‘I’m telling you – as any responsible father would – you should be playing the field’
OMETIMES, ROYSH, I look at my 15-year-old son and I end up having to ask myself where did all the years go? He’s standing next to the Molly Malone statue, smoking a rolly, twisting the hairs of his little bus driver moustache, willing them to grow, and staring at a cash-in-transit van that’s pulled up at the lights at the bottom of Grafton Street, dreaming of what might one day be.
Actually, that’s exactly what he was like at eight years of age as well.
But he’s taller now – pretty much up to my shoulder – and his voice has dropped, like, an octave or two. In some ways, Ronan has always been an adult. But now he actually looks like one? He’s standing with Kennet Tuite, who’s the old man of Shadden, Ronan’s girlfriend, and coincidentally, an old cellmate of my old man’s from their days in the Joy. And because my old man is one of those gullible saps who believe that people can actually change, Kennet is now employed as my assistant with Shred Focking Everything, Ireland’s fastest-growing document and evidence disposal service.
I give them a little beep and the next thing I know they’re jumping into the front of the van – not even a hello for me – the two of them chattering away excitedly about some piece of farm machinery that can apparently open up a Securicor van like a tin of sardines.
Kennet is not a good influence on my son.
I decide to get them off the subject. “So,” I go, “how are Dublin doing in the Celtic Football Championships? Burden It Brogan and all those – are they playing well?” Neither of them answers me. They stare at me, roysh, for a good five seconds, then they laugh and Kennet repeats what I said, impersonating my accent. Then they laugh again.
I just put the foot down and head for our first job of the day, which, as it happens, is on Capel Street of all places.
Ronan, I should mention, is working with us for the summer. Which was my idea? His old dear and that boyfriend of hers tried to push him into sitting his Junior Cert a year early and the whole thing blew up in their faces. Ronan might have an IQ of something ridiculous but I could see that they were putting too much pressure on him. When he, like, deliberately threw his mocks, I persuaded Tina to let him take a few months off school and pick up some actual life experience.
“It’s n . . . n. . . not like the old d. . . days,” Kennet goes – because he’s got a terrible Kesley Grammer. “The b . . . b . . . bastarding Garda Emergency Response Unit have taken all the f . . . fun out of eermed robberies.” Again, I move in and change the subject. It’s possibly the responsible thing to do as a parent.
“So,” I go, “how’s Shadden, Ro? What are you getting her for her birthday?” Ronan just shrugs – cool as as a bucket of free beer. “Haven’t decided yet, Rosser.” Kennet goes, “M . . . m . . . mebbe the ring!” For a few seconds, I think I might have, like, misheard him? I’m just there, “Er, excuse me?” “Ine just s . . . saying,” Kennet goes, “yisser going out, what, nearly a year now, Ro?” Ronan nods. “Be a year in September.” “There yarr then. Might be t . . . t . . . toyum you gev us all a day out!” I end up – honestly – nearly wrapping the van around a lamppost halfway up O’Connell Street.
“A day out?” I go. “He’s 15 years of age!” “Thee love each other, but. Sure I wasn’t much older than him when D . . . Dordeen was pregnant with eer eldest.” I don’t even comment on that. I just go, “Ro, you’re far too young to be thinking about marriage.”
“No one’s saying thee have to get m . . . m . . . maddied now!” Kennet goes, like I’m the one being ridiculous? “Ine talking about a long engagement – t . . . t . . . two or tree years.” I’m like, “Dude, he’s going back to school in September. Down the line, he’s going to have college and blah, blah, blah.” Kennet rolls his eye and tuts, like I said, “College,” and he heard, “Clown school”.
He’s like, “Look at me, Ronan – I haven’t a q . . . q . . . qualification to me nayum.” I’m there, “Okay, and that’s proof of what exactly?” I say this as we’re pulling up outside the place on Capel Street.
“It’s p . . . p . . . proof that you don’t n . . . need yisser Leaving Ceerts and yisser c . . . college degrees to make it in the wurdled.”
“Kennet,” I go, suddenly flexing the old management muscle, “go in there and collect the shredding, will you? Six bags.” He stares at me. He knows I’m basically making a point here. He’s like, “On me own?” I’m there, “Yeah. I want to talk to my actual son here. Six bags. Go on. You’d do it in three journeys.” He opens the door and gets out. “Ine th . . . th . . . thinking of joining a union,” he goes.
He wouldn’t, though. My old man is prepared to overlook a lot of things, including Kennet’s laziness and 177 previous criminal convictions. But people becoming informed of their rights as workers is something he’d never stand for. Kennet shared a bunk with him on the North Circular long enough to know that.
When he’s gone, I turn to Ro and I go, “He’s good value, isn’t he?” Ro’s like, “Ah, Kennet’s alreet, Rosser. I gerron well wirrum.” “Yeah, he’s a good laugh – I won’t deny that. But you wouldn’t want to take what he says too seriously.” There’s, like, a moment of silence then, which tells me that I’m almost certainly not going to like what my son is about to say next. I try to cut him off.
“Ro, please don’t tell me you’re going to propose to that girl. I might not be the brightest crayon in the box, Ro, but I’m telling you – as any responsible father would – that what you should be doing right now is playing the field, treating girls like shit, breaking horts left, right and centre. Blah, blah, blah.”
“Don’t woody,” he evenually goes. “Ine not getting engaged,” and of course you can imagine my instant relief. It only lasts for about five seconds, though – long enough for him to go, “Ine not going back to school, but. And there’s no point trying to persuade me. Ine arthur deciding.”