Fur Coat No Knickers

by C. B. Martin

  ‘Dinner!’ interrupted mum, who still hadn’t quite got over the shrinking bird problem. ‘I thought that butcher had a shifty looking face,’ she continued muttering. ‘He couldn’t even look me in the eye when he sold me that bird, so he couldn’t. Mind you, he had only one eye, so he did. Strange looking fella all the same.’

  ‘I’ll tell you after dinner,’ Katie whispered with a firm shake of her head, indicating that she didn't want mum to hear.

  ‘Okay,’ I answered, as we both shot up and ran for the dinner table, both trying to get the closest seat to mum.

  ‘Who wants to carve the bird then?’ mum asked, looking directly either side of her at Laura and Katie. The budgie-sized turkey was placed on a platter that took up half the table, dwarfing it even further.

  ‘Err…’ we all stammered, avoiding eye contact with mum.

  ‘You’re the head of the family, mum. You carve the budg… err… turkey,’ broke in Laura with a smile. She still is (and always was) such a complete lickarse.

  Mum, armed and dangerous with an electric carving knife the size of a hedge trimmer, proceeded to try and carve. But, as soon as the enormous blade made contact with the minuscule turkey, it flew off the platter, hitting the wall at breakneck speed. Then it fell to the floor with a soggy thud.

  ‘Oh my God… the fecker flew away, mammy!’ exclaimed Katie with glee.

  ‘Saints preserve us!’ mum said in shock, shaking her head staring at the mess it had made.

  After exchanging glances, we couldn’t help but all burst out laughing as we continued to dish up the rest of the (now turkey-free) Christmas dinner. Even mum started to see the funny side.

  We toasted with our Ribena and pulled the rest of the Christmas crackers as the atmosphere settled down. By the time we were finished, I was full to the brim with veg and Yorkshires, but still couldn’t help myself enquiring about dessert. Mum always made the best Christmas pudding.

  ‘So what’s for after’s, mum?’ I asked, feeling the need for something sweet. ‘You know how much we love your Christmas pudding. Are we going to set it alight?’

  ‘Sure they’re laced with alcohol, so no, I’ve gone for something else this year,’ said mum, briskly tidying away the plates.

  ‘Oooh,’ I said excitedly, ‘what is it? Trifle?’ I loved mum’s trifle. She shook her head once again.

  ‘Sure, that’s full of sherry,’ she said, nodding in Katie’s direction.

  ‘Tiramisu?’ I asked hopefully, my mouth watering. It slowly dawned on me this dish also contained alcohol. I felt an all-too-familiar surge of resentment towards Katie. ‘I take it there’s no chocolate liqueurs for after either?’

  ‘Well, I thought I’d go with something a little more modern, given our fragile family situation,’ began mum.

  I waited with baited breath.

  ‘We’re having angel fairy cakes for desert and toffee-filled Rolos with our coffee!’ exclaimed mum proudly.

  I shot my eyes in Laura’s direction, but she was deliberately avoiding my gaze. I looked back at Katie who was sitting all prim and proper, like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

  ‘How thoughtful of you to think of Katie again, mum,’ I said sarcastically, while continuing to shoot death stares in Katie’s direction. Katie (rightly so) put her head down and started fiddling with her Christmas paper hat.

  ‘Oh, I forgot,’ mum added, completely unaware of my sarcasm, ‘I’ve made mince pies!’ They did look very yummy, generously sprinkled with copious amounts of icing sugar. They were polished off instantly.

  ‘I bagsy licking the plate!’ screeched Katie, at the speed of lightning.

  ‘Ugh! I was going to bagsy that!’ I said, as I deliberately sprayed some spit on the plate while I passed it down to her.

  ‘Ah, you’re getting a bit slooooow in your old age, Tara. Maybe Santa should’ve put some TENA-ladies in your stocking,’ teased Katie in a singsong voice.

  ‘Oh come on now,’ I spat scornfully, ‘I could throw one in about needing extra large nappies and how long you wet the bed for, but I won’t… because it’s Christmas!’

