She’s sitting in the window of the, whatever you want to call it, nursing home, playing the piano – badly, I might add – and I get a sudden flashback to my childhood. This is what she did whenever we had, like, visitors coming to the gaff. She’d hear the cor approaching and then she’d plonk herself down on the piano stool and stort cranking out Imagine with her eyes lightly closed and the window slightly ajor and pretend that this was basically how she passed her days.
I’m half-tempted to do what I used to do then, which was slam the lid closed on her fingers – except I’m nice these days, possibly too nice for my own good.
I’m like, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
But she just blanks me.
‘Imagine no possessions. I wonder if you can,’ the old dear sings. Her earrings cost more than my cor
‘I most certainly do have an American accent,’ I tell my supposed half-brother. ‘I’m from south Dublin’
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“Imagine no possessions,” she sings. “I wonder if you can.”
I mean, the focking nerve of the woman. Her earrings cost more than my cor – and I drive a BMW X5.
I’m there, “Why didn’t you tell me – that you were in contact with my brother slash half-brother?”
“You may saa-aaa-aay I’m a dreamer,” she goes, her voice sounding like a donkey being spayed without anaesthesia. “But I’m not the only one ...”
And so to get her attention – fair enough – I slam the lid closed. She manages to whip her fingers out just in time. There’s fock-all wrong with her reflexes. Muscle memory is an amazing thing.
I’m there, “I asked you a question. And I want an actual answer.”
She goes, “Oh, hello, Ross. I was just playing piano.”
I’m like, “Is that what you call it? Why didn’t you tell me? About Brett?”
This look of, like, confusion crosses her face and it’s hord to say whether or not she’s putting it on.
She goes, “Who on earth is Brett?”
I’m there, “Er, your son? The one you had with, like, Conor Hession? Before you met my old man?”
She just looks back at me blankly.
I’m there, “You were the one who told me about him?” and I end up shouting at her.
He keeps asking me about a man named Fred. I don’t know any man named Fred
— Fionnuala
That’s when her nurse, the famous Dalisay – who’s an absolute ride, by the way, and I’m only telling you that for background colour – hears the commotion and steps into the dayroom.
“Fionnuala is not having such a good day,” she goes.
I’m there, “No, that’s how she plays the piano all the time?” and it’s a zinger, there’s no question about that.
She’s like, “No, I mean she is very foggy today.”
The old dear goes, “He keeps asking me about a man named Fred. I don’t know any man named Fred.”
I’m there, “Brett! His name is Brett!”
“Well, I don’t know any Brett either,” she tries to go. “I think you’re having one of your foggy days, Ross.”
I’m there, “He’s your son. And I know you’ve been to visit him in, like, the States.”
Dalisay goes, “Ross, I’ve told you before. You can’t come in here shouting like this. The patients here require peace and calm.”
“I hope some daa-aaa-aay you’ll join us,” the old dear goes, having managed to prise the lid open again. “And the wor-orr-orr-orrld will be as one.”
I’m there, “She told him that he was her only child. She told him that I didn’t exist.”
The old dear stops playing and her focus is suddenly shorp.
She goes, “What, are you saying you’ve spoken to him?”
I’m there, “Whoa! Your memory suddenly coming back, is it?”
She’s like, “When? When did you speak to him?”
I’m there, “Funny, because 10 seconds ago, you’d no idea who I was even talking about?”
She goes, “How did you find him?”
I’m there, “Your ex-boyfriend – ”
She’s like, “Conor?”
I’m there, “He’s an absolute knob, by the way. Well done. Yeah, no, he wrote him – get this – a focking letter. It’s like something out of a Jane Austen movie. And then Brett rang me.”
She goes, “He rang you?”
And I’m like, “No, yeah, people still do ring each other – apparently. My first thought – because I’m a nice goy – was to put him in contact with you. I didn’t mention that you were an out-and-out weapon – again, nice to be nice. But I told him that you were in this place and that your memory wasn’t always the best. And that’s when he told me.”
“Told you what?”
“Told me that you’ve been in touch with each other for years. That he’s actually been to, like, Ireland to see you. And you never mentioned – not even once – that he had a rugby-playing half-brother.”
Again, I don’t know what rugby has to do with this, but I throw it in there anyway, possibly for Dalisay’s benefit.
I’m there, “A half-brother who was good enough to very nearly be offered one of the first IRFU contracts when the game went professional.”
After, like, 10 seconds of silence, I realise that she’s saying the problem is me, not him
The old dear goes, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I’m there, “I’m sure you don’t. You’ve zero knowledge of the game. It was only ever an excuse for you to get dolled up. I’m meeting him, by the way.”
Oh, that’s grabs her attention.
She’s like, “What?”
I’m there, “You heard me. He’s coming over here in a few weeks. We’re going to arrange to hook up. Might even take him to Leinster’s European Cup quarter-final – after we beat Horlequins this weekend.”
I give Dalisay a little wink.
The old dear’s like, “Noooooo!”
I’m there, “We’re a better team in every area of the pitch.”
But she goes, “I don’t want you having anything to do with him!”
I’m like, “Why, what’s wrong with the dude?” and after, like, 10 seconds of silence, I realise that she’s saying the problem is me, not him.
She’s there, “He’s a good person. He’s happily married. He has a career.”
I’m like, “What the fock do you think I’m going to do to him?”
She goes, “You’ll be a bad influence on him. I know you’ll lead him astray. You’ll turn him into another version of you.”
I’m there, “Do you know how hurtful that is for me to hear?”
But she’s like, “Please, Ross. I mean it. Stay the hell away from my son.”
