In My Sister's Shoes (7 page)

‘Don’t talk to me about
that
,’ groaned Dad. ‘I’d to look after them one afternoon and I learnt more than they did. We were doing sums and all. They’ll be going to college next year at this rate.’

‘Cool, like the little dude in
Little Man Tate
,’ drawled Derek.

‘Didn’t he have a breakdown at the end of the movie?’ I asked.

‘Yes, he bloody did,’ said Dad. ‘Those kids need to kick a ball around and climb trees.’

‘Well, there is forty-five minutes allocated for “out door activities”,’ I said.

Just as Dad was about to reply, the door opened and a girl wearing baggy jeans – which showed off her boxer shorts – with a yellow bra top strolled in. ‘Yo, Derek, you should have woken me up. I’ve gotta hit the road.’

Dad and I, decked in woolly jumpers, stared at Derek.

‘This is Roxanne,’ he said proudly.

‘I thought it might be Daisy,’ said Dad, pointing to her nose-ring, as I choked on my wine.’

‘No, I’m named after the Police song,’ said Roxanne, staring blankly at Dad.

‘Well, isn’t that lovely?’ said Dad, and then, unable to resist, he added, ‘I see you don’t feel the cold, which is great, especially in this climate.’

‘You have to freeze for fashion,’ said Roxanne, winking at him, as I nodded sagely. She had a point there, especially if you lived in Ireland. You had to freeze at some point or you’d never get out of woolly jumpers and boots.

Derek put his arm around her.

‘And what do you do with yourself when you’re not freezing?’ asked Dad, cutting to the chase.

Roxanne sighed. ‘I’m an artist.’

‘Could you be more specific?’ asked Dad, as Derek groaned.

‘I create body art.’

‘I’m not with you,’ said Dad, looking puzzled.

‘Tattoos.’

‘Lovely,’ said Dad, trying to hide his shock.

‘She’s the best in Dublin,’ said the loyal Derek. ‘Show them your cobra.’

Roxanne pulled her boxer shorts dangerously low to reveal a large, colourful snake’s head with a tongue leading downwards.

‘Jesus,’ said Dad, not knowing where to look.

‘I know,’ said Derek, smiling. ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’

‘That’s one word for it,’ said Dad.

‘Wasn’t it painful?’ I asked, wincing at the thought of how far down the tongue went.

‘Oh, yeah, I passed out twice, but it’s worth it,’ said the painted lady.

‘So, are you two an item, then?’ asked Dad, looking concerned.

‘We’re fuck-buddies,’ said Roxanne, shrugging. ‘No ties, no drama.’

Silence filled the room. No one knew what to say, least of all Derek, who, judging by his face, was under the impression that they were a lot more than that, and was none too pleased at having this news broadcast to him in front of his father and sister.

‘Have you any older sisters?’ asked Dad.

When the alarm went off at half six the next morning, I felt as if I’d been asleep all of five minutes. I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower. Not having had time to buy shampoo and shower gel, I washed in Head and Shoulders shampoo, which looked as if it had been there since the eighties, then pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. Having seen what messy eaters the twins were, I chose not to wear anything I actually liked.

Dad was waiting for me in the hall. ‘Come on, I’ll give you a lift. I want to see Fiona to wish her luck…
DEREK
,’ he roared.

‘
WHAT
?’

‘Get your lazy arse down here – we’re leaving.’ Then Dad turned to me. ‘I’ve organized a rental car for you. It’ll be here tonight when you get home. We can’t have you being molested by that eejit every time you need a lift for the next few months.’

I smiled gratefully. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘
Derek!
’ he bellowed. ‘I’m not waiting any longer.’

As we were pulling out of the drive, Derek hurtled towards the car, barefoot. ‘Jesus, Dad, where’s the fire?’

‘Your sister’s having an operation for cancer. That’s the bloody fire,’ snapped Dad.

We drove the rest of the way in silence.

*

Fiona answered the door. She looked dreadful. She clearly hadn’t slept a wink and her hand was shaking as she tried to stir the boys’ porridge. Gently I took the spoon from her and led her to a chair. I returned to the porridge.

Dad was doing his best to be super-cheery. ‘Derek brought a lovely girl home to me last night, Fiona. I don’t know if you’ve met the charming Roxanne.’

‘No, I haven’t,’ said Fiona.

‘Like Audrey Hepburn, she is. A class act.’

‘Wow! Good for you, Derek,’ said Fiona.

‘She showed us a lovely tattoo of a snake she has down to her crotch and informed us that Derek is her fuck-buddy.’

