Whose Life is it Anyway? (21 page)

Irish Daily News

‘Shoe shopping’

Niamh O’Flaherty

When Alice goes shoe shopping to find the perfect pair to go with the new dress she’s bought for a wedding, she knows it’s going to be an experience. She has spent weeks flicking through fashion magazines looking for the right match.

She gets all dressed up, carefully folds her new dress into a big bag and sets off. She is on a high. Shoe shopping is her drug of choice.

She goes into the first shoe shop where, lo and behold, she finds a pair of shoes that matches her dress. With the shoes on, she takes the dress out of the bag and holds it up to herself in the mirror. The shoes are the exact same colour. Perfect.

The sales assistant smiles. ‘Shall I pop those in a box for you, madam?’

Alice shakes her head. ‘No. I’m not sure they’re quite right. I’m going to look around before making my decision.’

Alice then goes into every shoe shop in town trying on shoes – none of which match the dress. After two hours, with sore, swollen feet, she goes back to the first shop to buy the first shoes she tried on. They have been sold. Alice is devastated. She tries not to cry and ends up buying silver shoes that don’t match anything.

Mike needs a pair of shoes to go with his new brown suit. He goes shopping in his comfy jeans and sweatshirt. He has ten minutes before Man United v. Arsenal kicks off. He charges into the first shoe shop he sees. It’s small, with a limited selection.

He grabs an assistant and says, ‘I need a pair of brown shoes, size eleven.’

‘Did you have any particular style in mind?’ she asks.

Mike laughs. ‘Style! No, just brown, size eleven.’

The assistant comes back and says she’s really sorry but they don’t have any brown shoes in size eleven. They only have brown boots.

‘Have you any size eleven shoes?’ Mike asks.

‘We have these burgundy ones,’ she says.

‘Grand, yeah, I’ll take those.’

‘Would you like to try them on?’

‘No time, got to catch the game,’ says Mike, handing over his credit card.

Mike and Alice go to the wedding. Mike’s shoes match Alice’s dress perfectly.

25

London, 16 March 1999

The taxi-man peered at me in the mirror. ‘Home or holiday?’

I really didn’t feel like talking, but I didn’t want to be rude. ‘Home. Well, I don’t live here but I’m back to see my family.’

‘Where do you live, then?’

‘Ireland – Dublin.’

‘That makes a change, English people going to live in Ireland after all the Paddies that have come over here. What made you go there?’

‘My parents,’ I said. ‘They’re Irish and always wanted me to go and study there, so I did.’

‘Like it, do you?’

‘At first I hated it, but now I like it.’

‘Oh, yeah? Met a nice local lad, did you?’ he said, grinning at me in the mirror.

‘Something like that,’ I said. ‘Actually, I’m engaged.’

‘Your dad’ll be made up, you ending up with a nice Irish boy.’

‘The thing is, he’s not Irish,’ I said, wishing for the millionth time that Pierre was Irish with bright red hair and freckles. It would have made my life so much easier.

When I got home, Dad rushed out to pay the taxi for me and help me with my bags. He hugged me, and I sank into his arms, a bit tearful. The stress of having to tell him about Pierre was killing me. I was a nervous wreck. ‘What’s wrong? Has something happened to you?’

‘I’m fine, Dad, just glad to be home,’ I said, giving him a watery smile.

‘Are you sure? You don’t seem fine to me. Did you break up with another boyfriend?’

‘No, the opposite, actually. I’ve met someone.’

‘Your mother mentioned something about that. She didn’t give much away though. Is he a nice lad?’

I nodded, smiling. ‘Yes, Dad, he is.’

‘Ah, sure didn’t I tell you Irish lads were the best of them all? Annie,’ he said, calling my mother who was cooking up a storm in the kitchen, ‘Niamh’s all emotional about her new boyfriend.’

‘Hello, love, ‘said Mum, kissing me. ‘You do look a bit weepy – are you all right?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘She’s missing the new lad,’ said Dad, on cloud nine now that he thought his daughter was paired up with an Irish boy.

‘What boyfriend?’ asked Siobhan, shoving a large slice of buttery toast into her mouth. ‘I thought you were still heartbroken about Sean.’

‘I broke up with him a year ago,’ I reminded her.

