‘Mary and I have what you might call a shared past. As Oisinn says, while he’s getting the round in, it seems like only yesterday that she was chasing me off the convent grounds like a border collie protecting the henhouse’
POOR MARY HANAFIN. I think we’re pretty much all agreed on that point? It looks like she’s heading back to Sion Hill.
Not that I’ve ever voted for her. Or voted for anyone. No, it’s just that Mary and I have what you might call a shared past. As Oisinn says, while he’s getting the round in, it seems like only yesterday that she was chasing me off the convent grounds like a border collie protecting the henhouse.
That was back in the day, of course, when we were both considered the next big thing in, like, our respective fields? Hers being politics, mine being rugby. Now, she's probably going to end up back teaching teenage girls the rules about preposition pronouns and I'm standing in the Merrion Inn watching Ireland play Scotland with four pints on me telling anyone who'll listen what Jamie Heaslip is doing wrong.
What was it that Father Fehily used to say? Nature always claims its forfeit.
Oisinn’s in cracking form, by the way. As is Fionn. And why wouldn’t he be? Engaged to my sister, even though I have, like, serious doubts about whether the wedding will actually happen. He’s punching well above his weight with Erika. Although I’m not going to be the one to say it to him. All I can do, as one of his best friends, is go along with the whole charade, then be there for him when she kicks him in the knackers.
“Hey,” I go, “speaking of school teachers who are in for a serious land, how are the wedding plans coming along?”
Fionn just, like, rolls his eyes. “We haven’t set a date yet, Ross. Actually, we’re still considering venues.” I sort of, like, snort. He means Erika is still considering venues. Probably waiting till William and Kate are done with Westminster Abbey, knowing her like I do.
"Fair focks," I stillgo. "And what about this, er, so-called business idea of yours?" I'm talking about this series of, like, battle re-enactments he was talking about staging for Junior and Leaving Cert history students. "Has it gone anywhere or has it turned out to be a total flop?" Oisinn shoots me a look, as if to tell me that I'm bang treble O.
I’m like, “Hey, I’m only asking out of concern for my sister. What the Institute pays him in a month, Erika would spend in a lunchtime in BTs.” Fionn’s there, “You’ll be happy to hear then that it’s progressing very well,” at the same time pushing his glasses up on his nose. “I’ve just signed the lease on a field in Mullinavat, which I got for next to nothing from this property developer who’s about to go the wall. Public liability insurance hasn’t been nearly as costly as I feared. And I’ve had expressions of interest from 36 schools.” He has an answer for focking everything. I’m like, “Thirty-six?” “Thirty-six. Including our old alma mater. Tom McGahy’s talking about bringing 100 students.”
“McGahy?”
“Yeah, no, look, I know we’ve had our differences. Him getting us stripped of our Leinster Schools’ Senior Cup medals and everything. But he’s been unbelievably supportive – especially since he found out that the first re-enactment is going to be the Battle of the Boyne.” I’m about to yawn in his face when I suddenly feel the old Wolfe vibrate in my pocket. I whip it out. Turns out to be Ro and he doesn’t sound a happy bunny.
"They're still togedder," he goes. He's talking about his old dear and – speak of the devil – McGahy, who are still, if you can believe this, dating. Of course, the poor kid knows his life won't be worth living if it gets around Castlerock that his mother and the principal are doing the nasty-nasty.
“I did my best,” I go. “I put those pictures of him up on Facebook. The one of him wearing a nappy at seven years of age. And the one of that focking jackpine savage he brought to his debs. I thought it’d do the trick.”
“Well, it didn’t,” he goes and I realise, roysh, that he’s practically on the point of tears. “She’s arthur showing me a brochure, Rosser.”
I’m like, “A brochure? Is she threatening you with that juvenile care home again? Oh, that’d really suit her, wouldn’t it? Get you out of the way.”
“It was a travel brochure, Rosser. Spring breaks.” I relax a bit then. “Look,” I go, “a lot of birds do that in relationships, Ro. They book holidays months and months in advance – just to keep the goy hanging on in there. Doesn’t mean shit.”
"She wants the tree of us to go away togedder. She's talking about Copenhagen." I end up having a total conniption fit. "The threeof you? As in, you, her and him?" "Yeah – she said we'd be like a little family." "Family? Did she use that actual word? Rack your brains, Ro, I'm going to need a firm answer on this."
“Family. She said it, yeah.”
I’m like, “No way. It’s not going to happen. Leave it to me. In fact, I think I’ve already come up with a Plan B.”
A roar goes up in the M1. Rog has got over for a try, ripping the piss in the process. I wait until the noise dies down, then I turn to Fionn. "That, er, battle you were banging on about earlier — the one that McGahy's bringing a crew to." "The Boyne?" "Yeah, that's it. One of the biggies, was it?" He sort of, like, laughs. But then he can't resist the temptation to be a teacher again. It's like Mary Hanafin. It's just in them. "The Battle of the Boyne," he goes, "is themost seminal battle in our nation's history. I mean, look how the outcome still resonates to this day."
I nod – you could say thoughtfully? I'm there, "For Lent this year, I've decided that I'm going to, like, improve my mind. Even if it's just finding out one new fact per month. Could I tag along?" "Tag along?" "Yeah, to the Battle of the . . ." You know how thick I am – I've already forgotten the name of it.
“The Boyne.” “Exactly.” “Er, okay. You don’t have some ulterior motive, Ross, do you?” Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Ulterior motive? Dude, it’s the Rossmeister General you’re talking to.”