Dancing with the Tsars, page 7
Kristoffer’s there, ‘He’s shaying he finds you attrective, Hedvig!’
‘Sho,’ Magnus goes, ‘we better leave – otherwishe we will mish our flight.’
I turn around to Kristoffer and I go, ‘So when are you heading back yourselves?’
He’s there, ‘We heff deshided to shtay for a lidl while. Perhapsh a few weeks. I have shome holidaysh due to me and alsho we would like to trevel around a lidl bit and find out shome more thingsh about thish country.’
I’m like, ‘I wouldn’t bother your holes. There’s not a lot to see once you go outside Dublin. I wouldn’t want to mislead you.’
‘Well, we have heard there ish beautiful partsh in the wesht of Ireland. We heff deshided to Airbnb our way around the country.’
‘Hey, it’s up to you. I’m just warning you in advance. Anyway, I better hit the road myself. I left the kids outside in the cor. Although don’t worry, I left the window open a crack this time.’
I’m pretty sure I left the window open a crack.
I tell the goys to have a great time in Hawaii and I give them both a big hug. Then I tell Kristoffer and Hedvig to enjoy checking out the rest of Ireland, even though I know they won’t, because it’s shit. I give them both a hug as well. Fock it. One for everyone in the audience is my attitude.
And it’s fine. It’s all fine.
Except something totally random happens when I’m hugging Hedvig. And I’m definitely not imagining this. She basically grabs a handful of my orse.
Ronan rings me while I’m driving into town. He goes, ‘Stordee, Rosser? How’s she cutten?’
I’m there, ‘She’s cutting very well, Ronan – don’t you worry about that. What’s the crack?’
‘Ine joost arthur been talken to Shadden, so I am.’
‘Yeah? Has she finally forgiven Honor for teaching Rihanna-Brogan how to smoke? Even though I’m surprised at you raising a tout.’
‘She’s caddemed down alreet.’
‘She overreacted. I think she’d admit that, looking back.’
‘Ah, hopefuddy Rihatta-Barrogan getting sick will purr her off ebber smoken again in the long terdum. Mire eeben end up thanken Hodor wooden day in anutter few yee-ors.’
‘Well, hopefully she’ll be back talking to me by then.’
‘What do you mee-un?’
‘Yeah, no, I, er, broke the news to her about Sorcha being pregnant with possibly Fionn’s baby. She had a total shit fit with me.’
‘She blayumt you? It’s not your foddult, Rosser.’
‘She’s angry with me for keeping it from her. She said she hates that I’m her father and she wishes I was dead.’
‘Moy Jaysus.’
‘Usually you’ve to wait until they’re sixteen before they hit you with lines like that. It’s all ahead of you, Ro.’
Miracle of miracles, I manage to find a porking space on Stephen’s Green. I take the boys out of the cor and put them in their stroller, still chatting to Ronan on the old Bluetooth earpiece. I head for, like, Kildare Street. Yeah, no, I forgot to mention, Sorcha forgot her work diary this morning – she’s got, like, total baby brain at the moment – and she asked me to bring it into town for her. Which, by the way, I’m more than happy to do, even though it’s clearly a job for Fionn – as her focking secretary.
‘In addyhow,’ Ronan goes, ‘the reason Ine rigging is me and Shadden have been thalken about vedues.’
I’m there, ‘Vedues?’
‘Yeah, wetton vedues.’
‘Oh, wedding venues!’ Sometimes it takes me longer than other times, but I always get there in the end.
‘She’s arthur foyunten a hothel that she veddy much likes the look of – and we’d lubben you to look arrit wirrus.’
‘That’s very nice of you, Ro.’
‘Especiady seeing as you’re paying for it.’
‘I forgot about that. By the way, whose bra was that in the boot of your cor?’
‘Dudn’t mathor.’
‘I would say it very much matters?’
‘Her nayum’s Belintha.’
‘Belinda?’
‘That’s reet – Belintha. She’s a boord in me class. It was a wood-off, Rosser.’
‘Another one-off. They’re certainly stacking up, aren’t they?’
‘In addyhow,’ he goes, trying to change the subject, ‘we’re looking at this hothel tomoddow morden. Kennet and Dordeen are godda be cubbin wirrus as well.’
