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  ‘You’ll have to ask me daddy,’ she teased nonchalantly. ‘He’ll probably have you hung, drawn and quartered, though,’ she continued, unwittingly setting a daring challenge that my dad would never refuse. And quite the challenge it was.

  ‘Not in your wildest dreams would I allow you to date my daughter - sure what do you have to offer her?’ my grandfather bellowed brutally as my dad sought permission to take my mother out.

  ‘But I’m a qualified bricklayer, Mr. O’Leary,’ dad added with pride, offering his chapped hands up as proof.

  ‘No scaffer’s dating any daughter of mine, I can tell you that for nothing!’ shot back my grandfather. ‘Goodbye, on your way so. Good luck son, but the answer is still no.’

  ‘I play the guitar and sing as well sir, sure, I may even become a musician - even a rock star,’ my poor dad stammered in a last-ditch attempt before being escorted out of the house.

  ‘Not in a million! Go-way with you, shoo… a rock star, never heard anything so re-dic-lous in all me life.’

  For weeks during that summer, mum secretly revisited Greystones beach every day at the same time in the hope of bumping into dad. Unbeknown to mum though, dad was still sulking over his encounter with her dad.

  Instead of going to Greystones beach to swim or sunbathe, after he finished work on the building site, he headed down to another area of Greystones beach called the ‘The Mens’. Back then, women, girls and children were forbidden by law to enter this part of the beach. It was, as you may have guessed, for ‘men only’.

  The Mens had dangerously high, ragged rocks covered in slimy algae where only the bravest men would perform acrobatic dives into the sea, risking life and limb. Many had died attempting to out-do each other, performing twists and turns as the ante was raised to execute the perfect dive.

  Dad was always a great sportsman and swam and dived like a dolphin; effortlessly performing complex dives with ease and grace. What no one knew was that when he climbed high on the rocks in preparation for his dive, he could see over to Greystones and steal glances at mum.

  On one particular afternoon, the blue, clear skies began changing. A raging storm formed from nowhere.

  Mum, unaware, was suddenly swimming far of her depth. Dad could see she was getting dragged further away from land and further out to sea. Without a second thought, he dived from the rocks and began to swim rapidly in her direction. He tore his body to shreds on the reef as he struggled to reach her, fighting currents, winds and huge, crashing waves. Finally, with supreme effort, he reached her and managed to drag her back to safety. They lay together on the beach, exhausted. Entwined in each other, they kissed for the first time.

  ‘Son,’ said my relieved grandfather, ‘I will be forever in your debt! You have my blessing to date my daughter.’

  My parents were soon married and, in search of a better life, crossed the waters over to England where they had heard the streets were paved with gold.

  Dad immediately got work as a bricklayer and mum fell pregnant with Laura, with me soon to follow. Dad had to work harder than ever to keep a roof over our heads, as times were tough. He was building by day and singing in a band at night, gigging around London. Adding to his already long list of genius attributes, dad was also painting, sculpting and writing music. His dream was to perform live the love song to mum he had written when he very first laid eyes on her. Life was good for them; they were young and very much in love.

  It could so easily have been the perfect story. They could have made their fortune and returned to their native land, happy and prosperous in later life. But, it all came crashing down around their ears.

  The catalyst was dad’s beloved love song he’d written about mum. He’d taken it to a music producer who said it was ‘extremely marketable’. This producer made all the right noises about dad becoming a star and vividly described how he would be playing gigs to thousands of adoring fans. Then, inexplicably, the producer went cold and stopped answering dad’s calls. Having had a taste of potential success, dad became increasingly desperate and his behavior became more and more erratic.

  He often skipped days on his building jobs, claiming he was too exhausted to get up. It left poor mum struggling with her two young children and, even though she was pregnant with her third, she had to take every odd job coming to support us all.

  Around a year after dad first met with the music producer, a great new rock group hit the scene. They were an overnight success; with their slick outfits, perfect good looks and romantic melodies. And their first number one hit? Yeah, you’ve got it; my dad’s love song, written about my mum.

  The betrayal destroyed my dad. He was utterly devastated and never recovered. Sure, he consulted lawyers about the theft of his song, but they said it would cost thousands to sue and the chances were he’d never win against the powerful music moguls.

