Our Little Cruelties

by Liz Nugent

  My bedroom was over the hallway, so I heard Mum arriving home sometime after midnight according to my Timex watch (Santa’s last gift before I knew he was my parents). I heard her fiddle with the keys in the door for ages before she eventually let herself in, and then Dad was talking to her and I couldn’t tell exactly what he was saying, but his whispering was furious, almost hissing. Mum didn’t bother to whisper. ‘So what if I stayed out, I earned the money, didn’t I? You’re supposed to be the provider. If it wasn’t for me, we wouldn’t even have a turkey.’

  Dad’s voice again and then Mum: ‘You’re just jealous! At least Kevin can buy his wife the occasional diamond. I only wanted a bloody sandwich toaster!’

  Her voice was slurred and then doors were slammed, and I lay in bed, hoping that peace would break out in the morning like in the First World War when the English side and the German side stopped killing each other and played football instead. Why couldn’t Dad be like other dads? Why couldn’t Mum be like other mums?

  I woke to the sound of Luke’s squeals of excitement. ‘Santa’s been! Santa’s been!’

  I went downstairs to find Dad dishevelled in last night’s clothes, pushing a blanket off the sofa.

  ‘Did you sleep down here, Dad?’

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ said Brian.

  ‘Your mum got in late and I fell asleep watching a film. Sorry, boys.’ He plastered a smile on his face.

  ‘Santa must have been very quiet if he didn’t wake you,’ said Luke, clutching his new shoes to his chest – and, in fairness, they were nice shoes, brown leather. His eyes were shining with happiness. We unwrapped other small presents too, chocolate Santas, tangerines, a David Bowie tape for me, a Nolan Sisters tape for Luke and a Boomtown Rats tape for Brian.

  ‘Where are the bikes?’ asked Brian.

  Jovially, Dad tried to explain, using Luke’s presence as an excuse to play everything down. ‘Now, Brian, sometimes Santa sees that there are poor children in the world and he has to share the presents out equally, and you know how generous he’s been in other years, so this year, he’s got you and William a bike to share.’ Dad went outside for a minute and then lifted the gift-wrapped bike through the patio doors. I tore the paper off while Brian sat behind me in silence. It wasn’t a Raleigh Chopper. It wasn’t even a new bicycle. Marks and scrapes on its frame and mudguards told us that this bicycle had already lived another life under another boy’s bottom.

  ‘Now, boys, don’t be disappointed. Santa was –’

  Brian interrupted. ‘Every single thing I get all year round is second-hand. I get William’s clothes, his rugby boots, his books. I got all his old toys when he was finished with them. It’s Christmas Day and the only thing I asked for was a new bike of my own. It’s bad enough that I have to share it with him’ – at this point, he punched me in the shoulder – ‘but it’s not even new, it’s Paul’s old bike that’s been rotting in Uncle Dan’s shed since Paul died.’

  Our cousin Paul had died two years previously from leukaemia at the age of nine.

  ‘How did Santa get Paul’s bike?’ said Luke, his lip beginning to tremble.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘Luke, will you go and wake Mum?’ It was only seven o’clock.

  ‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ Dad said, and Luke clomped up the stairs in his pyjamas and his new brown shoes.

  ‘It’s only a bike,’ I said, choosing the mature attitude that Dad would approve of.

  ‘It was the only thing I wanted,’ whined Brian.

  ‘Oh, grow up!’ I said with all the swagger of a thirteen-year-old.

  This enraged Brian. He picked up the bicycle and threw it at me with all his strength. If I hadn’t dodged it, I would certainly have ended up in hospital, but the weight and the force of it shattered through the glass patio door.

  Rather than being stunned into silence, Brian then stamped his feet on all the other small gifts, including the unopened ones for our parents.

  ‘Brian! Stop it!’ Dad, shocked, roared it at him, but Brian pulled the Christmas tree out of its pot and threw it across the sofa, then ran up the stairs to his and Luke’s room, almost knocking down Luke and Mum in the process.

  ‘What in the name of God is going on? Mother of Jesus!’ Mum said when she saw the shattered glass and the absolute destruction of the sitting room.