‘You kept saying you’d never get over it,’ she reminded me, as I winced. I really didn’t want to think about the time I’d wasted mourning that tosser.

‘Well, I have and I’ve met someone else now.’

‘So it’s still going strong, then,’ Mum said.

‘Yes, very,’ I replied.

‘Oh dear, she’s smitten, all right,’ said Mum, smiling.

‘What’s his name?’ Dad asked.

I took a deep breath. Here we go, I thought. ‘His –’ Before I had a chance to say, ‘Pierre,’ my uncle Tadhg came in, said they needed a hand with the float, and Dad rushed out.

‘What float?’ I asked.

Mum rolled her eyes. ‘Your father has decided to build the biggest float in this year’s St Patrick’s Day parade.’

I glanced out of the kitchen window to see Tadhg and my father trying to lift a giant wooden shamrock on to a cart. Despite myself I began to laugh. ‘Oh, God, Mum, it’s enormous.’

‘I know. They’ve been at it for weeks.’

‘I think it’s brilliant,’ said my ever-patriotic sister. ‘I used to love dancing in the parades.’ She sighed, looking down at her fat feet.

‘You’ll need to lay off the toast if you want to dance again,’ said Mum sternly, looking at Siobhan’s round frame.

‘It’s baby weight. I’ll lose it soon,’ huffed my sister.

‘The baby’s three, you’d want to get on with it,’ Mum muttered.

‘
TO THE LEFT
,’ we heard Tadhg roar from outside.

‘
I’M DOING MY BEST, THIS THING WEIGHS A TON
,’ shouted Dad.

‘
JUST A FEW INCHES MORE AND WE HAVE IT
,’ said Tadhg.

I watched Dad’s face turn purple with effort.

‘That man’s an idiot. He’s too old to be lifting that much weight,’ tutted Mum, and no sooner were the words out of her mouth than we saw Dad fall sideways. He lay motionless on the grass.

‘Mick,’ screamed Mum, as we sprinted out of the door, followed by a puffing Siobhan.

Dad was clutching his chest and gasping for breath. While Tadhg ran to call an ambulance, Mum and I lifted Dad’s head, loosened his clothes and tried to keep him conscious. Siobhan sat on the grass beside us and sobbed. ‘Daddy’s dying.’

‘Shut up and get him a glass of water,’ I snapped.

By the time the ambulance arrived, his breathing had improved slightly, but he was still gripping his chest and unable to speak. Mum and Tadhg went with him in the ambulance and Siobhan and I followed in the car. I rang Finn and Auntie Nuala on the way. But then I had to swap places with Siobhan and do the driving, because she was hysterical and swerving all over the road. I didn’t think it was fair to Mum if both her daughters died in a car crash on the same day her husband had a heart-attack.

By the time we got to the hospital, Dad had been rushed into intensive care and was having a variety of tests. Tadhg was pacing up and down the corridor, wailing.

‘’Tis all my fault. I should have been doing the lifting. Mick’s that bit older. I’ll die if anything happens him.’

‘He’ll be fine, don’t worry yourself. Now, could you do me a favour and get us all a nice cup of tea?’ Mum asked. He scurried off, happy to be doing something useful.

‘Bloody fool! How could he let poor Mick lift that shamrock?’ said Mum, slating Tadhg as soon as he was out of earshot. ‘He’s eight years younger! He should have been pushing, not giving instructions. I blame him for this.’

I decided not to mention that I thought the twenty cigarettes a day Dad smoked and his diet of cream and butter probably had a lot more to do with the heart-attack than the float.

‘Stupid bloody shamrock. I’ve always hated St Patrick’s Day,’ Mum grumbled.

‘Mum!’ said Siobhan, horrified. ‘How can you say that about our patron saint’s day?’

‘Because I hate wearing a lump of weeds on my coat, I never liked the colour green and, to be totally honest with you, I find the parade an almighty bore.’

‘You’re just emotionally traumatized,’ said Siobhan, refusing to believe that everyone didn’t love the parade. ‘I’ll go and help Tadhg with the teas. I might get some chocolate to keep us going.’

‘It’ll be OK, Mum,’ I said.

‘How do you know?’ she snapped.

Finn came running in. ‘Is he OK?’ he asked, as Mum stood up to hug him.

‘He’s stable. They’re running tests on him now,’ I answered, as Mum sobbed into Finn’s shoulder.