  By then, mum and dad didn’t have a penny to rub together. Any money dad did get he spent on booze - or, worse still, drugs - but nothing could numb his pain. He swung between abject depression, sheer anger and bouts of shouting, crying and throwing things. Try as she might, mum couldn’t pull dad out of his spiralling depression.

  ‘Please, Michael,’ mum would beg, ‘please take your tablets. We love you, we need you. You can write another song!’ But nothing could penetrate the hatred and despair dad was experiencing.

  Dad began disappearing for days on end on drunken benders, and when he did return, he became violent with uncontrollable rages. But then he would switch without warning and start praying, reciting the rosary and attending church.

  We would often hear him talking to himself, conversing with someone who wasn’t there. You couldn’t engage him in direct conversation for fear of him overreacting and turning aggressive. He began accusing us all of plotting against him. His ability to discern between reality and his hallucinations had become non-existent.

  This cycling torrent of abuse and neglect went on for over a decade, getting worse and worse. Mum, the bravest woman I had ever known, had to leave. She had no choice. Her once-beloved husband - her hero, our dad - had changed beyond any recognition.

  With her marriage in tatters, mum fled England with my two sisters, Laura and Katie, and moved back to Ireland. Of course, as the middle child, that automatically entitled me to self-diagnosed stroppy middle-child-syndrome. And strop I did. There was no way I was leaving London having already started a hairdressing apprenticeship. So, I stayed and tried to help sort my dad’s alcoholism and schizophrenic behavior with the help of mental health advisors.

  Back in Dublin, Lickarse Laura (as she was known to me and Katie), the eldest sister and the Einstein of the family, decided to become a career girl and studied for a doctorate in Psychology. When Laura graduated, it was mum’s “proudest moment”. In my secret opinion though, Laura shared one too many of our dad’s schizophrenic traits beneath all that professionalism and condescension to the human race. Laura could be the life and soul of any party and everyone was her best friend; however get one too many drinks in her and she would revert into a female version of our dad; patronizing, intimidating and erratic.

  Katie, my youngest sister at just 22 years young, was currently residing in rehab. She was however allowed home for just a few days at Christmas. She was in rehab due to her newfound hobby: shoving every which substance up her nose that she could get her hands on. To top it off, her homegrown cannabis plant had been lovingly tendered and watered by none other than our poor, unsuspecting mum. Bless her, mum was as clueless as she was penniless.

  ‘I ought to get shares in Kleenex!’ Mum used to sob down the phone to me on our weekly phone calls. ‘Katie goes ‘trew a box in a day. I can’t keep up with the child. And she has a constant sinus infection. Her poor nose is collapsing with all the congestion.’

  Katie and her tree-hugging, weirdo mates went too far one night a couple of months back. She had been found wandering the streets, totally out of her ‘hippie-dippy trolley’, sobbing; claiming that
she had committed a murder and would never forgive herself.

  She was picked up by the local priest and confessed all to him. The account was a bit garbled by the time the poor guy got hold of my dear old mum. He was clearly suffering from some sort of post-traumatic stress, but this is pretty much what Katie confessed to (in her continuous motor-mouth style):

  ‘I had a few friends around, Father, while mammy was at mass. We had a few jars and, you know, well, I looked at poor Moses (that’s mammy’s budgie). I felt sorry for him, sure he’s always locked up; so I thought I would give Moses a little treat. I only put a little bit of me lager in his birdcage, but then I accidentally left his door open. Before I knew it, he was whizzing around and around mammy’s lounge like a fighter pilot at a hundred miles an hour. It was just so cool to watch him. He looked so happy, so free. But then Moses kinda crashed into the glass patio door. That was it, Father, he dropped to the floor like a bomb. He was flat on his back, legs bolt upright up and stiff. I had to do something and fast… so I panicked and ran up to mammy’s bedroom. She has one of those ceiling fans, so I kept throwing Moses up into it, you know Father, just to try and get some wind beneath his wings. I begged him to start flapping his little bird arms, but his feathers just dropped off all over mammy’s bed. He was ice cold, so I wrapped him in cling-film, not over his face now, Father - I’m not that stupid! Anyway, I popped him in the microwave because he was so cold, Father, so I did. I thought I had put him on defrost… but instead… I think I nuked him. I mean, there were a few of us alright that had polluted the air with, err… let’s say, “plant fumes”, Father, but sure, I’m confessing and you don’t need to know every detail of the murder, do you?’

