marrying Keith I can’t inherit any more sisters.) The thought also struck me that maybe he liked my family more than he liked me, but I dismissed that one fairly quickly. Keith liked me. A lot.
It wasn’t just his eagerness to go forward that kept me pulling Keith back but also a dread of my stomach going too far forward. You’d think that after years of abusing my liver like this it would have got more efficient at dealing with the toxins, yet nowadays every hangover seems worse than the last. Well, I’m nearly not in my twenties any more. Every time I stopped and leaned over the railings to take in the docks and the estuary beyond I thought, I should really be taking stock of my life, but then my stomach heaved and I realized I had more pressing matters at hand. Keith was a sweetie, rubbing my neck and holding my hair back in case I was about to hurl. I suppose that’s one definition of love.
Eventually we made it. It’s only a twenty-minute walk from my flat on Hartstonge Street to the North Circular but we got there in about forty. We could have driven but Keith felt the need for a ceremonial walk and I thought the air might do me good. It didn’t. By the time we arrived at Sycamore Lodge I was in need of my bed and a stomach pump.
Our family home is a sizeable early-twentieth-century residence on Limerick’s exclusive North Circular Road. It is detached, lies on three-quarters of an acre, bordered on three sides by old stone and on the fourth by even older oak. It is the house I was born into and have grown up in and will, presumably, be the house I get married from. My father bought it in 1963 with money he made from his first property deal. He always says it’s the best investment he ever made.
Dad was in the garden raking up twigs that had blown off the trees. He’s no gardener but likes the way gardening makes him feel. A long time ago his family was dispossessed. I think our huge garden makes up for it a bit. He looked up and smiled at us, and in that moment I wished I had different news, something that would make him proud of me.
‘Hey, Dad!’
‘Hey, kids. Your mother’s inside.’
‘Oh, good. I thought she might still be at Mass.’
We’re going to the ten o’clock, these days. Your mother got very fed up of a choir that couldn’t sing. How are you, Keith?’
‘I’ll be in in a minute. There’s a bit of work to be done first.’
Whatever my dad does, whether it’s closing a business deal or lining up a golf shot, he likes to classify it as ‘a bit of work’.
‘Well, don’t be long. We’ve got some news.’
Even with that tantalizing rejoinder, I knew we’d be waiting a good twenty minutes for him.
My mother was in the kitchen, her favourite room. She was wearing last year’s good tweed skirt and long-sleeved silk blouse. She would have changed immediately out of this year’s good tweed skirt and long-sleeved silk blouse on coming in from Mass. She has always maintained a hierarchical wardrobe. Every year, new garments, very like the old ones, are acquired, and the existing garments relegated accordingly. This year’s are Sunday (or other) Good, last year’s are Sunday Home, the year before that’s are Everyday Meet and Greet, before that Everyday Home and so it goes. Eventually they become dusters or go to a charity shop. Whatever the occasion, Mrs David Delahunty is always dressed for it.
She was also wearing an apron, a very nice designer job Dad had bought her in Meadows and Byrne. Sunday lunch was well under way. This week it was roast spring lamb with rosemary stuffing, creamed potatoes, steamed broccoli in lemon butter, followed by Good Housekeeping’s apple crumble. Late in life, Mum discovered that being a good cook was socially acceptable.
She turned round from the cooker and beamed at us. ‘Kids! What a lovely surprise! I was only saying to Daddy this morning that we hadn’t seen you two in ages. Of course, you have loads to occupy you but I was hoping you’d drop in. I don’t know why I bother with a roast any more. I hardly see any of you. Even Jean is staying away. I don’t know