  With Katie and I at level pegging in the insult league, we all moved into the lounge to watch the Queen’s speech on the TV. It was the same every year (the subsequent routine, not the speech). We’d all wait for mum to fall asleep (which didn’t take long, usually 30 seconds were enough). Then the silent but deadly fight for the remote control would start between the three of us. This time, as Katie and I fought (perhaps not for the remote, but more probably because we just wanted to knock the shite out of each other), Lickarse Laura dived in to take charge of what we were about to watch… a boring documentary about penguins. I mean, really?

  Not in the mood for penguins (unless they were of the chocolate variety), I remembered that I had some unfinished gossip to unearth from Katie.

  ‘So, what was it you were going to tell me before dinner?’ I probed; resolving to put Katie’s last cutting comment behind me, as I fell down beside her, still exhausted from our scrap.

  ‘Well… I’m in love,’ she whispered in my ear, while cupping her hand around her mouth, ‘I’ve met this fine, fit ting you see…’

  ‘Hang on… how could you have possibly met somebody while you’ve been in rehab?!’ I asked with frowning concern, still trying to catch my breath and poking in one of my hair extensions that she had nearly pulled out.

  ‘Listen till I tell you,’ she said speaking quietly, yet rapidly and with obvious pleasure. ‘He had come into visit his brother in the clinic and we got chatting about caravans, don’t ask me how, but we did. It may have something to do with the fact that he lives in one.’

  ‘WHAT?!’ I yelled. ‘Don’t tell me you’re seeing a PIKEY?’

  ‘Shhhh!’ she implored, putting a hand over my mouth. ‘Don’t be saying that in front of me mam!’

  ‘Jesus, Katie!’ I said, struggling to keep my voice down. ‘Will you ever learn? They are not allowed to date outside their community. They have to stick to their own; and so should you! Surely you must have watched My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding?’

  I shook my head with utter disgust and then set upon her again (well, I was on a roll. Why stop now?)

  ‘You were told no relationships for a year, then you start one up the minute you go to a rehab centre? … You are NOT to have anything to do with him again. And I MEAN IT. Or I will tell mum and Laura!’

  Nervously, Katie started fidgeting and fingering the icing sugar around the mince pie plate which she’d brought with her to the sofa.

  ‘Ah sure, I’m better now… and he’s up for the craic [pronounced “crack”; roughly translating to, ‘a bit of fun’], so he is,’ stammered Katie, speaking even more rapidly; although her enthusiasm had now melted into nervousness. ‘I’m just so bored in there, and I…’

  ‘Yes!’ I snarled abruptly, interrupting her. ‘The operative word in that sentence being craic, as in crack-cocaine!’

  I was bitterly disappointed. Despite our differences and arguments, I genuinely wanted Katie to get past her addictions. It was then I noticed Katie had arranged the icing sugar from the plate into… lines. Oh my God. On the plate. White lines. Oh my god! AND SHE HAD ROLLED HER CHRISTMAS PAPER HAT INTO A SUSPICIOUS-LOOKING, STRAW-LIKE SHAPE.

  ‘KATIE!' I roared furiously, with my eyes almost popping out of my head, ‘Look what you’ve done – you stupid crack head! MUM!’ I grassed. ‘Look at what Katie has done with the icing sugar! And she’s moving into a caravan with her new PIKEY boyfriend!’

  ‘… What? Aww bless her… she’ll have a grand holiday in a caravan when she’s better,’ mum said, barely opening her eyes or taking any notice of my outcries. ‘Ahh look, she’s made some snowy roads on her plate. They’re lovely pet. She’s still such a creative child.’

  ‘I’ve got her wrapped around me little finger,’ Katie mimed behind mum’s back, deliberately winding me up now that I had grassed on her. I was overwhelmed by an immense feeling of anger surging through
me, catalysed by mum’s blind ignorance. Heaving myself off the sofa, I snatched the plate from Katie and marched into the kitchen. In desperation, I started raiding the cupboards, but not a drop of alcohol was to be found. This enraged me even more.

  Despite this, I was terrified of ending up like our dad. There was no way any of my children (if I ever managed to have any) would be put in a position where they had to get on their knees begging me to stop drinking.

  ‘If it’s good enough for God’s disciples to drink wine, then it’s good enough for me’ was dad’s favourite phrase. I used to watch him as a child through the gaps in our hallway. He and Father Brian would drink till they could barely stand. Then, we would all be dragged to mass to repent our sins. This, I never understood. Poor mum had to juggle everything with screaming, attention-seeking Katie joined to her hip. Laura would shut her bedroom door and bury her nose in a book, so I always felt it was up to me to help fix the situation and fix my dad.