‘Here, where is it, by the way? You haven’t said yet.’
‘Clodden Teerp Cast Doddle.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Clodden Teerp Cast Doddle.’
‘Go again.’
‘Clodden Teerp Cast Doddle.’
‘Go again.’
‘Clodden Teerp Cast Doddle.’
‘Keep going.’
‘Clodden Teerp Cast Doddle.’
‘Still not getting it.’
‘Clodden Teerp Cast Doddle.’
‘Still not getting it.’
‘Clodden Teerp Cast Doddle.’
‘One more time.’
‘Clodden Teerp Cast Doddle.’
‘One more time.’
‘Clodden Teerp Castle Doddle.’
‘One more.’
‘Clodden Teerp Castle Doddle.’
‘Last time.’
‘Clodden Teerp Cast Doddle.’
‘One more.’
‘Clodden Teerp Castle Doddle.’
‘One more.’
‘Clodden Teerp Cast Doddle.’
‘Again.’
‘Clodden Teerp Cast Doddle.’
‘Again.’
‘Clodden Teerp Cast Doddle.’
Eventually, I’m just like, ‘Look, I have to go here, Ro,’ because I spot Sorcha standing outside Leinster House. ‘Just text it to me, will you?’
He’s there, ‘Gayum ball.’
‘Try it one last time, though.’
‘Clodden Teerp Cast Doddle.’
‘Again.’
‘Clodden Teerp Cast Doddle.’
‘No, like I said, just text it to me.’
We both hang up.
Sorcha is delighted to see the kids. She’s all, ‘Hello, boys!’ giving them hugs and kisses and all the rest of it. Nothing for me, of course. Fionn probably wouldn’t allow it. She just takes the diary from me and goes, ‘How do you think they’re coping, Ross – with their mother working full time in politics?’
Leo’s there, ‘Fock you, you dirty focking maggotfock!’
I’m like, ‘You can see for yourself, Sorcha, they’re fine. And I’m fine as well, by the way?’ because I’m definitely warming to the role of the stay-at-home dad. ‘We dropped Honor to school this morning, then we popped into D. L. Kids, although we were asked to leave after fifteen minutes because one or two parents objected to the swearing.’
‘Pack of fockers!’ Brian goes.
Sorcha smiles except in a sad way? ‘I do feel guilty,’ she goes. ‘This is the painful balancing act that I heard Michelle Obama talk about in an interview with Oprah. You want to spend every minute of every day with your children, but you also want to bequeath to them a better world.’
I’m like, ‘Er, yeah, I suppose so. I’m glad they were there to hear your speech the other day.’
She goes, ‘Are you sure it was okay? It wasn’t too wishy-washy, was it?’
‘In places. But, overall, it was definitely easier to follow than some of the speeches I’ve heard you make.’
Sorcha suddenly puts her hand over her mouth. For a second, I think she’s going to spew.
I’m like, ‘Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?’
She’s there, ‘It’s just nausea. I’ll be okay in a … Okay, maybe I do need to sit down?’
She walks up to the dude at the Leinster House security gate and goes, ‘Is it okay if my husband comes in with the children? I’m just feeling a bit –’
Husband. At least she’s still acknowledging that.
The dude, seeing how pale she looks, just nods and through the gates we go. We head for this bench in the sort of, like, forecourt in front of the building? We both sit down.
I’m there, ‘You had pretty bad morning sickness with Honor, I seem to remember. And the boys.’
I’m wondering is that a sign that the baby is possibly mine? I don’t know is the answer.
‘Fionn thinks I’ve been overdoing it,’ she goes.
I’m there, ‘Whose baby do you think it is? I’m talking about deep, deep down, who do you think is the father?’
‘For the hundredth time, Ross, I don’t know. Oh my God, you’re as bad as my dad. We’re all going to have to wait to find out, okay?’
All of a sudden, pretty much at the same time, we both become aware of this, like, humungous scrum of people milling around in front of the actual Leinster House building. It’s my old man that I recognize first. You couldn’t focking miss him with the wig, of course, even in a crowd of other fat men in their fifties and sixties. Then I spot a dude with a camera, standing on top of a stepladder.
Sorcha goes, ‘They’re obviously doing the official photograph. New Republic’s fifty-one TDs. I still love your dad, even if he’s a Fascist. Did you see that tweet he put out this morning about introducing a travel ban on people from Laois?’