Despite herself, Fiona laughed.

‘Granddad said fuck! Granddad said fuck!’ screamed Jack, as Mark walked in, immaculately turned out in a suit and tie.

‘Bill, can you please watch your language in front of the boys?’ said Mark, frowning.

‘It was worth it to see Fiona laugh,’ retorted Dad.

‘Are you OK about the sleeping arrangements?’ Fiona asked Derek, always looking out for him.

Derek shrugged. ‘It was news to me. I thought we were mutually exclusive. The bummer of it is that I’d just written this wicked song about her and now I’ll have to change it.’

‘Why can’t you find a nice sensible girl to go out with, instead of these half-wits?’ said Dad.

‘Creative people are drawn to each other, Dad. It’s not like I have any control over it.’

‘Fiona, we’d better go,’ said Mark, pointing to the clock on the kitchen wall.

My stomach sank. Please, God, let it be OK and let the cancer not have spread.

Fiona bent down to hug the twins. ‘OK, boys, remember what I told you? Mummy won’t be sleeping here tonight and when I come back I’ll have a sore tummy for a few days. But I’ll see you tomorrow and Auntie Kate is going to look after you today.’ She had opted for ‘tummy’ rather than having to go through the breast chat with two five-year-olds who thought that boobies were hilarious.

‘No, Mummy,’ said the twins in unison, having picked up on the tension in the room and their mother’s drawn face. ‘Don’t go.’

‘I have to, boys, but I’ll be back tomorrow. Now, be good for Kate,’ she said, then wrapped her arms round them and whispered, ‘I love you,’ into their hair as they clung to her. It was the first time she had ever been away from them for a night, and they knew it wasn’t good news. They began to cry and clung to her legs, which made her cry too. Even Teddy looked sad, sitting in his basket, whimpering.

‘Boys,’ said Mark, ‘Mummy has to go now or she’ll be late. Go back and finish your breakfast. I’ll be home to read you a story and tuck you in. Come on, now, let go of her legs.’

Reluctantly they did as they were told, but ran after their parents as they climbed into the car.

We all hugged Fiona, and as Dad clasped her to his chest, I heard him whisper, ‘You’re going to be fine, my darling girl. Don’t worry, we’ll get through this.’

We waved them off, all of us fighting tears but trying to look cheery for the boys’ sake.

‘Why does Mummy look so sad?’ asked Bobby, as Fiona turned to wave.

‘Because she’ll miss you tonight, so you’ve to be very good and give her lots of hugs tomorrow when she comes back,’ I said.

‘Why will she have a sore tummy tomorrow?’ asked Jack.

‘Because…’ I was floundering.

‘Because the doctor is going to take out the bad stuff inside and it will be sore for a few days until the scar heals. Like when Bobby got glass in his hand and the doctor took it out – it was sore first and then it got better,’ said Derek.

That made sense. The twins nodded.

‘Nice one, Derek,’ I said, smiling at him. Then, turning to the boys, I said, ‘OK, come on, eat up, we don’t want to be late for school.’

‘I hate yucky porridge,’ said Bobby, turning his spoon upside-down on the table.

‘Me, too,’ said Jack, flicking a lump, which landed on Teddy’s nose. They both squealed with laughter as the poor dog leapt up in shock.

Bobby jumped down and began to chase Teddy around the kitchen, shoving his bowl under the dog’s nose.

‘Leave that poor dog alone,’ said Dad. ‘Come on, now, do what Kate says.’

Grudgingly, the twins sat down.

‘My porridge has dog spit in it,’ said Bobby.

‘I want Frosties,’ roared Jack.

‘Well, I’ve a meeting at nine, so I’ll leave you to it,’ said Dad, backing out the door as fast as he could, followed by the fastest-moving Derek I’d ever seen.

‘Thanks a lot!’ I called after them.

I heard a screech and turned back to the boys. Jack had upturned his bowl of porridge on Bobby’s head. I had been in charge for precisely six minutes.

10

Having chased the boys around the house for half an hour, trying to get them dressed, I eventually resorted to rugby-tackling them to the floor and dressed one while I sat on the other. They were none too pleased to be squashed into the carpet by their supposedly ‘fun’ aunt and I was told in no uncertain terms that I was ‘mean and nasty’.

I bundled them into Fiona’s jeep, but as we were about to drive off, Jack said, ‘
No!
We can’t go till we pick our music.’

Bollox, the bloody music.

‘OK, whose turn is it?’

‘Mine,’ said Bobby.

‘What would you like to listen to?’

