Can't say I'll miss the old dear – or her cooking – but a last look around the house has me strangely emotional, writes ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY
I’M SERIOUSLY suffering. Last night eight pints of the old Milk of Amnesia and today a hangover that knows my name. And the phone ringing. The old dear. She asks me if I’m interested in taking one last look at the old ruin. I go, “Are you talking about you or the house?” which even I have to admit is a cracking line, considering I’m only awake 10 seconds and, like I said, there’s a monster rattling my cage.
Okay, call me sentimental but I actually end up driving straight out there. Though if I’m honest it’s mainly just to check whether she’s left any moo in the safe.
She’s some sight, it has to be said –
standing there botoxed, like she’s hurting no one, half her arse removed and stuffed into her lips and cheeks. I know she’s my old dear and everything but she looks like a focking Dreamworks character.
“What a lovely way to greet your mother,” she goes. I just shrug. I’m there, “Hey, I call it like I see it. Always have.” Fifi suddenly comes skidding across the solid wood floor, yapping away at my feet, delighted to see me – and that’s not me being big-headed – and it’s only when I bend down to pick her up that I notice the 18 pieces of Louis Vuitton luggage in the hall.
It sort of, like, stops me dead in my tracks. I don’t know why. I go, “What, er, time’s your flight?” and I can’t remember what she says back.
Her new book – and that’s being generous – is being released next week in America, the States, whatever. Anyway, it’s called Karma Suits Ya and it’s about this 50-year-old Irish woman who experiences a sort of, like, spiritual rebirth after her divorce and goes basically slutting her way across America. Whatever wets your pencil.
"Oprah was photographed in Whole Foods in Chicago carrying around a pre-publicity copy," she goes, like I'dcare one way or the other. "They say if Oprah reads your book, it's worth a million sales overnight." I suppose they dosay Americans have no, like, taste? I don't actually say that, though. I just nod and go, "A million is pretty good, I suppose."
She’s like, “Come on, let’s take one last look around. My taxi will be here soon.” I hand Feef to her and we tip upstairs to my old room. The old dear goes, “The number of girls your father and I had to chase out of this room . . .” and it’s an amazing thing to hear, roysh – as in, she didn’t have to say it? – and it just goes to prove that she can be a nice person when she wants to be.
She’s there, “Who was that girl who climbed out the window, Ross?” I laugh. “Susan Chasey,” I go. “Holy Child,” and I wouldn’t mind but she’d a face like focking shark bait. “Yeah, there were a few hearts broken within these four walls. They should actually put a plaque up in here,” and she laughs, in fairness to her.
I follow her downstairs. She goes, "Now this I'llmiss," meaning her Eggersmann kitchen. I watch as she runs her hand over the lacquer-effect laminate worktop for what will probably be the last time.
“You boiled up some witches’ brews in here,” I make sure to go but she just, like, smiles at me. She’s like, “Admit it, Ross, you’ll miss my cooking,” and I end up just going, “Your gingered salmon and herb en croute, maybe. And your saffron risotto cakes with tarragon cream, in fairness to them. And your braised beef in orange sauce with edamame pilaf rice, at a push. But that’s about it.”
She laughs again. She probably knows I’m lying.
I stick my head around the door of hisroom – as in, the study? I'm trying to think of something – being honest – bad to say about him, but she ends up going, "Do you remember the day of the Leaving Cert results?" I do. The three of us in there, gee-eyed on Champagne. The old man got his hands on one of those bottles they give to Lotto and Grand Prix winners. It was a cracking day. It was ages before they found out that I didn'tget maximum points? She's good enough not to mention it, though.
She asks me when I start my new job and she says “job” like it’s some, I don’t know, weird novelty. Which I suppose it is. I tell her Monday morning. She smiles, pets the dog.
“It’ll be nice,” she goes, “working with your father. It’s what he’s always dreamt of, you know.” I throw my eyes up to heaven. I’m there, “The two of us driving around the city, shredding stuff – evidence, in other words?” and she goes, “No, just working together, the two of you – father and son. You know he’s always wanted that closeness . . . He’s an extraordinary man, Ross.”
I laugh. I’m there, “Extraordinary how?” and she goes, “His energy. His attitude. This recession is bringing out the best in him,”
and then she’s quiet for a little while before she eventually goes, “I really miss him, you know.”
Of course, I end up getting drawn into the whole emotional thing. I’m there, “The house just seems so, I don’t know, empty – as in, without all our stuff? It’d make you almost sad.” She shakes her head. “They’re only possessions, Ross – they don’t matter,” which is rich coming from a woman with 18 pieces of luggage in the hall.
I don’t pull her up on it, though. I just mention that, yeah, I was thinking about Michael Jackson the other day and how it doesn’t matter how much shit you buy, it’s all going to end up in a skip when you’re gone. That’s the whole, I suppose, spiritual side of me that the public never gets to see.
“There’s my taxi,” she suddenly goes and I just nod, not knowing what to say.
She’s there, “Why don’t you say goodbye
to Fifi, Ross.” So I take her in my orms and –
I admit it – give her a hug and tell her that, much as I thoughtI hated her guts, life's not going to be the same without her. And, after
a minute or two, I hand her back to the old dear.
She goes, “Well, goodbye, Ross,” and I
go, “Yeah, I’ll, er, I’ll see you,” and I give
her the guns. And it’s only when I turn onto Westminster Road that the tears come and
I realise how much I’m really going to miss that dog.
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