I feel her hand on my leg and I hear the sound of her quietly sobbing. And I’m not saying that I’m definitely going to take advantage of the situation tonight . . .
FRIDAY TURNS OUT to be an emotional day for Sorcha. Her old pair’s gaff has finally been sold and she asked me to drive out to Killiney with her to say, like, her final goodbyes to the home she grew up in? And I agreed: a) because I promised that I was going to try to be a better ex to Sorcha than I was an actual husband; and b) because there’s always a chance of getting off with her when she’s feeling sad and basically vulnerable? And as if to prove my point, she ends up holding my hand the whole way out to Killiney – which is one of the benefits of driving an automatic, I always think.
She goes, “I’m, like, so grateful to you for doing this, Ross,” and I’m like, “Hey, there is good in me, Babes, even if people can’t always see it,” laying it down like Fiddy.
There’s only, like, one removal truck porked in front of the house, which strikes me straight away as sad – that everything that Sorcha’s old pair have left in the world could fit in the back of that. I know she’s thinking the exact same thing.
Most of their stuff, they ended up either giving away or auctioning off to pay their debts. I know her old man’s George III antique terrestrial globe and his Edward Delaney life-size Famine figures would have looked focking ridiculous in a two-bedroom aportment in the middle of Sandyford Industrial Estate – but even so.
We step inside the gaff. The place has been, like, stripped bare? It’s weird the way our voices echo around the big entrance hallway, which Sorcha’s old man chased me through many times over the years, once after threatening to cut my throat with a 19th-century antique ivory letter opener, which is supposed to have fetched a fair few grand when James Adam put it under the MC Hammer last week. Sorcha has her little determined face on – like she’s decided to be brave? But I can tell, roysh, that inside it’s killing her.
She pushes various doors and looks into various rooms – the kitchen, the dining room, the study, where she put in some serious hours, for not only her Leaving Cert but also her Orts degree – for all the focking good they were to her.
But she doesn’t go into any room? She just, like, stands in the doorway of each and stares into it, like she’s taking – I don’t know – a mental photograph. Or maybe she’s just trying to remember them the way they were, because one thing is certain – it doesn’t feel like the old Lalor home anymore.
She even says it. She’s like, “I thought it was going to feel different. Saying goodbye. It feels like I’m too late. Like it’s already gone?” Which is deep, I suppose. We go up the big – I’m going to say – sweeping wooden staircase? Her old bedroom is the only room she does actually go into? She just walks silently around it, staring at the walls. It reminds me of the day that her boutique closed. Walking sadly around empty rooms. There’s been way too much of that lately.
She looks out the window. “Oh my God,” she goes, “there’s Mum and Dad!” I was actually wondering where they were myself. It turns out they’re having lunch on the patio. There’s a real Last Supper vibe to it. I can see the Caviston’s bags from up here. “Come on,” she goes, “let’s go down.”
It’s a cracking day, it has to be said – especially for Morch. Sorcha’s old dear, who’s never hated me as much as her husband, goes, “Ross, will you have some Cava?”
I’m like, “Too focking right I’ll have some Cava,” except Sorcha’s old man stares at me like he’s weighing up in his mind what kind of, like, provocation it would take to allow him to legally kill me with his hands. “You will not have Cava,” he goes. “Not if you’re planning to collect my granddaughter from Mount Anville this afternoon.”
Sorcha’s there, “Dad! It’s fine. Ross, I’ll drive if you want to have a glass or two.”
I’m like, “Actually, no, I don’t think I will – although thanks for offering.” “Well,” it’s the mother who goes, picking up a plate, “you’ll have some prosciutto and you’ll have some goats’ cheese,” and she storts making me up a plate of, like, bits and pieces from the table.
Sorcha’s there, “Give him some of the Serrano ham as well, Mum – he really likes it.” Serrano focking ham – they’re certainly not eating like a family that’s just lost everything. “It’s some pile of bricks,” I go, referring to the gaff. “I’d say you’re definitely going to miss it, Mrs Lalor.”
“Well,” she goes, “the bank gave us no option but to sell it.” I give her a sympathy look. “Hey, there’s no shame in it,” I go.
He ends up having a freak attack with me. He’s one of those dudes – no matter what you say to him, it’s always the wrong thing? I’m there, “I’m just saying there’s a lot of it about,” straight away on the back foot. “People losing this and that.”
“There is nothing,” he goes, “absolutely nothing that could happen to me that would make me feel ashamed in front of someone like you.”
“Eduard!” Sorcha’s old dear goes – she looks well actually. “Well,” he goes, “I thought the whole idea of this divorce was to remove him from our lives once and for all. Why is he still hanging around like a bad smell?”
Sorcha stands up. “Because,” she goes, “he’s still Honor’s father,” although he knows and I know that there’s definitely still feelings there. “This is a tough enough day for me, Dad. I’m not going to sit here and listen to you run Ross down like you always have.” I think since the whole current economic thing arrived on the Lalor family’s doorstep, Sorcha has stopped seeing her old man as some kind of, like, Superman figure. And of course I can only benefit from that.
He ends up bulling, of course. He’s always had this way of looking at me like he’s mentally corving up my body.
Sorcha’s obviously decided that we’re hitting the road. Which is a pity – I wouldn’t have minded more of that goats’ cheese.
We say our goodbyes and I hop into the cor. Sorcha opens the passenger door but then stops and has one last look at the place. Same thing – like she’s taking a mental picture. Then she gets into the cor. She doesn’t say anything. That’s when I feel her hand on my leg and I hear the sound of her quietly sobbing. And I’m not saying that I’m definitely going to take advantage of the situation tonight. I’m just saying that if I wanted to, it’d be about as easy as kicking away a blind man’s stick.