I’m there, ‘Is there a place called Laois?’
‘It’s a county. In the middle of Ireland.’
‘That seems a bit random.’
‘Well, random or not, it’s obvious that your father still believes the way to build his power base is to demonize minorities. I genuinely believe his policies are dangerous – and that’s not me being a bitch. As a matter of fact, I was half thinking of using my position as a senator to speak out against, not only the danger of single-use coffee cups, but also New Republic’s brand of populist hate-mongering.’
‘Yeah, if you can squeeze it into your schedule, you maybe should.’
I hadn’t actually realized it until now but all of the old man’s TDs look exactly the same. It’s basically just fifty overweight, middle-aged men, plus the infamous Muirgheal Massey.
She’s standing at the front of the grouping, next to the old man, while several of her – I suppose – porty colleagues are quite openly groping her and making sexist comments about women and how they should be at home making dinners and babies.
‘Oh my God,’ Sorcha goes, obviously copping it the same way I do, ‘please don’t tell me that that’s the future of Irish politics.’
‘Pack of pricks!’ Leo shouts, speaking for us all. ‘Pack! Of! Focking! Pricks!’
Muirgheal must hear this because she looks over and spots us across the forecourt. She steps out of the frame and tips over to us – all smiles.
She goes, ‘Oh! My God, Sorcha! Congrats!’ and it’s straightaway obvious that she’s being a wagon.
Sorcha’s like, ‘Congrats on what? My speech?’
‘Well, that – not so much! But Chorles said you were pregnant!’
‘Yes,’ Sorcha goes, ‘I haven’t officially announced it yet.’
Muirgheal looks at me and goes, ‘You must be thrilled, Ross?’
I’m there, ‘Er, I am actually, yeah.’
‘Although I hear there’s a chance it’s not yours.’
I’m like, ‘Why don’t you fock off, Muirgheal?’
Sorcha goes, ‘No, it’s fine, Ross. I’m not going to be publicly shamed by anyone. Yes, Muirgheal, there’s a chance that the father is Fionn de Barra. We are officially together now. As you know, he and I spent a lot of time together during the General Election campaign. We developed a passion for the things that mattered to the people of Dublin Bay South – a law requiring Donnybrook Fair to put handles on their paper bags, legislation to ban greyhound racing and other working-class sports from areas like Ringsend and Harold’s Cross, a clear statement from the government on where Terenure ends and where Dublin 4 begins – and, yes, it’s developed into something stronger.’
Muirgheal fake-smiles her and she’s like, ‘Of course, being only a senator, you’ve plenty of time to be going around getting pregnant and having babies. You couldn’t do it if you were an elected public representative.’
Sorcha’s there, ‘Muirgheal, can I ask you a question? Do you find that kind of behaviour acceptable?’
‘What are you talking about?’
Across the forecourt, one of her porty colleagues grabs his crotch and shouts, ‘The Dáil member is upstanding!’ in our general direction.
The others all laugh.
‘That,’ Sorcha goes. ‘The way they’re talking to you. The way they were groping you just a second ago. You know you don’t have to put up with that – as, like, a woman?’
Muirgheal’s like, ‘Oh, puh-lease! We don’t all see ourselves as victims, Sorcha.’
I’m suddenly thinking about Hedvig grabbing my orse yesterday.
‘But you are a victim,’ Sorcha goes, ‘whether you know it or not.’
Muirgheal’s like, ‘Yeah, maybe that’s why I’m in the actual Dáil and you’re in the Seanad!’
Sorcha looks at me, then back at Muirgheal. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being in the Seanad,’ she goes. ‘It plays an essential legislative role in determining the laws under which we all must –’
Muirgheal’s there, ‘Oh, come on, Sorcha! It’s a consolation prize. It’s like when you run for Head Girl and you don’t win and they make you the Chairperson of the Yearbook Committee.’
Which is actually what happened to Muirgheal. Like I said – elephants and Frank Sinatra.
She goes, ‘I mean, don’t you feel guilty, Sorcha?’
Sorcha’s there, ‘What’s there to feel guilty about?’
‘Er, you’re a mother of four children. With another one on the way. And you’re missing them growing up – for what reason, remind me again?’
