Whose Life is it Anyway? (34 page)

Everyone stared at Dad.

‘How polite,’ said Nuala.

‘A gentleman,’ said Father Hogan.

‘Lovely manners,’ said Mum.

‘I’m not going to pretend I’m happy about it and I have many reservations, but I’ll give you my permission. I know my daughter and I know fine well that this wedding will go ahead with or without my blessing. But before you go off booking venues, I’d like to meet your parents and have a talk with them.’

‘Good idea. We’ll have an engagement party,’ said Mum.

‘It’s a pity poor Molly’s not here to enjoy it,’ said Father Hogan.

42

Pierre and I went out for a coffee and a confab.

‘Pre-marriage course? Are you kidding me?’ He groaned. ‘I expected to have to sweat it out with your dad, but not the Catholic Church!’

‘I know. I’m sorry. You’ve been brilliant, so patient and saying all the right things and pushing the right buttons.’

‘And why, in God’s name, did you and Nuala have to make up that stupid Molly story? Your dad and the priest are obsessed with her. I wouldn’t be surprised if they get Interpol to look for any surviving family members and have her body exhumed so she can be reburied in Ireland.’

‘I didn’t expect them to get so excited about her.’

‘What is this course we have to go on?’

‘Apparently it only lasts about five hours and you talk about relationships and problems that can come up in a marriage, that kind of thing.’

‘Sounds fun.’

‘Look, if you want to back out now, I’ll understand. I’m sure all this seems ridiculous to you – but I told you my dad was going to be difficult. He’s very set in his ways.’

‘You can say that again.’

‘He’ll see sense eventually, but it could take a while. So, if it’s too much hassle for you –’

‘Don’t be silly. I’m not going anywhere. I’m just blowing off steam. I can handle your father. Besides, we’ll be on a different continent soon,’ he said, grinning at me.

‘Vancouver’s looking more attractive each day.’

My phone rang. It was Mum. ‘Niamh, pet, can you come home soon? We need to organize the engagement party. Will Saturday suit Pierre’s parents?’

‘I’ll check with him. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.’

‘What’s up?’ Pierre asked. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve to go to Rome for a week to study at the Vatican.’

‘No, smartarse. Mum wants to know if your parents are free this Saturday to come to a family engagement party.’

‘Now that should be fun,’ said Pierre, ‘my parents and yours in the same room.’

‘Don’t. I feel sick just thinking about it. I’ll have a word with Dad. I’ll make him promise to be on his best behaviour.’

‘I’ll call them now and see if they’re free. Will it be a small family gathering?’

‘Yes,’ I lied. There was no such thing as a small family gathering. And once word got out that Mick O’Flaherty’s daughter was engaged to a black fella they’d come from far and wide to see Pierre. It was going to be a madhouse.

Pierre went back to his hotel to do some work, and I walked home. I found Mum, Nuala, Siobhan and Finn in the kitchen talking about the party.

‘I want Pierre’s parents to get a real sense of who we are,’ said Mum.

‘I think the leprechauns in the garden and the shamrock hedge will give them a fair idea,’ said Finn, laughing. ‘And once they ring the doorbell and hear “Danny Boy”, they’ll think they’re in the heart of Ireland,’ he added winking at me.

‘I hear Dad gave you permission to marry,’ Siobhan said.

‘Just about,’ I grumbled.

‘Well, you can’t expect miracles. The poor man’s upset,’ said my sister.

‘Yeah, well, he’s not the only one. Is it too much to ask for one member of my family to say, “Congratulations, well done, finding such a great guy”? All I’ve had is crashed cars, tears and shock,’ I said. ‘It’s supposed to be a celebration.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a drama queen,’ said the biggest drama queen of all. ‘Dad wasn’t giving me a standing ovation when I got engaged either.’

‘You were seventeen and pregnant,’ I reminded her.

‘I want to say something,’ said Mum. ‘Now that I’ve met Pierre properly I can see why you fell for him. He’s a lovely man. You can see that he’s good, honest, upstanding, and mad about you.’

‘Not to mention that he’s very easy on the eye,’ said Nuala.

‘Thanks, Mum,’ I said, pleased that she could see how great Pierre was.

‘Now, tell me about his parents,’ she said. ‘Are they as nice as him? What do they like to eat and drink? We’re doing a shopping list for the party.’

‘Well, they’re quite sophisticated.’

Mum looked at Nuala. ‘Aren’t we all?’

‘Absolutely,’ agreed Nuala.

‘What I mean is that they are used to the finer things in life. His mother dresses in Chanel and his dad wears cashmere.’