  That was it for Katie. Off to rehab she went. I don’t think Father Murphy was ever the same after that.

  I felt a gentle tapping on my arm. The huge man sitting next to me informed me that we’d touched down. I must have dozed off.

  Feeling drowsy, I collected my luggage and was relieved to find that Laura was already at the airport entrance waiting to give me a lift to mum’s. Here we go, I thought.

  On Christmas morning in Rathmines, Dublin, I woke up to my phone beeping from my handbag.

  [Text from (Unrecognised)]

  Ur not gunna feckin believe this. Danny #2 found out about Danny #1 and tried 2 go thru me phone… so I swallowed my sim card! My throat is feckin’ killin me! Luv ya babe, Siobhan Xxxx (ps. this my new number). PPS… MERRY PISSEDMAS!!! xxxx

  [Text to Siobhan]

  Omg! I’ve only been gone 1 day and you are in trouble already! I’ll call you later. But if you were able to swallow it, you should be able to pass it. Just keep your eyes peeled for a shiny shite coming down your chimney! Merry Xmas Xx

  I shook my head. Siobhan was crazy. Only she would do something like that.

  I stretched out in my cosy bed, basking in the feeling of having nothing to do; no bickering to breakup (well, apart from my sisters), just a few days of eating and drinking in front of me.

  Mum’s house was so warm and inviting. I loved being there. You could lose yourself in the big, soft, brown velour sofas whilst your feet sank deep into the shagpile carpet. The house was a medley of beiges, browns and oranges. Nothing matched, but it all worked somehow. There were little multi-coloured trinkets dotted around the place, but the one that tickled me the most was in the bathroom, in the form of a legless plastic doll, who’s meringue-esque, pale blue frilly skirt concealed the toilet roll beneath it.

  At this time of year, mum has her usual plethora of brightly coloured, gaudy Christmas decorations up. And of course, there was always a real Christmas tree; overloaded to the point of collapsing, with ill-matched, yet strangely aesthetically pleasing bits and bobs. Mum had hung Katie’s embroidered stocking on the mantel above the roaring log fire and surrounded it with tinsel. I’d always have to duck here and there whilst walking around the house, in fear of being strangled by mum’s hanging pullout paper chains. And, of course, there was the wave of two thousand or so cards, supported by cotton string and thumbtacks.

  Santa’s grotto had nothing on our over-illuminated beacon of Christmas trash.

  By the time I wandered downstairs at the blissful hour of 11am most of the hard work had already been done. The table was beautifully set for Christmas dinner, with wine glasses all placed accordingly. There was a brand new carafe filled with red wine on the table; Laura saw me and instantly poured us both a glass.

  ‘Slante,’ we both chorused and took a gulp.

  ‘Eww… what the hell is that? Is that… RIBENA?!’ Laura and I spluttered at the same time.

  Mum waltzed in on cue, ‘the doctor said your sister isn’t allowed to be near anything ‘mind altering’ while she’s on release from rehab. She could end up with one of those corse-diction things.’

  ‘I think you mean cross-addiction, mum,’ Laura corrected spitting out the remains of the offending Ribena back into her wine glass.

  ‘She’s such a pet, sure she is,’ said mum, ignoring Laura and wrinkling her nose at Katie with pride and affection.

  I watched Katie smirking behind mum’s back and then sticking her pierced tongue out at me. I did love my youngest sister; it was just so infuriating that, even when she’d done something horrendously bad, she still got praise.

  ‘My arse she’s a pet,’ I growled under my breath, unable to hold back, as I laid out the Christmas crackers. ‘She’s had more chemicals in her than a lab rat!’ I snapped, throwing a look at her that could kill.

  ‘Well, you would know about chemicals more than anyone else, Tara,’ Katie barked back. ‘You have your road-mapped face injected every week!’