  Luke wailed, ‘Santa is never coming to our house again,’ and then Brian shouted down from upstairs, ‘There is no Santa, you mental gobshite. There’s just Mum and Dad, who won’t even buy us proper presents. Why do you think Santa uses the same wrapping paper as us, you moron? Why do other kids always get cool toys?’ Then the bedroom door slammed.

  Luke’s lip trembled. ‘It’s not true, is it? Santa is real, isn’t he?’ There was a note of desperation in his voice.

  Mum looked at Dad and put her hand to her forehead. ‘Can you get me some aspirin, please?’

  ‘Get it yourself,’ he snarled.

  ‘But, Mum, there is a Santa, isn’t there?’

  ‘No, Luke, there isn’t. Now will you please go and get Mummy some aspirin from the medicine cupboard?’

  Luke was silent for the rest of the day. Dad spent the morning clattering aggressively in the kitchen, preparing the turkey and the Brussels sprouts that nobody even liked. I cleaned up the sitting room, re-erected the Christmas tree, salvaged as much as I could from the broken presents. The bicycle’s front wheel had buckled in the incident. Nobody was going to ride it. Mum lay on the sofa, groaning occasionally and issuing orders for coffee and water. The television, thankfully, had been undamaged and Luke sat in front of it, consumed by Willy Wonka.

  Dad boarded up the patio door with some hardboard from the shed, and in fact it was March before we could afford to replace the glass.

  When Christmas dinner was served at three o’clock, I was sent up to fetch Brian. I was sure he’d be feeling humiliated and ashamed of his own behaviour, but he had wrecked Christmas for everyone and I wanted to rub it in.

  ‘The bike is screwed, you know.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So neither of us have a bike now, eejit.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we didn’t have bikes yesterday either, so what’s the difference?’

  ‘I guess the difference is that yesterday you weren’t such a complete cretin.’

  He came at me like a ball of fury. He punched me so hard, I went flying out of the door and was lucky not to fall backwards down the stairs.

  Dad came running as I went for Brian, trying to dig at him with my fists.

  ‘STOP! Mother of God, what has got into this family?’ He prised us apart and we were left swinging at each other on either side of him, cartoon-like.

  ‘Get downstairs for your dinner and not another word out of either of you.’

  I protested. ‘But my nose is bleeding, he punched me –’

  ‘I don’t care. Downstairs, now.’

  Christmas dinner was eaten in total silence. I was trying to balance a bag of frozen peas on my nose while eating. Luke was attempting not to cry, but his eyes were glassy. Mum and Dad were not speaking to each other at all. Brian looked down at his plate and, when he’d finished pushing around the plum pudding that nobody liked, declared, ‘I hate this poxy family. I hate all of you!’ and returned to his bedroom, slamming the door.

  Mum looked at Dad and her mouth twitched, and then she and Dad started to laugh helplessly. Luke joined in, out of sheer relief. And eventually I cracked a smile too. Because, you see, in our family somebody always had to be the butt of the joke and that Christmas Day, it was Brian.

  9

  2006

  Susan and I had agreed shared custody of Daisy, which meant that I got Daisy most weekends, but it didn’t always suit me because a lot of the film festivals took place over the weekend. ‘Bring her with you,’ said Susan. And I would explain again that film festivals were work and that I’d be having meetings, etc. Susan didn’t buy it for a second. ‘You forget that in the early days, when we got
babysitters, I’d go with you. Those weekends were always about boozing, schmoozing and getting enough cocaine up your nose to keep you awake until we got on the plane to come home. Take her with you. Lay off the booze – and the other – and mind her. You think I don’t make sacrifices every week to take care of her? For God’s sake, Will.’

  In May 2006, I took Daisy to Cannes with me. Don’t get me wrong, I love my kid, but she was at that awkward age where she was shy around strangers. She used to be such a pretty child, but now her puppy fat was quite pronounced and I was conscious of it. So was she, it seemed. Cannes Film Festival was for the beautiful girls, even the very young ones. Daisy also refused to wear dresses or ribbons or ‘girly’ stuff and seemed determined to make herself as unattractive as possible. She was only twelve and not interested enough to be impressed by sightings of Leonardo DiCaprio or Cate Blanchett or any of the Hollywood stars.

