I had to go drinking at Molly’s with the male members of my wife’s family last Saturday night. Her cousin Shane was getting married, and this was the stag do for us old fogeys.
I really didn’t mind, having just navigated a stressful week and been hankering for a pint by that stage, but when I was leaving, Fionnuala asked was I not taking a jacket with me.
“Sure it’s dry out. I’ll be grand.”
“For God’s sake, it’s to bucket later.”
I shook my head but acquiesced, and after a bit of thinking, I left the house to the beep-beep of the taxi wearing my battered old Jack Wolfskin raincoat.
And as I squashed in beside the lads, I was propelled back in time to another stag do about 15 years ago.
It was my cousin Bernard’s, and it was in Galway.
We arrived fairly tanked up at the hotel and got our rooms sorted. I was with a friend of Bernard’s that I didn’t really know (it was the best man’s bright idea to mix things up) and we went for food in a pizza place and ended up in the greatest pub in the world.
It had a wee old man’s bar, a fabulous outdoor area and was playing The Pogues, Leonard Cohen and The Waterboys.
I was surprisingly compos mentis when we got back to the digs – I even brushed my teeth – but I couldn’t get to sleep because Bernard’s mate was snoring like an elephant. Literally deafening. There was soon banging on the wall from exasperated neighbours.
I stumbled out of the room in frustration, cursing the best man, and began banging on doors myself to find somewhere else to sleep. Eventually one opened and it was another older cousin, Liam, standing in his boxers, hair like Ken Dodd.
I couldn’t sleep there either and decided to go for a walk and, as it was raining (it rains excessively in Galway), Liam lent me his coat. A black Jack Wolfskin raincoat that fitted beautifully and kept me dry that dark, gorgeous night.
What happened in the madness of the next day’s stag, and the grogginess of the trip home the day after, is that I ended up with one shoe missing and Liam’s raincoat in my case.
I called him, but he laughed and said to give it to him the next time we met.
Hopefully soon, he said.
But Liam was killed in an accident before we could meet again. It was horrific – his car was walloped while driving home from work one day – and it just seemed inappropriate to mention the coat at his funeral. So it stayed in my cupboard until the grief crept off a little, by which time I felt a mix of shame and sorrow and told no-one.
So, when I saw a stranger in Molly’s lifting it from my chair and putting it on, I was quickly over.
“Hiya. That’s my coat, sorry.”
“It’s my coat.” He was well on and had a dangerous look in his eye.
“No, it’s not.”
He stared balefully but took it off and I noticed a few people looking over as the rain lashed against the window.
A few minutes later I looked again and he was heading for the door with my jacket on and the hood up. I rushed over and tapped him on the shoulder.
He swung around and snarled: “This is my coat, boy.”
“No, it’s mine.” I said, my heart thundering, but I saw his face change dramatically as he looked over my shoulder.
All of the men I was with were standing fanned out behind me, with silent, no-nonsense faces. Genghis was among them, almost smiling, and the guy literally gulped and handed me the coat and apologised, before heading out into the rain
All of the men I was with were standing fanned out behind me, with silent, no-nonsense faces. Genghis was among them, almost smiling, and the guy literally gulped and handed me the coat and apologised, before heading out into the rain.
“Did you need the coat then?” a sleepy Fionnuala mumbled later.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, I did.”