Sorcha says I can’t wear those.
And I’m like, “My Dubes? What’s wrong with my Dubes?”
She goes, “You can’t wear Dubes to a funeral, Ross. Put a pair of actual shoes on.”
I’m there, “I literally don’t own any actual shoes? As in, like, when have you ever seen me wear anything other than Dubes?”
The old dear made a seating plan for her own funeral. She didn’t want ugly people in the first three pews
I get this sudden flashback to when I was six or seven and I’d hold the wheel steady for the old dear while she drove home, half-cut
The old dear goes, ‘Sorcha? I don’t know anyone of that name. Is she one of your tarts, Ross?’
Oisinn goes, ‘Dude, you’re saying goodbye. You do realise that? You’re saying goodbye to your old dear’
Then Brett goes, “I got a spare pair of shoes you can wear,” and off he focks to get them.
Yeah, no, it’s the morning of the old dear’s funeral and the gaff is a scene of chaos. The cor is on its way from the funeral home and Brian, Johnny and Leo still aren’t dressed yet.
I’m there, “Goys, would you maybe put away your phones and put some clothes on? We’ve to be in the church in, like, half an hour.”
Leo repeats what I said, doing a pretty hurtful impression of my voice, which I decide to ignore, although I do tell him that he’s as thick as brick – I tell them all that they’re as thick as a brick – before taking their phones off them.
Brett drops a pair of black – what can only be described as – brogues on the floor in front of me? I stare down at them. He goes, “Well? Aren’t you going to try them on?”
I slip my feet into them. Yeah, no, they’re a perfect fit.
He’s like, “You’re welcome.”
Honor is flitting around the house, reading something off her phone screen, while looking majorly occupied.
She goes, “Okay, Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman – that’s the music sorted.”
I’m there, “What are you doing?”
“Fionnuala gave me a list of jobs to do on the morning of the funeral.”
“What? When?”
“About a year ago – when she storted forgetting things. She made me type them into my phone. Including a seating plan for the church.”
“A seating plan?”
“She said she didn’t want any ugly people in the first three pews.”
It’s so her.
I’m there, “Are we still allowed to call people ugly?”
Honor goes, “Er, yeah? Why?”
“I just thought in the current –. Doesn’t matter.”
“Okay,” she goes, “she wants the boys to bring up gifts that symbolised her life. Do we have a cocktail shaker?” and off she goes to look for one.
I look down at my feet. And that’s when a sudden – I want to say – realisation hits me? I don’t know how to tie shoelaces.
By that, I’m not saying that I’ve, like, forgotten how to tie them? I’m saying that I’ve never actually known? Like I said, I’ve been wearing the old deckies since forever and I usually get them to barrel-knot those bad boys in the shop, then I basically slip them on and off until it’s time to buy a new pair.
Er, what about rugby boots, you’re probably wondering? Well, I used to get Christian to tie the laces for me. Yeah, no, I made out that it was, like, a superstition of mine – bad luck to tie my own boots, and blah, blah, blah.
Honor breezes past me again. She goes, “One of the boys has drawn dirty pictures all over Fionnuala’s copy of the Karma Sutra.”
I’m there, “It’s the Karma Sutra, Honor – it’s already dirty pictures? Wait a minute – that’s one of the gifts that symbolised her life?”
She’s there, “Yes, Dad.”
“Father Ndidi might have a thing or two to say about that. I’m just making the point.”
Then I’m looking down again at my untied shoes and I get this sudden flash of – I know it’s not a word – but remembrance? I’m, like, five or six years old and the old dear is down on one knee in front of me and she’s, like, tying my laces and telling me that I’m the best little boy in the world and when I close my eyes I can almost smell the Tanqueray gin and Chanel No 5 off her.
I feel the corner of my eyes fill with tears and I tell myself to cop the fock on. I have to be strong today.
The boys come chorging down the stairs – yeah, no, fully dressed in their matching suits.
I’m there, “Which one of you three drew dirty pictures in your grandmother’s Karma Sutra?”
Brian goes, “It’s the Karma Sutra, Dad. It’s already dirty pictures.”
And I’m like, “That was the point I made – in fairness to me.”
I notice that their shoelaces are tied and it crosses my mind to ask them to do mine, except I remember just telling them that they were thick, then I hear Johnny going to Leo, out of the corner of his mouth, “He can’t tie his shoelaces!”
And I’m like, “I can tie my shoelaces actually. Get your focking facts straight. Before you go making allegations.”
Then Sorcha, passing by, goes, “Don’t be mean to your father today, boys. His mom has just died, remember? Ross, the cor is outside.”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, just give me a second here.”
I whip out my phone and I call up Christian’s number. He answers on the second ring.
He’s like, “Hey, Dude – you okay?”
I’m there, “I was going to ask you to pop over here to tie my shoelaces.”
He laughs.
He goes, “Like the old days, huh?”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, like the old days.”
He goes, “Rugby.”
And I’m like, “Rugby – never a focking truer word.”
He’s like, “We’re all thinking about you, Ross.”
And I’m there, “Thanks, Dude.”
People thinking about me is not going to tie these shoelaces, I nearly feel like saying.
I hang up and Sorcha sort of, like, shepherds the boys out the door, then tells me over her shoulder that she’ll see me in the cor. And I’m still sitting there, looking down, when Honor suddenly appears, holding the old dear’s 2005 VIP Style Award.
“Okay, that’s the gifts,” she goes, staring at her phone. “Is that everything? Oh, no, item number 10. Ross’s shoes.”
She looks down, then without saying a word, she hands me the old dear’s chunk of glass to hold, then she gets down on one knee and she ties my two laces.
She stands up again and goes, “Are you going to be okay?” because the tears are, like, spilling down my face now.
And I’m there, “I think I will be, Honor. I think I will be now.”