  Much to my disappointment, she didn’t even like going to the cinema, unless Brian took her. She spent most of her time with her head in a book, and I know that’s a good thing, but I’m a film-maker. I’d had her out as an extra on TV dramas and feature films I’d made, but Susan told me not to use her again. She didn’t enjoy it and complained to Susan that she hated sitting around in a shed, eating dried-up sandwiches all day, waiting to film one crowd scene. At that age, I would have jumped at the chance to make €50 while sitting around doing nothing. But Daisy put no value on anything and I think that might be because I spoiled her quite a bit. The guilt of a divorced dad. No matter what she wanted, I bought it for her. Susan was less indulgent. I suppose we should have given her a sibling, but Susan, caught out the first time, was never ready for a second pregnancy.

  What was I supposed to do with my kid in Cannes? There was a Polish actress who I was hoping to hook up with and I couldn’t do that with Daisy in tow. I know that if a woman I was interested in mentioned her kid, it would really put me off. I assumed women felt the same way. I mean, you’re never going to be number one to someone with a kid because the kid always comes first.

  Brian, of all people, presented the solution.

  ‘Can I come with you?’ he said. He was Daisy’s godfather and they were pretty close. He brought her book-shopping and he read the books that she read so they’d have something to chat about. Good godfatherly stuff. I think he had dinner once a month at Susan’s with whatever ugly girlfriend he was dating, so Daisy was used to having him in her life.

  Brian needed a break, in fairness. He had been looking after Luke after he came out of treatment, and now that Luke was stable enough, Brian was free to do what he wanted. He had just finished a teaching stint doing maternity cover in a boarding school in Wicklow. He couldn’t have been a great teacher because he never got a permanent contract, but he was also ‘managing’ Luke’s career and had managed to swindle Luke out of his house, so I wasn’t exactly feeling sorry for him. Because his work was erratic, Brian always had more time to do the caring stuff, like helping Mum with her car insurance and house maintenance and seeing to Luke’s prescriptions and psychiatric consultations.

  When Brian asked to come with me to Cannes, it was the perfect answer. I got to be the generous big brother who paid for his air fare and accommodation and who could show off in front of him, and he could mind Daisy when I needed him to. Our production company rented a five-bedroom villa in the hills behind Antibes. My colleagues, Mary and Gerald, were coming too. In previous years we had partied all night with the likes of Colin Farrell and Russell Crowe. This time, I had to tell the others to keep the partying out of the villa. Daisy did not need to witness the antics of the international film industry.

  Daisy was definitely excited to be on the trip. She was always happy to spend time with me and despite our lack of shared interests she never had any problem talking to me about her school, her friends or her many efforts to complain about her mother. Susan was stricter than I was with Daisy. She grounded her when she underachieved at school and she forced her to do athletics and other sports, which Susan had enjoyed in her own schooldays. Daisy did not follow in her mother’s footsteps, but Susan and I had maturely come to an agreement that we were not going to tolerate Daisy’s complaints about each other ever since Daisy started the ‘Mum won’t let me have a puppy’ whinge.

  On the flight on the way over, Daisy sat between Brian and me, dressed head to toe in black with her hair in plaits like the kid from The Addams Family, the one film she loved. Perhaps, I thought, I could bring her to events after all, like a little mascot. She could be the cute, quirky kid and maybe Natalia Agnieszka would find the Daddy thing charming. Women are wired differently to men, after all. She might be attracted by my loving-Daddy persona. And I wouldn’t have to fake it. I adore my daughter.

  May on the Riviera can be very warm, but Daisy refused to take off her sweatshirt despite the oppressive heat. I could see the sweat trickling down her hairline while we waited for our rental car at Nice airport. ‘I can see you’re too hot, Daisy. You have a T-shirt on underneath, don’t you? Just take it off.’

  ‘No, leave me alone!’

  Brian sidled up to me and whispered in my ear. ‘Leave it – first bra. She’s still getting used to it.’

  ‘What? How do you know?’

  ‘Just don’t say anything, you’ll make it worse.’

  I got in the front seat and wondered about Susan telling Brian personal details like that instead of telling me.