Mum pulled her cardigan round her and crossed her arms. ‘You father has a cashmere jumper. He wears it on Christmas Day and I wear Chanel No.
5
perfume.’

‘I’m not saying they’re better than us,’ I reassured her. ‘To be honest, his mother’s a bit of a pain. I’m just warning you that they’re kind of highbrow.’

‘In what way?’ Nuala asked.

‘They talk about existentialism and stuff for fun.’

Mum, Nuala and Siobhan looked at each other.

Finn guffawed. ‘You must fit right in.’

‘What is it?’ Siobhan asked.

‘It’s the philosophical theory that emphasizes the existence of the individual as a free and self-determining agent,’ I spouted.

‘Guess who’s swallowed a dictionary,’ said Finn.

‘I still don’t understand,’ said Nuala.

‘Me neither,’ I admitted. ‘And to be honest I’m not sure Fleur does either, but she plays a good game of pretending. They’re very nice people, they’re just more bookish and serious than we are.’

‘We can be serious,’ Mum said. ‘Can’t we, Nuala?’

‘As serious as you like.’

‘And we’re great readers,’ Mum added.

‘Eat books, so we do,’ Nuala agreed. ‘I’ve just finished the new John Grisham. I can talk to them about that, and your mum’s always got her head in a book.’

‘I do,’ said Mum.

‘Mum, I’m not comparing you to them. I’d much rather have my family than his. I’m just trying to prepare you for the meeting. Put it this way, I can’t imagine them singing “The Fields of Athenry” at two in the morning.’

‘There’ll be no one singing at two in the morning,’ said Mum, put out. ‘It’s just a few friends and family in for a quiet drink to meet your fiancé and his family.’

‘There’s seventy on the list already,’ Finn pointed out, ‘and I’d like to see you try to stop Tadhg singing after a few whiskeys.’

‘Tadhg will be under strict instructions to behave himself,’ said Nuala. ‘I’ll make sure there’s no singing.’

‘We’ll have some wine and finger food, and I’ll get your cousin Mairead to play the harp in the corner for some background music. They’ll be impressed with her, she’s a real talent.’

I’d heard Mairead play the previous Christmas and she had a long way to go before I’d have described her as a talent.

‘I’ll get my girls to do a welcome jig,’ said Siobhan, excited at the prospect. I groaned silently.

‘That’d be gorgeous,’ said Mum.

‘Fantastic,’ agreed Nuala.

‘I could give them a hurling demonstration out in the garden with the leprechauns,’ suggested Finn.

Mum clipped him over the head. ‘There’s no need to be smart. We’re just giving them a nice Irish welcome. Now, where’s my list…’

Four days later, I stood in the living room – which had the rug rolled to one side, because my nieces needed to dance on floorboards – surrounded by a hundred people, waiting for Pierre and his parents to arrive.

When the car pulled up outside, everyone surged forward to get a good look. Mum, in her best navy suit, pushed through the crowd to greet them.

Fleur was in an olive green chiffon cocktail dress. Her black hair hung in soft waves round her face and her skin glowed like soft satin. She looked sensational. Jean was in a caramel linen suit with a pale pink shirt and a deeper pink tie that looked fantastic with his colouring. No pasty Irishman could have got away with it, but it was perfect on him. Pierre, to my horror, was wearing his favourite bright red shirt.

‘Welcome,
céad míle fáilte
,’ said Mum, coming over to greet them.

Fleur glanced at Pierre and muttered, ‘I thought you said it was a small drinks party?’

They shook hands with Mum, and then Dad appeared, wearing his one and only green cashmere jumper. He only wore it on Christmas Day because it had big snowflakes all over it. Mum had obviously decided that cashmere was cashmere.

‘Céad míle fáilte
,’ he said. ‘Welcome to our humble abode. I’m Michael O’Flaherty, Niamh’s father.’

‘Very nice to meet you,’ said Jean, shaking his hand.

‘What an interesting garden,’ said Fleur.

‘Thank you,’ said Dad. ‘I designed it myself. It reminds me of home.’

‘Mind the leprechauns, Maman,’ said Pierre, steering her round them.

‘What’s with the shirt?’ I hissed in his ear.

‘I like it,’ he hissed back.

We moved into the house where Siobhan was waiting for us. No sooner were Jean and Fleur over the threshold than five twirling curly curtains came bouncing towards them clicking, kicking and jigging about, accompanied by two of their friends on the tin whistle. One had an ear for music, the other was clearly there for the
craic
and hadn’t a note in her head.

