Fur Coat No Knickers (4 page)

She was pic
ked up by the local priest and confessed all to him. The account was a bit garbled by the time the poor guy got hold of my dear old mum. He was clearly suffering from some sort of post-traumatic stress, but this is pretty much what Katie confessed to (in her continuous motor-mouth style):

‘I had a few friends around
, Father, while mammy was at mass. We had a few jars and, you know, well, I looked at poor Moses (that’s mammy’s budgie). I felt sorry for him, sure he’s always locked up; so I thought I would give Moses a little treat. I only put a little bit of me lager in his birdcage, but then I accidentally left his door open. Before I knew it, he was whizzing around and around mammy’s lounge like a fighter pilot at a hundred miles an hour. It was just so cool to watch him. He looked so happy, so free. But then Moses kinda crashed into the glass patio door. That was it, Father, he dropped to the floor like a bomb. He was flat on his back, legs bolt upright up and stiff. I had to do something and fast… so I panicked and ran up to mammy’s bedroom. She has one of those ceiling fans, so I kept throwing Moses up into it, you know Father, just to try and get some wind beneath his wings. I begged him to start flapping his little bird arms, but his feathers just dropped off all over mammy’s bed. He was ice cold, so I wrapped him in cling-film, not over his face now, Father - I’m not that stupid! Anyway, I popped him in the microwave because he was so cold, Father, so I did. I thought I had put him on defrost… but instead… I think I nuked him. I mean, there were a few of us alright that had polluted the air with, err… let’s say, “plant fumes”, Father, but sure, I’m confessing and you don’t need to know every detail of the murder, do you?’

That was it for Katie. Off to rehab she went. I don’t think Father Murphy was ever
the same after that.

I felt a gentle tapping on my arm. The huge man sitting next to me informed me that we’d touched down. I must have dozed off.

Feeling drowsy, I collected my luggage and was relieved
to find that Laura was already at the airport entrance waiting to give me a lift to mum’s.
Here we go,
I thought.

On Christmas morning in Rathmines, Dublin, I woke up to my phone beeping from my handbag.

[Text from (Unrecognised)]

Ur not gunna feckin believe this. Danny #2 found out about Danny #1 and tried 2 go thru me phone… so I swallowed my sim card! My throat is feckin’ killin me! Luv ya babe, Siobhan Xxxx (ps. this my new number). PPS… MERRY PISSEDMAS!!! xxxx

[Text to Siobhan]

Omg! I’ve only been gone 1 day and you are in trouble already! I’ll call you later. But if you were able to swallow it, you should be able to pass it. Just keep your eyes peeled for a shiny shite coming down your chimney! Merry Xmas Xx

I shook my head. Siobhan was crazy. Only
she
would do something like that.

I stretched out in my cosy bed,
basking in the feeling of having nothing to do; no bickering to breakup (well, apart from my sisters), just a few days of eating and drinking in front of me.

Mum’s house was so warm and inviting. I loved
being there. You could lose yourself in the big, soft, brown velour sofas whilst your feet sank deep into the shagpile carpet. The house was a medley of beiges, browns and oranges. Nothing matched, but it all worked somehow. There were little multi-coloured trinkets dotted around the place, but the one that tickled me the most was in the bathroom, in the form of a legless plastic doll, who’s meringue-esque, pale blue frilly skirt concealed the toilet roll beneath it.

At this time of year, mum has her usual plethora
of brightly coloured, gaudy Christmas decorations up. And of course, there was always a real Christmas tree; overloaded to the point of collapsing, with ill-matched, yet strangely aesthetically pleasing bits and bobs. Mum had hung Katie’s embroidered stocking on the mantel above the roaring log fire and surrounded it with tinsel. I’d always have to duck here and there whilst walking around the house, in fear of being strangled by mum’s hanging pullout paper chains. And, of course, there was the wave of two thousand or so cards, supported by cotton string and thumbtacks.

Santa’s grotto had nothing on our over-illuminated beacon of Christmas trash.

By the time I wandered downstairs at the blissful hour of 11am most of the hard work had already been done. The table was beautifully set for Christmas dinner, with wine glasses all placed accordingly. There was a brand new carafe filled with red wine on the table; Laura saw me and instantly poured us both a glass.

‘Slante
,’ we both chorused and took a gulp.

‘
Eww… what the hell is
that
? Is that…
RIBENA?!
’ Laura and I spluttered at the same time.

Mum waltzed in
on cue, ‘the doctor said your sister isn’t allowed to be near anything ‘mind altering’ while she’s on release from rehab. She could end up with one of those corse-diction things.’

‘I think you mean
cross-addiction,
mum,’ Laura corrected spitting out the remains of the offending Ribena back into her wine glass.

‘She’s such a pet, sure she is
,’ said mum, ignoring Laura and wrinkling her nose at Katie with pride and affection.