  Dad’s once genius mind had turned on itself. His increasingly erratic, madman behaviour escalated to psychotic levels that could no longer be endured. Alcohol-induced schizophrenia took hold. He said he could hear voices that told him he could fly – he nearly threw himself off a multi-story car park.

  Later, I had chosen to stay in England with dad, so it had become my responsibility to look after him. As frightened as I was, I couldn't leave him all alone. I convinced mum that I would take care of him. I’ll finish my apprenticeship and by then dad will get better, I promised.

  I still shudder remembering the devastating morning that he left me forever.

  I had been out the night before celebrating my seventeenth birthday and sneaked in late after being out with my girlfriends. I’d selfishly gone straight to bed without checking on dad, as I normally did.

  The next morning, I found him slumped on the living room floor. Eerily still, he was clutching our old family photograph and the lyrics of the stolen love song he had written for mum so many years ago.

  Frantically, I waded through the debris of empty cans and bottles and fell to my knees beside him.

  ‘… Dad?’ I called in alarm. ‘Talk to me, dad!’ I shrieked, beginning to panic as I cupped and pulled at his ice-cold hands. ‘You've just had too much to drink - that's all!’ Looking at his expressionless face, deep down, I knew that wasn’t the truth.

  With all my strength, I shook him for some kind of response. ‘Come on… sing something! Wake up… please! Breathe. Please. Please…’ I sobbed. ‘I’m sorry I shouted at you for not taking your tablets. Come on, dad - I’m sorry, please just wake up! Don't leave me…’

  I ran to the phone and called an ambulance. Everything was happening in excruciating slow motion.

  After what seemed like forever, the operator answered. I begged her to make the ambulance come quickly. She instructed me to stay calm and check dad’s breathing. Dropping the phone, I dived down to where he lay. Tilting his head, I placed my ear to his mouth. Nothing. The only sound was my own rapid breathing. I checked his pulse. There wasn’t one.

  At that moment, my worst fears were confirmed. I wasn’t going to be able to save my dad.

  ‘It’s you and me - we can get through this,’ I pleaded. ‘Please just wake up!’ I cried and cried.

  Adrenaline-fuelled hysteria set in, as I attempted to perform CPR. I sealed his lips and tried with panic-stricken breaths to bring him back. ‘Please don't go…’ I sobbed. ‘Don’t leave me all alone.’

  But he had lost his battle.

  His tortured soul had departed this world. I could feel the warmth fading from his crumpled body, disappearing into my arms. I grabbed a blanket, lay on the floor beside him and wrapped us up together.

  I held him so tight, with my body shaking and trembling in disbelief, my eyes drowning in tears.

  I don't know how long I lay there before the ambulance arrived, but eventually I drifted off to happier times. I saw flashes of dad teaching Laura, Katie and I to play guitar and encouraging us to sing. Laura sounded like an angel. Even Katie showed signs of great talent; with her young, yet undeveloped voice and an ability to pick up and play virtually any instrument. As for me, well, I merely watched on longingly as they shared yet another moment that I wasn’t truly a part of.

  I wanted to hold dad for as long as possible, but the weight of his body was gradually slipping away beyond my grasp. I knew I had to let him go. But I wasn't ready, not yet. I needed more time with him before the doctors and funeral directors took him away from me, forever.

  Supporting dad’s head with a cushion, I reached over, grabbed his precious guitar, plucked a few strings and heartbreakingly sang to him for the first and last time.

  I shared a final, exquisite, beautiful moment with my dad.

  A torrent of pain and regret turned me inside out, as I called mum with the tragic news that dad has passed away.

  It all seemed so long ago, but the spirit of our dad still hung strongly about us, even now. Christmas never felt quite right again; even though for so many years the 25th of December only meant an extended day of drinking and arguing for my parents.

  Wanting to escape the Christmas family drama and with the bemusement over Siobhan swallowing her SIM card, I decided to give her a call.

  ‘Merry Christmas!’ I bellowed down the phone.

  ‘Merry Christmas! And greetings from England!’ chorused Siobhan.

  ‘So… what on earth was that all about? Are you okay?’ I questioned, while I made myself comfortable.

