One of the more interesting things about me,
apart from being extremely good looking and having the most loveliest legs in
all of Ireland, is that I have this weird memory. Perhaps it is just normal, but I seem to be
able to remember the minutest details about certain stuff, yet still couldn’t tell
you what the dates for my children’s birthdays are. Irene often remarks that we had been going
out with each other for a couple of months before I knew her name. These are just some of the drawbacks you must
get used to when you are a genius. This time
I had remembered that Anne, that Anne of Anne and Davie, my old girlfriend’s
sister, had once said to me that she had always wanted a doll’s house.
My friends in Ireland had often embarrassed me,
just by being friends. Anytime I needed
picking up from a train station or ferry terminal they would be there, they
never let me down, and of course Anne and Davie had said that I could stay with
them during my first failed attempt to return home to Ireland for good. So I felt that I was now in a position to
return all of the favours. It’s strange
that I actually remembered what Anne had said as our get togethers usually
involved an awful lot of whiskey, which I would have bought in the duty free
shop and you know yourself, that once you open a bottle of whiskey you have to
drink it in double quick time or else it evaporates and goes sour and poisons
the fairies and the little people.
Only problem was where would we stay. I hadn’t spoken to mother number one ever
since she got her big brother, the pervert priest, to throw me out of what was
supposed to be my own home. I always hoped
that I was a basic and down to earth guy but Irene was always much more
grounded than me, so told me to call her.
We telephoned mother number one and said we would like to come visit for
the weekend; I was long past the stage of calling the place home. I agreed with the Marvin Gaye song, ‘Wherever
I lay my hat, that’s my home.’ Although
to tell you the truth I never wore a hat, not since the forces, and would you,
if you were blessed with looks as good as mine?
Jimmy and myself made a really special house
for Anne, we loaded it into the rear of the car and Irene and myself set off
for the Holy Land. For me it was an
extra special journey. I just loved the
drive along the North Wales coast and then onto Anglesey Island past all my old
haunts and on to the ferry at Holyhead.
I hope one day that the Squadron Leader, the guy with the one arm and
the one eye, reads this and begins to understand how much I love North Wales,
so that he can see that his ‘punishment posting’ like most other clever things
in the air force, really, really, worked.
It’s always tempting when driving from Dublin up to Newry to enjoy the
duel carriageways and perhaps exceed the speed limit a little. It can be a frustrating drive as in some stretches,
say a duel carriageway the speed limit, in good ol boy speak, is unlimited and
next thing is that you will be weaving your way through bollards restricted to
fifteen miles per hour.
I suppose I didn’t mind it at all for you would
see old houses and cottages that you would have passed by all your life and in
a way they were mental landmarks, welcoming you home. It would even be nice to get stuck behind a
tractor and trailer for wouldn’t it remind you that it was time to slow your
life down and adopt what is considered to be the Spanish approach of, ‘Manjana,’
although to tell you the truth they stole it from us, we were just too drunk to
do anything about it. I decided to call
in to Mount Oliver, the big convent between Dundalk and the border, where Aunty
Billie was billeted. Rather than stay on
the main Newry road and enter the convent ground by the back lane I drove
around the front so that I could show Irene just how grand the place was, like
Charles Ryder approaching Brideshead Castle in Brideshead Revisisted.
I loved watching that programme but hated it at
the same time for they used Castle Howard as the location for Brideshead, which
as you all know is the family home of the Howards and I was in business with
Phillip Howard, a nasty little aristocratic pain in the rear if there ever was
one. So every time I saw this sumptuous
house I could only imagine that little toe-rag, lording it over the staff. And if you don’t believe me just Google his name
and you will see that he is currently taking his father to court for selling
one of the family castles as they couldn’t afford to fix the roof. Excuse me for a moment while I compose myself
as news like that can be so upsetting.
Although on the other hand it can make you smile and want to become
French and chop their fecking heads off.
I have to admit that I felt a little out of
place driving up the main drive to Mount Oliver. I was family, I should have breezed in
through the back door shouting, “Hello’ I’m home, will someone get the kettle
on.” Normally I am not a great one for
the prayers but I was praying that day that I didn’t run in to my friend the
nun, the one who mentally undressed me as I did exactly the same to her. I didn’t fancy explaining that one to Irene and
if she ever finds out I’ll be in trouble I can tell you. Once again every nun in the place seemed to
know me and each one we met gave me a very warm welcome and was exceptionally
pleased to meet Irene. So many of them
had formed my close protection bodyguard when I was placed with them in Belfast. These girls as they say, were soldiers, soldiers
in the army of the Lord.
Mother Superior came along and escorted us to
one of the private sitting rooms. I was
determined to get a spear this time when she took me around to the display
cabinets, she could sod off with her carved giraffes and Zulu warriors. She warned me that Aunty Billie, well what
else are you going to call a Catholic nun born on the twelfth of July, she warned
me that Billie might not know me. Nuns
are renowned for scolding people, especially little boys who they had cared
for, so I took this as a reference to my visits which had been few and far
between. “I’m living on the mainland,“ I
said, hoping that the fact that I was living in England would excuse my
tardiness. “No,” she said, taking my hand, like a mother might, well; I think that
is what a mother might do and I should know, I’ve got two.
Mother Superior went on to explain that Billie
had Alzheimer’s and might not recognise me.
I think it was the first time I had come across the disease, I didn’t
really know what to expect. Billie was
brought in and two postulates served us tea and biscuits. Billie seemed normal, well; she looked her
normal self, smiling and happy, I expected we were waiting to be alone before
beginning our conversation. I think this
was one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life, sitting talking to
someone who I had known all my life but who now didn’t know who I was. Perhaps if I had been warned what to expect
it might not have hit me so hard. I
tried everything to find some sort of memory that she could use to come back to
me and say hello, but it was impossible.
Mother Superior came back in and suggested that Billie might need a
rest. As we left, Billie still sat there
smiling and nodding but it was obvious that she hadn’t a clue what had happened
or what was happening.
There’s only one way a good ol boy can handle personal
stuff like that and that is with excessive speed, which I employed as we approached
the border. I don’t think we had any
music on in the car as country and western might have made the situation worse,
if such a thing could happen. What was needed
was some thrash metal or for six paratroopers to drag me from the car and allow
me to express my rage. As usual we
discovered that everyone in the family knew about Billie, but once again they
had forgotten to tell me. I couldn’t wait
to get away from mother number one and meet up with Anne and Davie. There were three bottles of whiskey on the
kitchen table and I explained the rules of the old air force game we used to
play, where all three bottles would be consumed. One of us would leave the table and the other
three had to guess who had left. Anne
loved her doll’s house, but there was only one little problem. Pat, the old girlfriend, popped in when she
heard I was about. She didn’t say how
nice she thought the doll’s house was, or how well it had been made, all she
said was, “Where’s mine?”
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