I watched Katie smirking behind mum’s back and then sticking her pierced tongue out at me. I did love my youngest
sister; it was just so infuriating that, even when she’d done something horrendously bad, she still got praise.

‘My arse she’s a pet
,’ I growled under my breath, unable to hold back, as I laid out the Christmas crackers. ‘She’s had more chemicals in her than a lab rat!’ I snapped, throwing a look at her that could kill.

‘Well,
you
would know about chemicals more than anyone else, Tara,’ Katie barked back. ‘You have your road-mapped face injected every week!’

‘I DO NOT!’ I shrieked
. ‘It’s… it’s… only every once in a while!’

I enviously looked at the be
autiful, olive, clear, wrinkle-free complexion of both my sisters. I was the only one in the family that had naturally milky, winter-white skin. My artificial glow came courtesy of St. Tropez’s finest spray-tan and the tanning booth, while both of my sisters had been lucky enough to inherit mum’s beautiful skin. Even more unfairly, that was the case in the old breast department as well. The memory still smarted from the time when I’d spent hours as a teenager gently picking out the stitching from mum’s ‘Dynasty style’ jacket and borrowing the shoulder pads for my bra fillers without her knowing. Of course, I got caught putting them back one day while Katie was (apparently) on guard. I was grounded for a month. It was back to stuffing socks down my 28AA bra for me. A few years later, with help from a plastic surgeon, I got the coveted chin-hitting breasts I so desperately wanted. I deliberately went twice as big as my sisters to make a point.

‘Lord preserve us, where’s the
turkey gone?’ mum screeched at full volume from the kitchen. The cooked bird was now utterly pathetic in size. It was like one of those little ones the cat brings in. ‘I couldn’t close the feckin’ door when it first went into the oven! Sweet Jesus… I know I cooked it as it said on the instructions (
may God forgive my blasphemy
).’

We all rushed into the kitchen. B
y now mum was sobbing, flapping her apron up and down and blessing herself all at the same time.

‘Oh mum… don’t get upset,’ Laura hushed reassuringly, ‘there’s enough veg, stuffing and Yorkshire puddings to feed a small army.’

It took mum a few minutes to
calm down, but she was a trooper. With us girls rallying around her, she soon recovered her composure and resolved the ‘show must go on’.

‘Right
, girls, that’s it - my New Year’s resolution is to attend a cooking class,’ mum said, pulling it back together in an instant. ‘It’s never too late. I will be purchasing a brand-new oven - one of those ones that them celebrity chefs have. In fact…’ she added, kicking the oven door closed with her Santa slippered foot in mock temper, ‘I want a new kitchen altogether.
I’ll have to get saving…
Right! Dinner - or should I say,
rations
- in five minutes.’

While we were waiting for mum
to put the finishing touches on the dinner, I walked over to the couch where
Saint
Katie
was lying. I handed her a Christmas cracker as a sort of olive branch because I hadn’t shown her much support over our temperance lunchtime drink of poxy Ribena. If I was honest though, I really
really
wanted what was inside that cracker, whatever plastic shite it turned out to be. I guess you never really get over that competitive sibling rivalry thing. Plus, I had never quite forgiven Katie for poking out the eyes of my much-loved Tiny Tears doll when I was young. She’d cut off all the hair too, the bitch. I only allowed her to play with it because mum had made me.

We both heaved and pulled at the shiny cracker
, my hand carefully placed near the middle to try and guarantee me victory. But, as it went
bang
, I felt the body of the cracker slip from my hand. I had lost. Katie had won the prize. It was a novelty key ring, in the form of mini handcuffs.

‘That’s a sign from the Big-Man upstairs.’ I said malev
olently. I couldn’t help it, I had to throw
something
in. ‘He’s reminding you to stay on the right side of the law.’ Inexplicably, the usually robust Katie seemed to crumble at my words. Her face dropped and she looked teary. Maybe I
had
gone a little too far this time?

Feeling a rush of guilt and sisterly love (and reli
ef that it was only a pair of poxy plastic handcuffs which were of no use to me anyway), I sat down and hugged her.

‘We all just want the best for you
,’ I said, sympathetically. ‘I would love to see you complete your Music diploma; dad would’ve been so proud of you. And then, maybe a year or so down the line, you could get yourself a nice, steady boyfriend. You are very beautiful you know, Katie,’ I stated with a forced smile. As much as I admired her floral hair garlands, tie-dye gypsy skirts and hand-made Aztec jewelry, I hated to say it. It really smarted that it was all so natural and effortless for Katie. She never wore makeup - she didn't need to.

‘Tara…
’ Katie startled me as she suddenly sat up and looked straight at me, ‘I’ve something to tell you.’ Her eyes were lit up now and she had a beaming smile on her face.

‘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, w
e 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.