I awoke on New Year’s Eve and wondered for a few moments why I was in a terrible mood. Then I recalled that we were going to Genghis’s that night for a party. He’s my wife’s uncle, and he and I don’t see eye to eye.
And it was raining again. Ireland should be ashamed of itself, I muttered bitterly.
To make matters worse, we had been invited to my sister’s in Belfast to stay over, and we had said yes, but Fionnuala insisted we do a u-turn. “He hasn’t had a party for ages so this is a big deal to him.”
“But we already said yes to Anna. She will have made beds and sorted rooms.”
I was apoplectic and struggling to hide it. My sister has the most wonderful parties and she and I are very close. The thought of landing there about three, a walk up Cavehill and back down to home-made stew and some craic had cheered me the whole of Twixtmas.
And Tyrone was doing my head in a bit. I yearned for Belfast banter. I wanted to see the ferries coming down the Lough from Scotland and the planes landing at George Best airport and the city glittering orange and white in the dark evenings.
And Anna’s house was so tasteful and elegant. Just on Ben Madigan Park, the views are sensational; but Fionnuala was a force that was equally mountainous.
“Look, I understand you are peeved but what can we do? Anna has a lovely husband and family and a whole big crowd going tonight while Uncle Brian has only us and a few neighbours. I honestly don’t mind if you want to go on to Anna’s.”
That was a quasi-genuine offer and the dreamy possibility waved at me from the corner of my mind, but I knew in my angry heart I had to go to Genghis’s.
I had been before a few times, waiting on him as I chauffeured him after he lost the licence, and it was a grim, loveless bungalow that smelled of deep-fried everything. He had a couple of mutts in the back yard and there was excrement everywhere but I noticed it had been cleaned up. The tell-tale white marks on the ground and the ghastly smell of ammonia overpowered the greasy aroma in the kitchen.
“You have the place immaculate, Brian.” Fionnuala was good. “I’ve brought some crisps and dips I’ll just put them out.”
He had cocktail sausages left, right and centre. It was like they were coming out of the taps. Various neighbours and family also arrived with boxes of biscuits and four-packs of beer or cheapo wine and I marvelled at the paltry offerings, but Genghis just shyly admonished them; they had no call to bring anything.
Meanwhile, I had brought two fine Riojas and watched them like a cross shepherd dog. No-one who brought Blossom Hill was guzzling my wine and Fionnuala rolled her eyes. “Get me a glass. Of the good stuff.”
He had cocktail sausages left, right and centre. It was like they were coming out of the taps. Various neighbours and family also arrived with boxes of biscuits and four-packs of beer or cheap wine and I marvelled at the paltry offerings, but Genghis just shyly admonished them; they had no call to bring anything
After a while the atmosphere loosened up a bit and the booze was flowing nicely, and as I was talking to one of Fionnuala’s cousins in the hall I heard beautiful music coming from the living room. It was Trad, but with grace and mystery. A soft bodhran battered and I saw my wife at the doorway listening and was overcome with affection for her.
I sidled up close and the drone of the uilleann pipes made my soul swoon slowly. And as I peered into the room, I saw Genghis playing the instrument, the room quietly euphoric, the faces looking at the floor.
Later, back at home, I was filling hot water bottles, tipsy and contented, and I looked out the window. Rain was everywhere. It beat on the little garden table and on the girls’ playhouse and on the swing and on the dog’s kennel and I heard the bodhran again.
“Gimme that.” Fionnuala was beside me looking the hot water bottle.
“I didn’t know Genghis was such a good musician,” I said, still gazing out the window.
“There are a lot of things you don’t know, Fabien.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Happy new year.”