:quality(70)/cloudfront-eu-central-1.images.arcpublishing.com/irishtimes/CKGCP2ICDHFXXVL5POVEHKEODA.jpg)
:quality(70)/s3.amazonaws.com/arc-authors/irishtimes/ae88b965-43f0-4844-8f25-cd93be8ea9eb.png)
“Get up!” Honor goes, ringing a – quite literally – handbell in my ear.
But I’m like, “I don’t want to,” at the same time pulling the duvet over my head.
She’s there, “Dad, come on!” yanking the curtains aport. “Christmas is over and it’s time to go back to work.”
“Please,” I try to go, “give me another hour.”
:quality(70)/cloudfront-eu-central-1.images.arcpublishing.com/irishtimes/GR5MHRSD6JTBTEYQQZZSGEX5SA.jpg)
:quality(70)/cloudfront-eu-central-1.images.arcpublishing.com/irishtimes/VOCBH5EHJVAJ3POEMFU2WY4IKM.jpg)
:quality(70)/cloudfront-eu-central-1.images.arcpublishing.com/irishtimes/M3CSN6ZCFIOY26JRXNJDVRRFMY.jpg)
:quality(70)/cloudfront-eu-central-1.images.arcpublishing.com/irishtimes/XRNRXVATSOAZPCV2YNUL2UHQVY.jpg)
But she's like, "You're not getting another hour. It's practically the middle of the day already."
She's one hord taskmaster. Yeah, no, for the past few months – in case you've missed it – Honor has been, like, homeschooling me with a view to me possibly resitting the Leaving Cert in June and hopefully improving on the nul points I brought home in both 1999 and 2000.
I'm not sure if my confidence could stand a major knock this early in the day
“So aren’t you even curious?” she goes.
And I’m like, “Curious? In terms of what?”
“In terms of how you did in the Christmas exams that I set for you?”
I stick my head out from under the duvet.
“Are you saying you have the results?” I go.
And she’s like, “Yes, I have the results.”
“Okay,” I go, suddenly sitting up, “don’t sugar-coat it for me, Honor. Give it to me straight from the shoulder. Actually, on second thoughts, do sugar-coat it for me. I’m not sure if my confidence could stand a major knock this early in the day.”
"They were – let's just say – a mixed bag?"
“Jesus, my hort is beating like a Kango hammer here.”
“Maths.”
“Okay, just tell me, was that one of my better ones?”
“You got an F, Dad.”
“Er, my question still stands?”
"Investigate if x2 + y2 = ab2 - c2. "
“Yeah, no, I remember that one.”
“Do you remember what you wrote?”
“All I know is that it was a genuine headscratcher.”
"I've investigated this and the answer is a definite no."
“Okay – and was I right?”
“Yes, you were right, but you didn’t show how you came up with your answer.”
“That’s because it was a guess.”
“A guess?”
"Yeah, no, I could see pretty much straight away that it was, like, a yes or no question? In other words, I had a 50/50 shot of being right."
“But there was a grid underneath for you to demonstrate how you arrived at your conclusion.”
“Obviously didn’t need it.”
“Which is why you doodled in it.”
“Yeah, no, that was when my mind storted drifting.”
“What happened in geography, Dad?”
“In terms of?”
“Geography was one of your best subjects. Well, one of your least worst.”
"Okay, now you're plámásing me."
"Write an essay on how rain is formed. "
“Yeah, no, I remember that one.”
“And do you remember what you put down?”
"Okay, jog my memory again?"
"Rain comes to us from outer space . . ."
“It’s beginning to sound familiar alright.”
"Lumps of ice, floating among the stors, enter the Earth's atmosphere. They melt on the point of entry and fall as rain."
“It’s wrong. I’m presuming that from your expression.”
I lie there for, like, 30 seconds, saying nothing at all until I can suddenly feel, like, tears in my eyes
“Dad, we covered this, like, a week before the exam. And you knew it then.”
“Did I?”
“Heat from the sun turns moisture into water vapour . . .”
“Which rises, cools and changes into tiny water droplets . . .”
“Which form clouds – come on, what happens then?”
"Yeah, no, when the water droplets get too lorge and heavy, they fall as, like, rain?"
“So why did you say it comes to us from outer space?”
"I don't know. I panicked. Plus, I was watching Ormageddon the night before."
“How come you never panicked when you played rugby?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You kicked last-minute penalties to win matches, didn’t you? And last-minute drop goals?”
“I’ve never been one to toot my own horn, but the answer to your question is yes.”
“And you never panicked.”
“That was different.”
“How was it different?”
"Because rugby is something I knew I was good at. I could have split those sticks in flip-flops. Tony Ward wrote that about me. Word for word. But to pass the Leaving Cert, you have to be . . ."
“What?”
“You have to be, like, super, super smort.”
“You don’t. You just have to be able to remember things.”
I'm trying to remember things alright. Chiefly, why I am bothering my hole even doing this? Why is it suddenly important to me at, like, 41 years of age to get my Leaving Cert when not having it hasn't exactly held me back in life? Why can't I have the things that normal people have on their bucket lists? Machu Picchu. Triathlon. Autoerotic asphyxiation.
I turn over in the bed. And that’s when she hits me with it – straight out of left-field. She’s like, “You passed history, Dad.”
And I lie there for, like, 30 seconds, saying nothing at all until I can suddenly feel, like, tears in my eyes.
“Oh my God,” she goes. “Are you crying?”
I’m there, “I possibly am. A little bit.”
“Well, you got a D, Dad.”
“This isn’t another one of your cruel jokes, is it, Honor?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Because I don’t think I could take it if it was.”
“Dad, you got 42 per cent.”
“You’re not . . .”
“What?”
“. . . still ringing that handbell, are you?”
“No.”
“Because I can hear ringing. In my ears.”
“It might be shock.”
“It must be. I’ve never passed an exam in my entire life. Jesus, I’m still driving on a provisional licence.”
“Your essay on the War of Independence was actually good.”
“Yeah, no, that’s Ro banging on about the Black and Tans during all those unsupervised access days we spent together. Some of it must have sunk in over the years.”
“You could do with learning the names of some of the protagonists.”
“Yeah, no, I just put ‘Something Collins’ and ‘Something de Valera’.”
“We’ll work on that.”
“I can’t believe I got an actual D in something. I’ll have to text Ronan O’Gara.”
“Why are you texting Ronan O’Gara?”
“Because he’s a total brainiac and I know he’ll be thrilled for me.”
“We’ve got five months, Dad. Why don’t we see can we bring all of these F’s and NG’s up to D’s first?”
“Do you honestly think we can?”
“Yes, I honestly think we can.”
And I suddenly throw back the duvet – because that’s all I need to hear.