  ‘I DO NOT!’ I shrieked. ‘It’s… it’s… only every once in a while!’

  I enviously looked at the beautiful, olive, clear, wrinkle-free complexion of both my sisters. I was the only one in the family that had naturally milky, winter-white skin. My artificial glow came courtesy of St. Tropez’s finest spray-tan and the tanning booth, while both of my sisters had been lucky enough to inherit mum’s beautiful skin. Even more unfairly, that was the case in the old breast department as well. The memory still smarted from the time when I’d spent hours as a teenager gently picking out the stitching from mum’s ‘Dynasty style’ jacket and borrowing the shoulder pads for my bra fillers without her knowing. Of course, I got caught putting them back one day while Katie was (apparently) on guard. I was grounded for a month. It was back to stuffing socks down my 28AA bra for me. A few years later, with help from a plastic surgeon, I got the coveted chin-hitting breasts I so desperately wanted. I deliberately went twice as big as my sisters to make a point.

  ‘Lord preserve us, where’s the turkey gone?’ mum screeched at full volume from the kitchen. The cooked bird was now utterly pathetic in size. It was like one of those little ones the cat brings in. ‘I couldn’t close the feckin’ door when it first went into the oven! Sweet Jesus… I know I cooked it as it said on the instructions (may God forgive my blasphemy).’

  We all rushed into the kitchen. By now mum was sobbing, flapping her apron up and down and blessing herself all at the same time.

  ‘Oh mum… don’t get upset,’ Laura hushed reassuringly, ‘there’s enough veg, stuffing and Yorkshire puddings to feed a small army.’

  It took mum a few minutes to calm down, but she was a trooper. With us girls rallying around her, she soon recovered her composure and resolved the ‘show must go on’.

  ‘Right, girls, that’s it - my New Year’s resolution is to attend a cooking class,’ mum said, pulling it back together in an instant. ‘It’s never too late. I will be purchasing a brand-new oven - one of those ones that them celebrity chefs have. In fact…’ she added, kicking the oven door closed with her Santa slippered foot in mock temper, ‘I want a new kitchen altogether. I’ll have to get saving… Right! Dinner - or should I say, rations - in five minutes.’

  While we were waiting for mum to put the finishing touches on the dinner, I walked ove
r to the couch where Saint Katie was lying. I handed her a Christmas cracker as a sort of olive branch because I hadn’t shown her much support over our temperance lunchtime drink of poxy Ribena. If I was honest though, I really really wanted what was inside that cracker, whatever plastic shite it turned out to be. I guess you never really get over that competitive sibling rivalry thing. Plus, I had never quite forgiven Katie for poking out the eyes of my much-loved Tiny Tears doll when I was young. She’d cut off all the hair too, the bitch. I only allowed her to play with it because mum had made me.

  We both heaved and pulled at the shiny cracker, my hand carefully placed near the middle to try and guarantee me victory. But, as it went bang, I felt the body of the cracker slip from my hand. I had lost. Katie had won the prize. It was a novelty key ring, in the form of mini handcuffs.

  ‘That’s a sign from the Big-Man upstairs.’ I said malevolently. I couldn’t help it, I had to throw something in. ‘He’s reminding you to stay on the right side of the law.’ Inexplicably, the usually robust Katie seemed to crumble at my words. Her face dropped and she looked teary. Maybe I had gone a little too far this time?

  Feeling a rush of guilt and sisterly love (and relief that it was only a pair of poxy plastic handcuffs which were of no use to me anyway), I sat down and hugged her.

  ‘We all just want the best for you,’ I said, sympathetically. ‘I would love to see you complete your Music diploma; dad would’ve been so proud of you. And then, maybe a year or so down the line, you could get yourself a nice, steady boyfriend. You are very beautiful you know, Katie,’ I stated with a forced smile. As much as I admired her floral hair garlands, tie-dye gypsy skirts and hand-made Aztec jewelry, I hated to say it. It really smarted that it was all so natural and effortless for Katie. She never wore makeup - she didn't need to.

  ‘Tara…’ Katie startled me as she suddenly sat up and looked straight at me, ‘I’ve something to tell you.’ Her eyes were lit up now and she had a beaming smile on her face.