I hear the old dear’s voice before I manage to even get the key in the door. She’s going, “How? Dare? They?”
For a second or two, I think about maybe driving away and coming back another day, or preferably never again.
But then I hear it a second time – "How dare they?" – except this time more, I don't know, bloodcurdling? And to be honest, curiosity kind of gets the better of me.
I let myself in and I tip down the kitchen.
I’m like, “What the fock is wrong with you? I could hear you from the bottom of Westminster Road.”
She looks at me. There’s no hello or anything. She just goes, “I’ve had a letter – from Dún Laoghaire-Rathdown County Council.”
I roll my eyes, disappointed that it’s not something more serious. I clear away her breakfast things – in other words, I take the empty bottle of Tanqueray off the table and drop it in the green bin outside.
When I come back in again, she goes, “I expect you’re wondering what the letter’s about?”
I’m like, “Not really, no.”
"It's well you might ask. As you probably know, your father and I have been talking about having the house demolished and building aportments in its place."
“What, this house?”
“Now, don’t be upset, Ross. I know it’s full of happy childhood memories.”
“Er, no, it’s not.”
“If these walls could talk –”
“They’d probably phone Tusla.”
"But now the bloody well council is trying to put the mockers on our plans. They're saying the house is being considered for a preservation order. They've apparently decided it's a building of special interest because of its connection to Samuel Beckett. "
I ask the obvious question.
I’m like, “Who’s Samuel Beckett?”
She goes, "He wrote Waiting for Godot."
I’m like, “Er, my question still stands.”
“He was a very famous writer, Ross.”
“What, and this was his actual gaff?”
"No, he lived on the corner of Brighton Road and Kerrymount Avenue. But one of his childhood friends lived here. And, according to some literary historian or other, he had the original idea for one of his plays while enjoying a sleepover here."
“That’s hilarious.”
"The bloody well cheek of these people. I wrote eight bestsellers from this house, including Criminal Assets, which has sold two million copies worldwide and has been optioned by the same production company that made the Fifty Shades of Grey movies. And they want to preserve the place because he had an idea here – as a focking child!"
“I love seeing you this upset.”
“I’ll tell you what this is, Ross. It’s more of the same misogyny that women writers have to put up with all the time. Every man who ever put pen to paper is a genius, while women are lauded for writing in spite of the handicap of not being a man.”
She drops the letter on to the island and goes, “We’ll just have to get the place bulldozed quickly and pay whatever fine they give us.”
I’m there, “Do you want me to cook you something to maybe sober you up?”
“Ross,” she goes, “don’t be unpleasant. I’m glad you’re here, as it happens. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“As in?”
“Well, you do know what’s significant about this coming Saturday, don’t you?”
"Er, there's no Six Nations on?"
“Well, aport form that – it’s the 29th of February.”
“And what’s so special about that?”
“There’s a 29th day in February only once every four years, Ross.”
“Okay, that’s random.”
“It’s not. It’s actually the opposite. But, anyway, I’m an old romantic, as you’ll know from my books. And there’s an old tradition that, on the 29th day of February, in a leap year, it’s socially permissible for a woman to propose marriage.”
"Okay, where is this going? It's actually getting a bit boring."
“Ross, I’m going to ask your father to marry me – this Saturday!”
“Jesus, why?”
“Because we’re perfect for each other – don’t you think?”
"What, despite the divorce and the fact that he's still married to someone else?"
“Helen was a mistake, Ross. Your father realises that now. We still have a wonderful sex life, you know? I call him my Intrepid Southern Hemisphere Explorer.”
I'm like, "Jesus, don't say shit like that!" and I run over to the sink. I'm think I'm actually going to be sick.
I can’t handle that kind of talk from older people. I always have to mute First Dates when there’s pensioners on it in case they stort talking filthy to each other.
A few seconds later, I hear the front door slam, then a few seconds after that the old man walks into the kitchen. He doesn't even acknowledge me. He kisses the old dear on the mouth – eeew! – and goes, "Hello, Dorling!" and she goes, "Hello, Christopher Columbus! " and I don't even want to know what that's about.
“A letter arrived,” she goes, “from the council.”
He takes it from her and he gives it the old left-to-right. I watch his face suddenly redden, then he goes, "How dare they? Samuel Beckett?"
I’m there, “He’s a writer, before you ask. He wrote Waiting for Bobo.”
“But you wrote eight bestsellers from this house, Fionnuala – including Criminal Assets, which has sold two million copies worldwide.”
She attempts to smile at him, but with all the work she’s had done to her face, she looks like she’s trying to squeeze out a silent fart at a funeral.
She goes, “Thank you for saying that, Chorles.”
He's there, "The bloody well gall of these council people! Oh, well, we'll just have to get the place bulldozed quickly and pay whatever fine they give us."
And I end up having a moment then, as many people do when they look at their old pair together in old age. I just think, “God love them, but they’re absolutely perfect for each other.”
As a matter of fact, I don't know why they ever thought they weren't?
I catch the old dear’s eye. I silently mouth the words, “Good luck,” then I flick my head in the old man’s direction, “asking Dick Features here.”
And she just goes, “Thank you, Ross.”