‘Kakosky flowers,’ he said, decisively for a five-year-old. Maybe Fiona was right and this classical-music playing
was
brain-inducing. I might try it myself.

I grabbed a bunch of CDs from the glove compartment and riffled through them. ‘It’s not here. Can you choose something else?’ I asked impatiently, as I glanced at my watch. We were already running late and Fiona had specifically told me that Mrs Foley liked her pupils to be on time. What difference it could possibly make to a bunch of kids running around or playing with Lego if one was late was beyond me. But I wanted to do everything right and prove myself a responsible, reliable sister. So far, it wasn’t going to plan.

‘I want Kakosky flowers,’ Bobby whinged.

I looked again. Who the hell was Kakosky? Some stupid bloody Russian composer, no doubt, who’d spent his life freezing his arse off in a wooden hut in the middle of a snowy field with no heating and all his family killed in some revolution or other. So he wrote music that reflected his sad depressing life and no one appreciated it because it was so dark and grim. So we had been spared it, until a century later when some music critic determined to make a name for himself had decided to find an obscure composer and convince us that the music wasn’t depressing, it was ‘moving and stirring’, and now we had to pretend to appreciate it. Because to say you think it’s a pile of horse manure shows you’re an ignorant fool, even though most people probably agree with you.

My patience was running out. ‘I’m sorry, Bobby it’s not here.’

Bobby grabbed the CDs and waved one at me. ‘It’s the one with the butterflies on it. It’s number three,’ he said.

I looked down: Tchaikovsky,
Waltz of the Flowers
. ‘Sorry, Bobby, I see it now.’ I felt like a prat. These kids could run rings round me in the brains department. ‘OK, let me tell you something about Kakosky,’ I said, shuffling through my notes. ‘Here we go. His name was Peter.’

‘We know that,’ said Bobby.

‘And we know he was from Russia,’ Jack piped up.

‘OK. Did you know he had twin brothers, just like you two, whom he adored?’

‘Cool,’ said Bobby.

I looked down at the sheet I’d printed off the Internet in Dad’s office the night before. ‘It says here he was married but he was actually a homo – Oh!’ I said. I didn’t think the boys needed to know about Kakosky’s sexual preferences.

‘Homo what?’ asked Jack.

‘Home a lot where he composed all his lovely music,’ I said, cranking up the volume to drown anymore questions.

When I dropped the twins off at school, I received a stern lecture from Mrs Foley about tardiness being unacceptable, until I cut across her and told her to give me and the boys a break as Fiona was in hospital and very unwell. She sniffed, then said she hoped my sister would recover soon, but if I was in charge for the moment, I must make the effort to be on time in future. Then I was informed that if I was late to pick them up at lunchtime I would incur a charge of five euro for every half-hour, except under very exceptional circumstances. In being late I was teaching the boys a bad habit, which could lead to sloth in the future. And sloth, as we all know, is a deadly sin.

I backed down the driveway as fast as my legs could carry me before Mrs Foley could list anymore sins I might inflict on the boys. Where did Fiona find these people, I wondered, as I drove back to the house to clear up.

When I got in, the kitchen was a mess. Porridge was stuck to the floor and the table. Milk had spilled down the side of the chairs and Teddy was licking the honeyjar, which had fallen on to the floor.

He jumped when he saw me and looked mightily relieved when he realized I was alone. The poor dog was tormented daily by the twins with their over-zealous displays of love.

‘I know how you feel,’ I said, patting his nose. I made myself some coffee and sat down to have a cigarette before I did the cleaning. As I lit up, I saw a bright red sign on the fridge: ‘No Smoking – Our Kids Breathe Clean Air.’ I sighed and put the cigarette back into the packet. I made myself two slices of toast, which I lathered with butter to compensate for my lack of nicotine. I hadn’t eaten bread or butter for four years. Since I’d got my first five-second slot on TV, I’d been starving myself every day. Bread, potatoes, pasta, rice and chocolate were all things of the past. When I was hungry, I smoked. Pretending you’re four years younger than you are requires a lot of discipline and permanent hunger.

The toast tasted fantastic and I decided to have another slice to treat myself. What the hell? I didn’t need a flat stomach. I wasn’t going on TV. Besides, I’d starve myself before I went back to London. For now, I was on a time-out.

Reinvigorated by the food, I cleaned the kitchen thoroughly, let Teddy out for a run in the garden and by the time I’d finished it was eleven o’clock. Fiona was due out of theatre at about eleven, so I called the hospital. The nurse said she was in the recovery room and still very groggy but the operation seemed to have gone well. She wouldn’t give out any further information until the doctor had spoken to Fiona himself.