I’m just about to say no – better things to be doing on a Saturday night than having dinner with my old man and his, like, squeeze – until I suddenly cop his reaction
THE OLD MAN’S talking loud enough for the whole of Shanahan’s to hear. Telling Helen one of his bullshit golf stories involving Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara, his so-called mate.
“I said, ‘Hennessy, old scout, any advice on how I might go about cutting 10 strokes off my score?’ And quick as a flash, our friend comes back and says, ‘Quit after 17 holes!’ I mean, have you ever heard the like of it, Helen?!”
She just smiles politely and goes, “That’s Hennessy – he’ll never change.” And the old man’s like, “Amen to that!”
They end up both being surprised to see me. “Kicker, what the hell are you doing here?” is what he actually goes? I’m there: “I was walking past and I heard your big foghorn voice from outside,” which is basically true. And I thought, since he’s here, I might as well tap him for two or three hundred snots.
“Ross!” Helen goes, genuinely delighted to see me. She’s actually a really, really cool person and a big supporter of mine. “Will you join us?” I’m just about to say no – better things to be doing on a Saturday night than having dinner with my old man and his, like, squeeze – until I suddenly cop his reaction? The exact same face he pulled many moons again when some Lotto jackpot winners bought the house next to ours on Torquay Road. Horror is the word that possibly sums it up.
“Helen,” he goes, “I’m sure Kicker has far more exciting things planned for his Saturday night than sitting having dinner with you and I? There’ll be a girl waiting for him in some inverted commas bar no doubt.”
He makes it pretty obvious that he doesn’t want me there. So I pull out the third chair at the table and I go, “I’m focking storving, as it happens. I’d eat roadkill off a shovel.”
The old man ends up bulling. “But. But. But we’ve already ordered,” he tries to go. “We’ll be nearly finished by the time your order arrives, Ross.”
Helen goes, “Charlie, what is the matter with you? Anyone would think you weren’t pleased to see him.”
I’m only doing it to rip the pistachio, of course. But Helen’s right. He’s acting, like, totally weird? Their steaks arrive. His plate looks like a slaughterhouse floor. “I’ll have one of those as well,” I tell the waiter, then I help myself to a handful of the old man’s chips and onion rings.
“So,” Helen goes, always interested in me and how I’m doing, “how’s the famous Kenneth Tuite? I hear he’s working for you now.” Kenneth Tuite is Ronan’s girlfriend’s old man, who coincidentally shared a landing with my old man in Mountjoy. He, for some reason, thought Kenneth would be a good addition to Shred Focking Everything.
“He’s a disaster,” I go. “He just sits in the van all day trying to talk to me about soccer. The only time he gets out is to look for slippery floors or other personal injury claim opportunities.”
“He’s exaggerating!” the old man goes.
I’m actually not, by the way? Helen’s there, “Ross, you weren’t one of the poor unfortunates who went to Paris only for the match to be cancelled, were you?” This is what I mean – she’s genuinely interested in my shit.
“No,” I go, “but I’ve actually got friends who went over and they don’t have the moo to go back again for the rescheduled game. That’s how much this recession is affecting people right across the basic board.”
“That is awful.”
“Again, it’s the squeezed middle – blah, blah, blah.” The old man just stays quiet. When we’ve all finished eating, Helen hits the old Josh Ritter. “That Malbec is going right through me,” she goes. “Excuse me a moment,” and off she heads.
I laugh. “I’ve said before,” I go, “and I’ll say it again. I have no idea what she sees in someone like you.” He’s, like, fidgeting with his empty brandy glass. “You, er, head off if you like, Ross. Helen and I don’t want to keep you from your night. Don’t want to be responsible for some girl’s broken heart!” I’ve honestly never seen him so jumpy. I’m there, “No, I’m actually really enjoying this. Might even have a brandy myself.”
“Okay,” he suddenly goes, “how much?”
“How much what?”
“How much for you to leave, Ross? For you to be gone by the time Helen comes back from the quote-unquote ladies room?”
I’m like, “Okay, what are you up to?” He’s there, “What about three hundred euros?” He knows me so well.
“Five hundred,” I go.
He rolls his eyes – the focking cheek of him – then whips out his wallet and storts counting off the fifties. He’s got, like, eight of them slapped down on the table, when the restaurant is all of a sudden full of music. I straight away recognise the song. There’s No Other Like My Baby. And I only know that because the old man stuck it on in Eddie Rockets in Donnybrook one night when he was a bit mashed and told me it was, like, their song when they were, like, teenagers? The old man storts looking around him, roysh, in a definite panic. “They were supposed to wait for the signal,” he goes. “Oh, dear.”
Helen arrives back from the can with this, like, confused look on her face. “What’s going on?” she goes.
And the old man, without saying another word, pushes back his chair and drops down onto one knee. And everything seems to go into slow motion.
I’m like, “What the fock are you doing?”
“Helen,” he goes, “I should have done this when we were 19 years of age. But I let you go then. But, by God, I’m not going to make the same mistake twice. This evening hasn’t gone exactly as I’d planned it – much like most of the last forty-whatever-it-is-years. But if this is how it has to be done, then this is how it has to be done. Helen, I’m asking you here and now, in good old John Shanahan’s American-style steakhouse, if you would do me the signal honour of agreeing to be my wife?” He reaches into his sky rocket and whips out a hunk of ice big enough to be visible on a weather map.
Helen has, like, both hands over her mouth. Then the tears stort coming. She nods her head and goes, “Yes! Yes! Of course!” And the whole of restaurant bursts into a sudden round of applause. The old man stands up and Helen sort of, like, melts into his orms.
They hug for a bit, then he looks at me over her shoulder and goes, “And my next question is to you, Ross – will you do me the honour of being my best man?”
It’s a pretty emotional moment, it has to be said. Although not so emotional that I forget about the four hundred sheets he counted out onto the table. I subtly pick it up and slip it into my pocket. “Er, yeah,” I go. “Whatever.”