  When we got to the villa, Daisy scrambled out of the car and ran down to the pool. ‘Dad! My God, this is so cool! Wow!’ I had impressed my daughter.

  Mary greeted us and I left her to take the bags to the room and sort out who was sleeping where. Brian looked at me. ‘Isn’t Mary your Development Executive?’

  ‘Yeah. So?’

  ‘So why is she taking your bags and bringing you a gin and tonic?’

  ‘Oh Christ, Brian, don’t you start with that PC crap. Mary is well paid and gets to read scripts all day. I don’t think fixing a drink for her boss is going to kill her.’

  ‘Well, if I was Daisy’s dad, I’d want to set a better example about how to treat women.’

  ‘Yeah, well, if I was you and had just blagged a free weekend to the Cannes Film Festival, I’d keep my mouth shut.’

  A sullen Brian drove us into Cannes that afternoon after I’d showered and changed. I made him drive up and down La Croisette a few times so Daisy could get a sense of the glamour. They dropped me off, but Daisy wanted to go back to the villa and read by the pool. I told Brian to collect me at four.

  I had a meeting on the terrace of the Grand with Hobie Fiernstrom, an LA-based rep from Film Capital Equity, to talk about finance for the next film. After a couple of beers, he offered me a line, but I explained I had my daughter with me and had to be good.

  ‘How old?’ he said.

  ‘Just turned twelve,’ I replied. ‘Into books and music.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s a little too young even for me.’ I looked at him for a moment, but he grinned and nudged me. ‘I’m kidding, I’m kidding,’ he said. I wanted to smash his face in and I would have if I didn’t need him to swing this deal for me so badly. I smiled benignly while swearing to myself that I would never party with this arsehole again. Last year, we’d gone on a binge together and some young girls had appeared, but it only occurred to me now how young they might have been.

  I finished up the meeting and went back to the villa. The Swarovski Dinner was to be that night at the Majestic, and Brian had agreed to take Daisy out for the evening.

  I changed into black-tie attire and met Mary and Gerald in the hallway. Mary was out to impress, tiny dress, boobs on display, tottering heels. Gerald commented, ‘Mary’s on the pull tonight!’ Mary looked at me from under her long eyelashes and I knew I had to put a stop to any thoughts she was having because her obvious crush on me was embarrassing. I wasn’t stupid enough to sleep with an employee, but I had slapped her on the arse once in front of the guys to raise a laugh.
She hadn’t liked that at all, had burst into tears and run from the room. It became a big fuss and there was tension in the office, but it blew over after I promoted her. She still went shopping for birthday presents for my ex-wife and my daughter and collected my dry-cleaning once a week. She was a good script doctor and she picked out projects that were original and potentially crowd-pleasing. I couldn’t have done without her. I had a Personal Assistant and a Development Executive for the price of one. Looking at the way she was dressed tonight, I would have to make a concerted effort to keep my distance. She was not unattractive, just not my type.

  ‘Good luck, Mary, have you got your eye on anyone?’ I said.

  She gave me the look and Gerald laughed awkwardly and said, ‘Well, as long as she doesn’t go for Richie Corsovo from Universal, I don’t care. He’s mine.’ And he made the purring cat gesture that drives me up the wall.

  ‘Right, let’s go.’

  I called goodbye to Brian and Daisy, who were out by the pool drinking from a cooler box filled with ice-cold Orangina and bottled beer. My daughter had at least taken off the giant sweatshirt and wore a plain T-shirt with shorts. Susan said it was impossible to get her interested in fashion. She would only wear clothes in which she could hide when out in public.

  ‘Bye, Dad!’ Daisy waved. Brian ignored me.

  I had intended to get home around midnight that Friday night so I could get up the next morning and have a swim with Daisy. She was going to be my date for our screening of Green Hearts on Saturday afternoon and I wanted Mary to take her shopping somewhere, because in Cannes there’s an unofficial dress code, and if she insisted on going in her smelly black sweatshirt, I couldn’t really bring her up to the stage with me afterwards like I’d planned to. Susan had warned me that shopping would be difficult with Daisy, but I’d had Mary look up all the cool designer shops for teenagers. It was going to be a surprise.