, J.P.,’ Clodagh’s friend said, some gobshite, like all his other customers, skittery things who giggled and played with their ponytails and acted like the purchase of a few Marley Lights made them Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct.
Most of the first-years had a crush on John Paul, because even though he was only in sixth class and nowhere near as tall as Jason Donnelly, he had the chat and the smile; it was a pleasure doing business with the cheeky little ride.
‘Cool runners,’ Clodagh Reynolds’ friend said, the stupid tit, because this only made it worse, the glance of Clodagh’s as she walked away, nothing she saw enough to cause a crinkle across her perfect face. John Paul gawped at her as she stalked off, the chat stolen clean out of him in her presence, his heart dragged along on a leash after her razor-sharp hair and the peep of leg between tartan skirt and grey socks.
‘All right, mate?’
Jason Donnelly’s words dragged Joh
n Paul back to his senses.
He brought the gang with him because Jason Donnelly was cute enough to pull over some customers and Boyler and Keifo were thick enough to help out without getting any commission. Without doubt the leader of the group, John Paul was sure he came off all Goodfellas, except when Jason, too clever for his own good, took the mick. John Paul could see a smile forming across Jason’s smug face so he struck first.
‘I’d be cool, man, if I didn’t have to stare at that Saturn of a spot of yours. Is that a new one? Jesus, you’ve got the whole solar system on your chin!’
Boyler and Keifo laughed because they knew what was good for them and John Paul kept it all under control, blackhead? more like a black fucking hole!, the mention of acne enough to stop Jason’s smile. I’ll tell you what black hole I’d like, John Paul’s heart returning to normal, fuck off, you dirty geebag, that wasn’t what I meant!, no chance of Jason daring to mention Clodagh Reynolds’ name out loud, be phoning your ma, so I will, order restored, don’t I have her number after last night, hey!
‘You saying something about my ma?’
It was Denise Donnelly, Peg beside her.
John Paul put on his innocent face.
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’
Denise rolled her eyes. John Paul would never tell Jason about the time he’d crept into Denise’s empty room just to cop a lungful of her perfume, because Clodagh used Dior too. There was certainly no danger of Jason falling for Peg; she looked worse than ever, a right puss on her as she slapped a few cartons of cigarettes into John Paul’s hand.
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