Fur Coat No Knickers (5 page)

‘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 pe
gging 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, d
on’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 ov
er, 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. C
hristmas 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!’ s
he 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?’