‘He’ll be fine, Mum. He’s a fighter,’ said Finn, as Mum gazed adoringly at him. You’d think she’d at least
try
to hide her favouritism.

Nuala rushed over. ‘Well? Is he dead?’ she asked, cutting straight to the chase.

‘Jesus, Nuala, what type of a question is that?’ said Tadhg, arriving back with the teas.

‘What kind of an eejit are you?’ she retorted. ‘It isn’t tea they need, it’s brandy.’ She pulled a bottle out of her bag and poured large quantities into the cups.

After an anxious wait, the doctor came and told us Dad was stable, he was going to be fine but he needed lots of rest, a strict change of diet, regular exercise – not of the heavy lifting variety – and that he was never to smoke again. We were all to make sure he didn’t.

‘Can we see him?’ asked Finn.

‘Only immediate family and only for a few minutes. He’s very tired and needs rest.’

We left Nuala and Tadhg sitting outside while we went in. Dad was lying in a bed, looking old and forlorn.

‘You gave us an awful fright,’ said Mum, holding his hand.

‘Oh, Dad, we thought you were dead,’ said Siobhan, throwing her arms round him as he flinched with pain.

‘I’m grand. Now go home and help Tadhg set up the float. I want it ready for the morning.’

‘Will you forget about that stupid float? It was nearly the death of you,’ snapped Mum.

‘I promised Father Hogan I’d have it ready in the morning and I never break a promise. Finn, will you go home and help Tadhg finish the job? Niamh, you can give it a lick of paint. I’ve a pot in the garage.’

‘I’m glad to see you’re all right, Dad,’ I said, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

‘Give it two coats of the paint to make sure it looks good,’ he said, as I backed out of the room before he could ask me to push the bloody float through the parade.

As Siobhan was driving me home, my phone rang. It was Pierre.

‘How did it go? Did he take it badly?’ he asked.

‘I didn’t tell him.’

‘Niamh,’ he said, sounding really fed up, ‘you promised you would. I can’t believe you chickened out again.’

‘I didn’t. He had a heart-attack just after I arrived,’ I said, beginning to get emotional.

‘What? Is he all right?’

‘Yes, he’s going to be fine. He just needs to rest and change his diet and stuff.’

‘How did it happen?’

‘He collapsed under a giant shamrock.’

‘Is this a wind-up?’

‘No, I wish it was. It was for the parade tomorrow.’

‘Do you want me to come over and be with you? I can be there in a few hours.’

‘No! Not now. It’s not a good idea. Look, I’ll call you later, I can’t really talk at the moment.’

‘OK. Well, let me know if you need anything. I love you.’

‘Thanks. I love you too.’

‘Love!’ said Siobhan. ‘Wow, it must be serious with this guy.’

‘It is. We’re engaged.’

‘
What?
’ She nearly crashed the car. ‘Engaged? And none of us have even set eyes on him. How long has this been going on?’

‘Six months, two weeks and three days,’ I said, smiling.

‘Why haven’t you mentioned him before? Why haven’t we met him?’

‘Well, it all happened so quickly, there wasn’t really time. Finn met him when he came over last month.’

‘Did he? He never said anything about it to me. So, what’s he like? What does he do? Where did you meet him? What’s his name?’

‘He’s tall, dark and handsome. He’s a professor and we met in a coffee bar. His name’s Pierre.’

‘What? That doesn’t sound very Irish.’

‘He’s not.’

‘Oh, no! Dad’s going to freak. He was convinced you’d meet an Irish guy in Dublin. Where’s he from?’

‘He’s kind of French.’

‘And he’s a professor – is he older?’

‘Yes, he’s forty-two.’

‘Oh, my God, he’s practically old enough to be your father. Dad’s going to go mad,’ she said, staring at me in shock as she swerved all over the road.

‘I know,’ I said, clinging to the door handle.

‘Couldn’t you have found an Irish guy your own age? Why did you have to fall for an old French guy? You’re looking for trouble.’

‘Actually, he’s not exactly French.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘His parents are from Martinique but he was raised in France till he was ten and then they moved to England.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘It’s in the Caribbean.’

‘He’s not –’

‘Yes, he is.’

Siobhan stared at me open-mouthed as she crashed into a lamppost.