Ross O’Carroll-Kelly

The mother of my first-born rings me on Friday morning and goes, “What the fook is goadin on?”

Literally, that’s her opening line. There’s no, “Hi, Ross, how are you?” or, “I heard about your exploits in the famous Vinnie Murray Cup. You seem to be very much the man of the moment again in terms of rugby.”

I go, "Tina, over this side of the city, we ease ourselves into a conversation? Think of it like a hot bath."

She’s there, “Answer me bleaten question. You have that pooer son of yooers thriven demented.”

"Tina, I'm kind of watching The Love Boat here."

“Was it you toalt Ronan he’s great-great- grantfadder fought in 1916?”

“Are you talking about that big battle that supposedly happened?”

“Ine thalkin about the Easter Roysen, Ross.”

I’ll never get used to it being called that. It just sounds so random. I’m there, “Yeah, no, it was actually my old man who told him.”

“And why would he want to fill he’s head wit loyuz?”

“It’s not a lie, Tina. My old man’s great- grandfather was there on the day. Donie Kelly was his name.”

“And why caddent Ronan foyunt addy record of him? He’s arthur spendin he’s entire mid-teerm breek wit he’s nose in bukes. He was the sayum at Christmas. Yiz have he’s little heert barroken.”

“Okay, the thing is, Tina, there’s a bit a story attached to this whole thing.”

"Don't tell me the stordy. It's him you should be teddin."

“Okay, where he is he now?”

“He’s in Glanebbin Cemetoddy.”

“What?”

“He was standin outside it at sebben o’clock this morten, in the pissins of rayun, waiting for it to open. Tell him the troot and stop wastin he’s toyum.”

She puts the phone down on me. I genuinely don't know how I was ever with that girl.

I hop into the Lambo and point it in the direction of – as she said – Glasnevin, where I find my son sitting on a bench, in the middle of these millions of headstones, with a stack of folders next to him that’s as thick as my orm is long.

I’m like, “Hey, Ro!” and he looks up from a map he’s been examining.

He’s there, “Ah, howiya, Rosser. Ine still on the thrail of this fedda. Me great-great- grantfadder.”

“Yeah, no, your old dear was saying you’ve become a bit obsessed.”

“He’s beddied here, you know?”

“Is he?”

“They’re all here. Michael Cottons, Eamon Debba Leerda, Bredda Been. I habn’t fowunt the exact grayuv yet, but. There’s a hundord-an-odd Donie Kellys listed.”

I ask him if I can sit down. He moves his big stack of paperwork and I reverse-pork the old glutes beside him.

“Ro,” I go, “do you not think this entire thing might be just best forgotten? I mean, when did it supposedly happen again?

“It was 1916, Rosser.”

“Exactly. 1916. You do the maths. It’s a long time ago – that’s the point I’m trying to make. Why don’t we hit Dr Quirky’s – see can we take them for a few sheks?”

He doesn’t take the bait. Obsessed is definitely the word.

“There’s not many can say thee’ve an ancestor what fought in The Easter Roysen,” he goes. “I just caddent wontherstand why he’s not on addy of the lists of combatants.”

I look at the little Fenian signet ring that I bought from the Sinn Féin shop five birthdays ago. I know I’m going to have to break his hort here and I hate my old man for putting me in this position.

“Ine arthur ringing one or two of the local TDs,” he goes. “Thee said that if I can provide documentoddy evidence that was one of the Vodunteers, thee’d take up the case to get him included. His conthribution needs to be recognized, Rosser.”

I take a deep breath. Who’d be a father? I sometimes ask myself that. Then I remember that it’s one of the few things that I’m genuinely amazing at.

“Ro,” I go, “I’ve got something to tell you and you’re possibly not going to like it.”

He’s like, “What is it, Rosser?”

"Okay, you can blame my old man for this, because he's the one who opened his big Von Trap in the first place. Your great-great- grandfather did fight in this, you know, big thing."

“The Roysen.”

“The Rising, whatever you want to call it. But he was kind of coming at it from a different angle to a lot of other people.”

“Was there utter buildins taken over that’s not in the histoddy books? Or was he mebbe woorkin as a sniper on top of the Jacobs factoddy, and he escaped, which is why he wadn’t counthed?”

I decide to just come out with it. “Ro,” I go, “the reason his name isn’t on any of the lists is because he was on a boat.”

He’s like, “A boat?”

"A boat called The Helga ."

I only remember the name because Sorcha once hired a nanny called that. She was Austrian and she wasn’t great. A focking buffalo wouldn’t have taken a run at her.

" The Helga ?" Ronan goes. "Was he a spoy on it, Rosser?"

I’m there, “I’d love to say yes, Ro, but he was actually a gunner. First gunner, as well. The whole leadership thing is big in our family.”

“Are you teddin me . . . moy great- great-grantfadder. . . fired on the vodunteers?”

"Well, they were making shit of the place, Ro – that's according to my old man."

“So he was on the side of the Brits?”

“Or maybe he wasn’t on anyone’s side. Maybe he was one of those just going, ‘Whoa, chill!’”

Ronan doesn’t say anything and I can’t bring myself to even look at him. A few seconds later, I hear him quietly sobbing to himself, then he stands up and carries his folders – we’re talking, like, months of research – over to a big, black dumpster and drops them all inside.

He wipes his tears away with an open palm – this little boy who’s only beginning to discover what kind of stock he actually comes from – and he goes, “Mon, so – Quirky’s.”

ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE