‘Honor’s not at risk of poverty. She has conversational Mandarin. Oh my God, she’s learning the viola’
CHLOE SAYS SHE was – oh my God – so the skinniest person in Krystle last weekend? At the same time, she’s having a nosey around this Euro Hero discount store that Sorcha’s these days managing, sort of, like, sniggering to herself at the plastic boules sets (€2) and the tea-bag squeezers (€1) and the Happy Bar Mitzvah cards (50c) as long as your name is Mensch and the dog bowls (€1) as long as your dog’s name is Mensch as well.
Sophie is holding up this, like, plaster saint (€2) and asking Sorcha who it’s actually supposed to be? Sorcha says she thinks it’s St Brigid and Chloe says – oh my God – she didn’t realise that Brigid was so actually good-looking.
They’re only in here to rip the piss. Sorcha’s supposedly friends. Especially Amie-with-an-ie, who keeps holding up various things – like the Mary McAleese 1997 Presidential Election Souvenir Book (€1) and the cocoa-dusted, diabetic-friendly Christmas truffles (50c) with the best-before date of January 31 – and going, “Get it or regret it!” while the other two cackle like witches, which I suppose is what they basically are.
Poor Sorcha is, like, following them around the shop, pleading with them to put shit down. She’s going, “Girls, are you going to, like, buy something – or are you here to just mock?” Sophie’s giving it, “Oh my God, I still can’t believe that people actually live like this?” I’m about to run the three of them out the door when, all of a sudden, this woman walks into the shop – bet-down, by the way – wearing, like, a belted trench coat and carrying a men’s leather briefcase. She storts scanning the shelves, taking a huge interest in the jelly moulds in the shape of rabbits (€1) and the board games with the sun-bleached boxes (€2) and the bags of – I shit you not! – banana-flavoured coffee (€1 for two kilos). And I automatically know – having a nose for these things – that there’s going to be trouble here.
Chloe’s going, “So who actually buys this stuff?” “You’d be surprised,” Sorcha goes, at the same time snatching a CD of the Swarovski Orchestra playing forty-one National Anthems of the World (€1) out of Amie-with-an-ie’s hand. “When times are hord, people look for borgains. That’s pretty much economics.”
Amie-with-an-ie’s there, “Oh my God, my dad was reading about them – the squeezed middle, they’re calling them – in, like, possibly the Times?” “When you think about it,” Chloe goes, being a total wagon, “you’re actually one of them, Sorcha. You have an actual orts degree and this is what you’ve ended up doing! It’s like, Oh! My! God!”
The woman in the trench coat suddenly steps up to me. She’s like, “Hello, could you tell me is Sorcha O’Carroll-Kelly here?” Sorcha looks around and goes, “I’m Sorcha O’Carroll-Kelly,” in a really friendly voice, obviously not sensing trouble the same way I do.
The woman sticks out her hand. “Amanda Ensch,” she goes. “I’m a social worker.” Sorcha gives her the old wet fish. She’s like, “A social worker? Is everything okay?” I can see Chloe and Sophie and Amie-with-an-ie all nudging each other.
“Can we talk somewhere a little more private,” the woman goes. Did I mention that she’s not the prettiest crayon in the box? She looks like if your face could have period pains.
Sorcha goes, “Private? Sorry, what is this concerning? Is Honor okay?” The woman gives us both a big patronising smile and goes, “Look, part of my brief is to investigate situations in which children might be at risk . . .”
Sorcha just looks at me, her jaw on the floor. “Ross, what’s she talking about?”
I’m there, “Yeah, what are you talking about? Honor’s not at risk? I’m her old man, by the way.” She goes, “That’s what I would like to determine. I suppose the term ‘at risk’ as we would classically understand it would involve either abuse or the threat of it. In recent years – with the way the world is right now – an increasing proportion of my own workload involves investigating cases where children are at risk of poverty.” You can imagine how that goes down with Sorcha and me.
I’m like, “Poverty?” The three girls must be listening, roysh, because I hear Chloe go, “Oh! My God!”
Sorcha’s there, “Honor’s not at risk of poverty. She has conversational Mandarin. Oh my God, she’s learning the viola!” “Poverty,” the woman goes, “has nothing to do with class – that’s becoming increasingly true, unfortunately.” The woman puts her briefcase down on Sorcha’s desk, flicks the two catches and whips out this, like, blue folder, which I take to be our file? “So how long have you been operating this . . . discount store?” the woman goes.
I’m there, “Okay, what focking business is that of yours?” She’s full of it, by the way. “I’m bound by law,” she goes, “to investigate all complaints of possible neglect.” I’m like, “Whoa, whoa, whoa – who complained?”
“I’m required – again, by law – to treat that information with the utmost . . . ”
“Tell me,” I go, “who was it? Because I’ve already got a pretty good idea,” and I look over at the girls, the three of them taking a sudden interest in the toaster pockets (four for €1) and the 17-nation euro coin-collector albums (50c) and plastic footballs with, like, Manga characters on them (€1) which always travel the same distance no matter how hord you kick them.
“It’s confidential information,” she goes, “and that’s how it has to be treated.” Sorcha looks at me, then goes to mouth something, except she can’t think of anything to say, even silently, so she just shakes her head, her eyes filling up, and I think, okay, it’s time to put the gorbage out.
“Out!” I go. Chloe, Sophie and Amie-with-an-ie just look at me – I don’t know how Sorcha’s ended up with mates like that – so I say it even louder this time. “Out! Go on – get the fock out!” and off they go, with the shuffle of Uggs and whispers of, “Oh! My God! So rude!”
I look at the social worker and I go, “That means you too, Face Ache.” She seems pretty shocked to be spoken to like that. She’s like, “I beg your pardon.” So I say it to her again – this time at a volume she can’t possibly not hear – “Out!”