‘Delma was always a D4 hordliner. She was the one who storted the campaign to have Irishtown and Ringsend redesignated Dublin 4e’
SO I’M DRIVING along Shrewsbury Road last Saturday night and there’s, like, 50 or 60 cors porked the entire length of it, which straight away struck me as somehow unusual? It definitely wasn’t Funderland traffic, I knew, because they would have all been towed by now. And anyway, the cors were too good to belong to what the locals call “bloody Funfairians” – we’re talking Ford Explorers, we’re talking Mercedes S Classes, we’re talking Volvo S60s.
It was only when I copped Delma’s Volkswagen Touareg – as in Delma who was chairperson of Just One Day (the Ban Poor People from the National Gallery on Tuesdays pressure group) – that I realised there was a porty on in full swing in the old dear’s gaff.
I say the old dear’s gaff, of course, but it’ll always be Oisinn’s in my mind? Yeah, no, she just swooped in like a vulture when the poor dude lost everything in the whole current economic thing.
Obviously, I’ve no interest whatsoever in what the old dear gets up to – Brooklyn Decker could play her in the movie of her life and I still wouldn’t watch the focking thing – but at the same time, I have to admit, I was a bit hurt at not being invited.
She’s my mother and I’m her son. She should have at least asked me – even if it was just so I could turn around and go, “No, thanks, I’d rather sit at home all night repeatedly shooting myself in the face with a focking nail gun.”
Anyway, like I said, I was hurt, so I threw my cor in behind Angela’s Audi TT and decided to find out what the deal was.
Oh, it was a porty alright. There must have been, like, a hundred people in the house, all friends of the old dear’s and the old man’s, all knocking back cocktails.
Bublé was on – isn’t he focking always? – there were plates of the old dear’s Gruyère and shiitake mushroom canapes being passed around and everyone seemed to be talking about Fallon Byrne and how they hoped it could make it through its current difficulties.
“It’s needed,” I heard at least three people say. “I definitely do believe that.”
The old dear was holding court in the living room, a Martini in her hand, at least another pound of cellulite transferred from her orse to her face since I saw her last.
I stood at the door. All her friends from The Gables were sitting around, listening to her going, “We can’t take them. We simply can’t. I realise there’s terrible suffering there. We’ve all see the horrific images on the news. But we simply can’t take these people in without it adversely affecting our quality of life.”
I wondered at first was she talking about refugees from some, I don’t know, famine or even tsunami. Then I realised she wasn’t. She was talking about the people of Terenure.
“I’m not an iceberg,” she went. “I’m capable of looking at people who are suffering and saying, ‘How awful for them!’ And I know I don’t need to remind anyone here about my famous charity work. Hurricanes, fires, nuclear catastrophes – I’ve arranged tray bake sales for them all. Earthquakes? Anything above seven on the Richter scale and I had the flour and the Salter Brecknell out immediately – baking, baking, baking. Delma, you know that.”
Delma nodded. They were all half-mashed, by the way. “It is possible to feel sorry for people who find themselves in a situation,” she went, “but, at the same time, to say, ‘I’m sorry – there’s nothing we can do.’ And, anyway, I think we all know what the agenda here is, Fionnuala. They don’t want to be part of the Dublin South-East constituency. They want to be part of Dublin 4. It’s the lower middle classes and their creeping aspirationalism.”
Delma was always a D4 hordliner. She was the one who storted the campaign to have Irishtown and Ringsend redesignated Dublin 4e.
“Quite right,” the old dear went. “As Charles said to Michael McDowell one night in Shanahan’s, ‘If the people of Terenure want to live in Dublin 4, why don’t they simply buy houses in Dublin 4? A damn liberty expecting Dublin 4 to come to them’. ”
“Charles has a wonderful way of putting things,” it was Angela who went. “Some of his letters to the Times, you’d nearly want to cut them out and keep them.”
Delma was like, “The question is what are we going to do about it? God knows, the value of our homes has taken enough of a hit without the people of Terenure being given – what was this my husband called it? – oh, yes, parity of esteem with the residents of Dublin 4.”
“Lovely phrase,” my old dear went. “Lovely, lovely phrase.”
She grabbed the voddy and topped up everyone’s drinks.
Delma was there, “While feeling sorry for them – which we all obviously do – this campaign of theirs must be stopped, Fionnuala. Otherwise, we’re going to end up living cheek-by-jowl with Dolphin’s Barn and Crumlin and wherever else there is.”
Angela was like, “Let’s occupy something. That’s what all these young people are doing nowadays. Occupy this. Occupy that. You know Gwuiny? – Gwuiny who runs the Sandymount Wine Guild trip to Provence every year? – well, her son is occupying Dame Street!”
The old dear was like, “How fun!”
“Yes, he’s taken a year off from his architecture degree and that’s what he’s decided to do.”
Delma went, “Well, what are we going to occupy? You’re not suggesting something in Terenure, are you?”
“Perhaps.”
“Jesus! Well, what’s there to occupy? I mean, do they have a Luas station or something?”
“I have no idea. I’ve only ever driven through.”
The old dear went, “I’ll investigate it. I think you’re right, though, Delma – this really does need to be nipped in the bud.”
The next thing I felt was a sudden hand on my shoulder? Then I heard the old man go, “Look who’s here, everyone! It’s Kicker!”
That’s when the old dear looked up and noticed me for the first time.
I was like, “Yeah, thanks for inviting me to your porty, by the way.”
She went, “I didn’t want any of your unpleasantness, Ross, and I don’t wany any of it now.”
I had to laugh at that. “What’s this porty even for?” I went. “What are you actually celebrating?”
The old man was like, “Did you not hear, Ross? Your mother and I – our divorce came through yesterday!”
And they just smiled at each other across the room, genuinely happier than I’ve ever seen them. How focked up is that? They don’t even have it in them to hate each other’s guts like normal divorced couples.
And it was something I never thought I’d ever hear myself think, but in that moment what went through my mind was that Terenure would be actually better off staying where it is.