Fleur and Jean stood with smiles plastered on their faces while the dancing went on and on and on, everyone whooping and cheering. When it finally ended they, and Pierre, were ushered into the lounge where everyone lined up to meet them. One by one they were told how lucky they were to be marrying Mick O’Flaherty’s daughter and what a great family this was and how we were the backbone of the whole clan and how Mick had come to London with only the shirt on his back and made such a success of his life. They were told how talented Siobhan was as a dancer when she was young, how I was the first O’Flaherty to go to college, how Finn was a gifted hurley player, how Mum was the best woman a man could marry…

While all this was going on, Fleur and Jean were being plied with drink. Every time Fleur said no, she was badgered into drinking more.

‘Ah, go on, Flower, get that into you. Sure you’d die of thirst.’

Jean’s wine was grabbed from his hand and a whiskey put in its place. ‘Have a taste of that, John,’ Tadhg said. ‘It’s Midleton, as rare a whiskey as you can find.’

‘She’s very glamorous,’ Mum said, looking at Fleur.

‘I told you.’

‘I thought you were exaggerating.’

‘For once I wasn’t.’

‘Do I look all right?’ Mum asked. ‘Is the suit a bit old-fashioned?’

I looked at my mother’s sweet round face and hugged her. ‘You’re gorgeous, Mum, just perfect.’

‘So are you, pet,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing more beautiful than a young girl in love.’

‘Do you really like him, Mum?’

She nodded. ‘He’s a keeper.’

‘Nuala’s a fan anyway,’ I said, laughing, as we watched Nuala lead Pierre around by the hand and introduce him to everyone as ‘Niamh’s handsome fiancé’.

I could hear Siobhan talking to Fleur. ‘The girls were wonderful, weren’t they? They get their talent from me. I came second in the UK Irish-dancing championship in 1984.’

‘How interesting,’ Fleur drawled.

‘It was nice of you to wear a green dress for the occasion.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You know, green, our national colour. It was a good choice. We’re very proud of our heritage.’

‘Yes, I had noticed.’

‘Hello, Flower, I’m Johnny Hegerty,’ slurred a small man, interrupting them.

Fleur took a step back as he leant in. ‘Mick O’Flaherty took me in when I had nothing and gave me a chance. I was sleeping under a bridge and he gave me a job and a reason to live. The man is a saint. Your son is very lucky to be marrying his daughter. Especially with him being black and all.’

Mum and I hurried over to steer Fleur away.

‘Don’t mind him,’ Mum said. ‘He’s had too much to drink. He means well.’

Fleur said nothing.

‘Niamh tells me you’re an interior decorator.’

‘Designer.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, I could probably do with a few tips.’

‘The house reflects the person.’ Fleur shrugged. ‘This is who you are,’ she added, waving a bejewelled hand at the photos of the Pope and JFK and the paintings of green fields.

Mum stood up straighter. ‘Yes, it is who we are and we’re very proud of it. You must be delighted that Pierre met such a wonderful girl. Niamh’s a real gem.’

‘Mu-uum,’ I said, embarrassed.

‘You are,’ she said. ‘He’s a very lucky man. Don’t you think so, Fleur?’

‘Yes, she is a nice girl, but she needs to work on her French and her cooking.’

‘You’ll have to forgive my mother,’ said Pierre, saving Fleur from the wrath of mine. ‘Like all French women she is obsessive about food.’

Fleur put her arm round Pierre adoringly. ‘I have raised the perfect man.’

‘Well, I think so.’ I smiled.

‘They’re well matched, then,’ said Mum, putting her arm round me, ‘because I raised the perfect girl.’

‘I agree with you there,’ said Pierre.

‘Get that into you,’ said Tadhg, filling Fleur’s glass to the brim. ‘It’ll help you relax. You seem a bit uptight. We might do a duet later. I’ve been practising my “Frère Jacques”,’ he said, and roared laughing.

I felt a tug on my dress. I looked down. It was the bad tin-whistle player. ‘Are you really gonna marry that black fella?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘My dad said it was because black fellas have big willies.’

‘Well, you can tell your dad he’s –’

‘Absolutely right,’ said Pierre, cutting across me, laughing.

43

By the time midnight came, everyone was very merry. Even Fleur and Jean – who had tried to leave several times, only to be dragged back in by uncles and aunts to have ‘one for the road’ – were now unsteady on their feet.

I saw Dad make his way over to them. I followed and hid round the corner to listen in. ‘Well, then, what do you make of this marriage stuff?’ he asked.