‘Enda Kenny thinks I have a vital role to play in politics.’
‘Er, reusable coffee cups? Sorcha, people are laughing at you. Except the cleaning staff, of course. They’re seriously pissed off that you stopped that woman from Hoovering last week. You know, they’re threatening to go on strike? She has to work two jobs.’
My phone beeps. It’s a text message from Ro. Clontorf Castle! He was trying to say Clontorf Castle!
‘Well, if you must know,’ Sorcha goes, ‘I’m still confident of getting cross-porty support for my Private Members’ Bill. Simon Coveney brings a flask to the Dáil. Micheál Mortin has been drinking his coffee out of the same soup tin for the past three years.’
But Muirgheal’s there, ‘And, meanwhile, back in the real world, I’m the Deputy Leader of the Opposition. And when this government falls, I’m going to be sitting at the Cabinet table. And you’ll still be a political irrelevance, pregnant by either your husband or your Parliamentary Secretary, making speeches to an empty chamber about things that no one gives a fock about. Face it, Sorcha, you might as well stay home and look after your children.’
‘Fock off!’ Leo goes.
And Muirgheal’s there, ‘And God knows they need a lot of looking after.’
They’re already there when I arrive – we’re talking Ronan and Shadden and little Rihanna-Brogan, then Kennet and Dordeen as well.
Kennet has the balls to pull me up for being late as well. He looks at his watch and goes, ‘T … T … T … Toyumt do you calt this?’
And I go, ‘Yeah, I’m paying for this wedding. I’ll turn up whenever the fock I want.’
Ronan goes, ‘Ah, weddle, you’re hee-or now, Rosser,’ meaning the famous Clontorf Castle.
Shadden’s being a bit cool with me? Despite what Ronan said, she’s obviously not over the whole Honor teaching her four-year-old daughter how to smoke thing.
I’m looking around me and I’m going, ‘Is this definitely where you want to get married? What’s wrong with the Shelbourne?’
And Dordeen’s there, ‘The Sheddle Burden idn’t for eer type of people.’
She’s not wrong there. She’s wearing – I shit you not – pyjama bottoms. She’s a focking disgrace. And she’s got a body on her like a laundry bag stuffed with moose meat.
‘In addyhow,’ Shadden goes, ‘the Sheddle Burden caddent cathor for the number of guests we hab cubben.’
And I’m like, ‘Okay, how many guests have you got coming?’ bracing myself for the news of how much this is going to cost me.
‘Sebben hundordid,’ Ronan goes.
I’m like, ‘Seven hundred? You’re nineteen years old. You haven’t even met seven hundred people.’
And Kennet goes, ‘A lorra them are f … f … frents of me and D … D … D … D … D … D … Dordeen,’ and he pulls out what’s obviously a list of names.
I might have guessed. The second I said I’d pay for it, he’ll have seen it as a chance for a reunion with every focker he ever shared a cell with since he was fourteen years old.
There’s music on in the reception of the hotel. A piano and violin version of a song that I sort of half recognize?
‘Ah, Jaysus,’ Dordeen goes, ‘I lub this bleaten song, doatunt I, Kennet?’ and then she storts actually singing it, going, ‘Cos you make me feelt, you make me feelt, you make me feelt like … a … natur … doddle … wooban!’
Fock’s sake.
Eventually, the wedding planner arrives to talk us through the arrangements. She introduces herself to us. Her name is Corrina and if I had to compare her to someone it would have to be Nadine Lustre, except she’s from somewhere down the country and has a very slight, outward-turning squint, which I find quite cute.
She’s there, ‘So what kind of wedding do yee fellas want?’
Yee fellas.
I wish I got off with more women from the country.
‘Sometin veddy faddency,’ Dordeen goes. ‘Like sometin you’d seen on the tedevision. Downtoorden Abbey or one of them. No expedense speert.’
I’m like, ‘Hang on a second –’
‘And not forgethin a f … f … f … f … faree bar,’ Kennet goes. ‘I doatunt waddent addyone putting their hant in their bleaten p … p … p … p … pockets.’
‘Yeah, until the end of the focking night,’ I go, ‘and it’s time to pay the bill. Then you’ll presumably have yours in b … b … b … b … bleaten mine, you stuttering f–’
