‘I probably do love Honor. But there’s times when I don’t like her very much’
SO WHO’S YOUR favourite member of, like, One Direction?” I hear my daughter go. She’s upstairs in her room with Alannah and Georgette, two of her friends from basically school – a playdate and blah, blah, blah.
I’m sitting in front of the TV, watching The Ster beat Treviso. Well, actually rewatching it? Because it was on last night.
I’m pretty much just analysing it now, phase by phase, thinking of all the things that I’d have done differently had I been out there.
I’ve actually just rewound it to watch Fabio Semenzato’s try for the third time when I hear the conversation going on upstairs.
No one answers Honor. So she’s like, “Come on, you have to pick someone.” “Okay,” I think it’s Georgette who goes, “probably Harry. Either Harry or Zayn.” There’s, like, silence at first. Then I hear Honor snort and go, “Oh my God, you actually know their names!” Alannah laughs, although I can tell that it’s just to keep on Honor’s good side.
“Oh my God,” Honor goes, “liking One Direction is so lame. Er, hashtag – how old are you again?” “Six,” Georgette goes.
Honor’s like, “Six? And you’re still a sap? So if they walked into this room now, would you stort, like, crying?” “No.” “Oh my God, you would! Crying and screaming and telling them that you love them!” Alannah goes, “I think she’s going to cry now!” Honor laughs and goes. “Okay – totes sad!” I watch Semenzato ground the ball again, at the same time thinking what total and utter wagons girls can be – and my daughter especially. It actually storts to trouble me? As in, I end up not even concentrating on what’s happening on the screen. Instead of thinking, okay, how could I have prevented that try had I been on the field, I’m thinking how did Honor turn out like that, with Sorcha as her mother and – I’m not being big-headed here – but me as her father?
That’s when I suddenly hear her come down the stairs and tip into the kitchen. I hear various cupboard doors open and close, then the fridge as well. I call her name. The next thing I know, she’s standing in the doorway, holding a plate piled high with, like, cakes and biscuits and whatever else she’s managed to scavenge.
“What’s the story?” I go, totally innocently. “Are you having, like, a feast?” She looks at me, roysh, with an expression of total and utter boredom. She’s there, “What do you want?” I’m like, “Er, yeah, no, I was just going to say you possibly shouldn’t pick on Georgette like that. Even though you hit her with a couple of good one-liners. I’m just saying that it’s not nice to be, I don’t know, picked on. And her old man’s just lost his job, remember.”
She doesn’t actually respond to the points I’ve made. She just goes, “Oh my God, are you taking notes?” I try to hide the A4 pad, but it’s too late. She’s seen it.
She goes, “You’re watching the same match you watched last night and you’re taking notes on it.” I try to just shrug it off. “I’m just jotting down a few thoughts I had, that’s all.” She laughs and goes, “Er, pathetic much?” and then heads back upstairs with the plate of cakes, leaving me feeling like basic crap.
I’m thinking that it’s kind of like that movie, We Need to Talk About Kevin. Anyway, a few seconds later, the doorbell rings and I tip out to answer it.
It ends up being the old man. His opening line is, “Did you hear Eamon Gilmore at this think-in of his, telling us all to hunker down for another year of hurt?” I’m there, “Who the fock is Eamon Gilmore?” And he laughs. “You see, I said that to Hennessy. I said, ‘Ross will have a take on all of this – and it’ll be something suitably sardonic! You see if it isn’t!’”
I’m only, like, half listening to him? I’ve one ear on Honor’s bedroom. She’s going, “Alannah, try the chocolate Rice Krispie slices. My mum stole the recipe from Avoca. There’s, like, five Mors bors and eight Dairy Milks in, like, one tray! Georgette, you try one too.” I’m thinking, okay, it sounds like she’s finally playing nicely.
So I turn around to the old man and go, “What do you want anyway?” and then I just throw in “you total knobhead,” just for tradition’s sake.
He’s there, “I wondered did you fancy joining your godfather and I for nine holes?” I’m like, “I can’t. Sorcha’s in Dundrum and I’m, like, babysitting?” I hear Honor go, “Try the caramel slices. Oh my God, they’re so amazing. Look, there’s one each.”
The old man’s there, “What’s wrong, Kicker? I hope you don’t mind me saying it, but you don’t seem like your usual chipper self today!” I suddenly realise what it is. The way my daughter treats people is, like, stirring up old ghosts. I end up just, I don’t know, blurting it out. “Do you remember me being bullied at school?”
He’s there, genuinely, “What?” I’m like, “When I was in first year – I was bullied.” He goes, “Well, I remember you having one or two problems settling in at Castlerock – of course!” “You don’t remember me getting the shit kicked out of me every day?” I go.
He shakes his head. Genuinely hasn’t a breeze. Where even was he when I was growing up? “I’m worried about Honor,” I go.
His face just drops. He’s there, “You don’t think she’s being bullied, do you?” I laugh – and not in a good way. I’m like, “Have you even met my daughter?” He goes, “What? You’re saying . . . ” I just nod.
“Look, I love Ronan. I’d walk in front of a bus for him. Wouldn’t even think about it. It’d be like, ‘What, that bus? No focking problem.’ And yeah, no, I probably do love Honor as well. She’s my daughter and blah, blah, blah. But there’s times when – Jesus – I don’t like her very much at all.”
From her room upstairs, we both hear her go, “Alannah, you haven’t tried one of these! They’ve got, like, Smorties in them!”
And the old man gives me a knowing smile and goes, “That doesn’t sound like a bully to me, Ross. It sounds like a kind young girl having fun with her little pals. Stop worrying, Kicker. You’re doing a terrific job as a father. And now that you and young Sorcha are back together – well, that kind of stability can only benefit Honor.”
I’m there, “Do you think?” He’s like, “Of course!” So I go, “Thanks. Enjoy the golf,” and then off he trots.
I close the door and stand at the bottom of the stairs. I hear Alannah, through a mouthful of presumably chocolate cake, go, “Oh my God, Honor, you haven’t eaten anything.” And Honor, in a voice so stiff it practically creaks, goes, “No, I don’t want to be a fat cow?”