  ‘You’ll not feckin’ believe it when I tell you!’ said Siobhan, relishing the opportunity to tell the next crazy installment in her chaotic love life.

  ‘Oh, I will believe it… tell me!’ I begged.

  ‘Well… you know that ol’ tosspot I used to kinda see for a while?’

  ‘Which one? Let’s be honest, there have been a few.’

  ‘Danny!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Danny?’

  ‘You know, Danny.’

  ‘Oh yeah… Danny!’ I bluffed (I couldn’t really remember this one). ‘I just didn’t know that you and Danny had split up. When did that happen?’

  ‘Noooo, not Danny #2, I’m still riding that one! I mean Danny #1, the gobshite that was looking to drag me arse up the aisle. You know who I mean, the eejit who got sacked and had to downgrade from a top-end BMW to a clapped-out Skoda.’

  ‘Ah yes, I remember him. The poor guy who lost everything,’ I said, sympathetically, as it all came flooding back.

  ‘Poor guy me arse! He knows I’m with the Danny #2 and the stupid fecker’s only gone and text me out of the blue. And Danny #2 only went an’ feckin’ read it! Really, the gobshite should never have been going through me phone, but he did. So, I grabbed it and feckin’ ran I tell you. So then I locked meself in the bathroom. Danny’s on the other side of the door, trying to kick down the door. He hurt his foot, which served him right. But then he starts tryin’a jimmy the lock with a fookin’ two pence piece, trying to get me phone back off me! I was like; fook that for a laugh! He would’ve seen the texts from all the others as well! So I took me phone apart and got out the SIM. The second he comes through the door, he sees me swallowing it to get rid of the evidence.’

  ‘Shit! Why didn’t you just flush it down the toilet, you nutter?’ I asked, baffled.

  ‘He would’ve feckin’ dived in an’ got it. He had his feckin’ fingers down me throat trying to get it back he’s such a feckin’ loon. So anyways… I bit the bastard. It’s the only way I was gonna get him to stop!’

  I burst out laughing, as did Siobhan.

  ‘I was shittin' myself, I tell you, Tara.’

  After a minute of rolling around, I had to ask, ‘Why do you keep dating these destructive men?’ shaking my head, still laughing.

  ‘Well… I can’t help it really… I seem to just love a bastard. He’s wild. It really turns me on; even if it does scare the shite out of me. Should probably go and see someone about that really...’ she cackled.
‘Anyway, I’ve got to go… I’m meeting Danny #1 for a drink.’

  ‘Err… okay,’ I said, now even more baffled. ‘I’ll call you when I get home from Ireland. Merry Christmas, and see you soon!’

  I’m sure she was supposed to say Danny #2…

  Heading back into the lounge, I immediately began to regale Siobhan’s story. I just had to gossip to someone about it, so I broke the ice with Katie as if we’d never had the heated confrontation at all.

  ‘Sounds like she could do with a bit of help if you ask me,’ said Laura in her everyone's-dysfunctional-apart-from-me voice.

  ‘I’d love to go and stay with her for a weekend,’ added Katie, wide-eyed.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere, you brazen hussy!’ I barked.

  ‘Right… who fancies a game of Trivial Pursuit?’ asked Laura, clearly changing the subject to prevent another row.

  ‘Not me,’ I protested. ‘You’re a boffin. You only want to play because you know you would win!’

  ‘Well, you might learn something,’ said Laura, all teacher-like and patronising.

  ‘Why don’t we all have a nice game of snap?’ suggested mum.

  Now that was a game I could play.

  It had been a typical Christmas day (minus the turkey and alcohol, of course). We had eaten, we had bickered and we had laughed. Mum then went to bed whilst Laura, Katie and I stayed up chatting and squabbling until the early hours of the morning.

  CHAPTER THREE

  My final night in Ireland had arrived. After a few alcohol-free days and nights of staying holed up at mum’s to show solidarity for Katie, cabin fever begun to set in. The rehab doctor had given mum strict instructions that Katie was not to go anywhere she may be tempted to look for drugs, and was to be kept in a controlled environment. Long story short: Katie couldn’t step a foot outside the house.

  Laura and I had more than done our fair share of going without; it was our time now. So, Laura and I felt obliged to go out and get rat-arsed.