Imogen and Fiadh, aged seven and five respectively, woke me up on Father’s Day with a cup of coffee and a card. They then snuggled into the bed and carried on for a while until I had to chase them.
“Don’t forget where we’re going today.” Imogen was holding my ear. I had forgotten. “The Feis.”
“And I’m going to win,” Fiadh chirped.
I breathed deeply and thought: how had I drawn the short straw?
I remembered that Fionnuala was heading off to meet her cousins in Rostrevor to go on their annual hike. That seemed preferable to a day at the Feis. Cataract surgery seemed preferable to a day at the Feis.
We had a lovely breakfast – the girls were too excited to eat and Dermot boked on my shirt – and after what seemed like forever getting ready, we headed to south Derry.
Fionnuala had kissed the girls and wished them luck. “Remember, the most important thing is to try your best.”
For anyone who hasn’t experienced the wonders of a Feis, it’s a festival of Irish dancing that takes place in halls up and down the country. It is (fiercely) competitive and the children wear little traditional dresses and have their hair tied up with a tiara on top.
I had to go over the intricacies with Fionnuala a couple of times but she assured me the teacher would help with all that. “Her name is Ursula. She’s sharp. Just do as she says and you’ll survive.”
She wasn’t exaggerating; I’d been a couple of times before. Then I had to merely spectate and it was gruelling enough; now I was backstage and the stress levels were through the roof. Ursula was snapping fingers and barking orders and generally getting on my wick.
“Are you Imogen’s daddy? Hurry up and get her ready.”
I was perturbed by her tone and pointed out that Fiadh was up first according to the (incredibly long) programme. She pointed out back that Fiadh was indeed up first, but she was not in the running for a medal and to concentrate on Imogen.
I had my hands on my hips. “Fiadh’s performance is as important as anyone else’s.”
Ursula was tying a child’s laces and glanced up. She had thin lips and cold blue eyes and was surprisingly overweight for a dance teacher.
“This, unfortunately for some children, is a results business. So, focus on the tip-tops is how we do things. And hurry up.”
I was reeling from her candidness; but she was right about Fiadh. When they practised at home, Imogen flew round the room, a pleasure to behold, while Fiadh huffed and puffed, her face red with effort.
She did exactly that on the stage and sat beside me smiling as her name wasn’t called out with the winners, and I was ashamed at my disappointment in the face of her cheery resilience. I thought about Hemingway’s definition of beauty: grace under pressure.
Imogen was on fire when she danced and I marvelled at her determined wee face as she wafted across the stage. Ursula eyed me with a guess-who’s-gonna-win look.
Imogen was on fire when she danced and I marvelled at her determined wee face as she wafted across the stage
The competition was good but we were certain Imogen had edged it, and I thought about how satisfying it would be: the taxiing, the endless classes and purchasing of paraphernalia would all be forgotten if we arrived home with a first place.
You can guess what happened. She got third, and when I urged Ursula to berate the adjudicator, she suppressed a laugh. “He’s one of my good friends. And his decision is final. Don’t take it so seriously, there’s always another Feis.”
“Did you have a good Father’s Day?” Fionnuala was pouring me a glass of vino in the garden.
“I suppose. Just a pity they didn’t win at the Feis.”
“Of course they won, Fabien,” she smiled. “They have a daddy like you to look after them.”
