‘You’ve had one of your world famous ideas, haven’t you?’ the old man goes
O,” THE OLD MAN GOES, his hip flask poised at his lips, “how did you vote in the referendum?” Obviously I’m there, “Referendum? What referendum?” and he laughs so hord he ends up nearly showering me in XO.
“Did you hear that, Hennessy?” he goes. “A wry commentary on the futility of trying to stop, by democratic means, the inexorable drive towards a United States of Europe with Berlin as its beating heart.
“Political satire, don’t you know! And it’s only, what, half-eleven in the bloody morning?” Then he just, like, shakes his head. I wonder does he actually believe that that’s what I meant. Hennessy doesn’t. He knows that the only thing going on between my ears is radio interference. “Yeah,” he goes, not even bothering to look at me, “the boy’s a proper Jonathan Swift, Charlie.” This is us, by the way, waiting to tee off on the seventh in Portmornock.
“So,” Hennessy goes, “you chosen a venue yet?” I don’t know if I mentioned it, but the old man and Helen are getting supposedly married in August and I’m going to be, like, best man. “Oh, it’ll be something small and discreet,” the old man goes. “Registry office. Couple of straighteners in the Shelly, no doubt. Then we’ll see if Mr John M Shanahan Esquire can’t knock us up some of his finest New York strips!”
Hennessy just stares at him, like he can’t actually believe it. “You’re marrying your childhood sweetheart,” he goes, “after spending 30 years with Fionnuala O’Carroll-Kelly . . . ” Then he turns to me. “Hey, no offence – I know she’s your mother.” I’m like, “Hey, don’t expect me to go rushing to her defence. I’m on the record as saying that she’s a basic wagon with a face like a two-week-old helium balloon.”
He turns back to the old man then. “This is a celebration,” he goes. “You and Helen is a rare happy story in a world that’s turning to shit. And you’re going to celebrate that with steak and chips?”
“Helen’s insistence,” the old man goes. “She’s rather conscious of the fact that we’ve already shelled out a small fortune for one wedding in the past year and, well, we all know how that ended.”
With there not being an actual ceremony. He’s talking about Erika jilting Fionn at the altar and focking off to Orgentina with Jesus, an ex of hers from her equestrian days.
Hennessy puts his ball on the tee, then looks up at the old man. “Why not do it in Barbados? Imagine it, Charlie! Daiquiri breakfast. Sun on your face. Nine holes on the Green Monkey. Then you throw a white suit on and you and Helen get married on the beach!” He whips out his phone then. “Hey, how about I ring the boys right now?”
The old man goes, “Hennessy, I’m well capable of ringing Dermot or JP myself, you know. No, like I said, Helen’s of the view that it should be a frugal affair. So that’s what it’ll be, I’m afraid.” Hennessy pulls a face, then just nods, as if to say, basically, have it your way. He puts his phone away, takes a couple of practice swings, then he turns to the old man again.
“Hey,” he goes, “you want to make this hole a little more interesting?” The old man, who loves a challenge, is there, “What have you got in mind?” “I win it, you’re buying me dinner tonight. Either of you two wins it . . . and I’ll pay for Sandy Lane. The whole thing. Flights. Accommodation. Everything.”
The old man laughs. “Well, I think I can say that your money’s safe, Old Scout. I’ve never beaten you on this hole, in all the years we’ve been playing here.”
Hennessy lines up his shot, going, “You never know your luck, Charlie. You never know your luck.” He swings at the ball and he hits it with basically the side of the club head? The ball shoots off at an angle and lands in the rough – he’s no nearer the hole now than he was when the ball was on the focking tee.
“Look at that!” he goes. “If I grew tomatoes, they’d come up sliced today! Dear, oh dear!” Then he heads off to look for it. The old man turns to me. He’s like, “Do you think he did that on purpose?” I’m there, “Hennessy? Doesn’t sound like his style.” He laughs. We actually both laugh? It’s nice. He can be all right, my old man.
Out of the blue then, he goes, “How’s young Fionn?” I just shrug. “His hort’s still broken. But he’s keeping busy. I’ve joined a book club, so he’s going to have a lot of reading to do. The Hare With Something Something Eyes. Blah, blah, focking blah.”
“Very good of you, Ross, to come up with ways to keep him occupied. Poor chap. Helen’s the same, you know. Heart bloody sundered. Between you and I, that’s the real reason she doesn’t want a big wedding. Won’t be the same without Erika.”
“Any word from her?” “She’s rung once or twice, just to let us know she’s okay. Blocked her number so we can’t contact her. Thinks we’d try to talk her into coming home.” “Would you?” “As her parents? Probably. I mean, Hennessy’s offer is very generous, Ross, but you know what the greatest wedding gift of all would be? To have our daughter there to see us tie the – inverted commas – knot.”
An idea all of a sudden occurs to me. The old man can see it in my face. He knows what I’m like when I put my mind to something. I’m there, “Where’s it she’s supposedly living again?” He’s like, “Somewhere in Buenos Aires.” “And we know that’s an actual place, do we?” “Oh, yes.” “As in, she definitely hasn’t made it up to throw us off the scent?” “No, no, it exists.” “Good. I’m just covering all the bases here.” “Good Lord! You’ve had one of your world famous ideas, haven’t you?” I’m there, “Possibly,” and then I end up having to laugh.
Hennessy is up to his shins in the rough and he’s hacking away like I don’t know what, grass flying everywhere. “It looks like we’re going to Barbados.” I put my ball down and I end up hitting the sweetest drive I’ve hit in years. “Eighteen!” Hennessy shouts. “I’m on eighteen shots, Charlie, and the thing hasn’t budged.”