Whose Life is it Anyway? (29 page)

‘Of course.’

‘Promise you won’t tell anyone?’

‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

‘I hate Irish dancing.’

I roared laughing, which was not the reaction she expected.

‘Sssh,’ she said, glancing round in a panic.

‘I’m sorry, pet. It’s just that I hated it too. Why don’t you like it? Your mum said you’re really good.’

‘It’s geeky.’

‘I thought it was cool now, since the whole
Riverdance
explosion.’

She shook her head. ‘No, it’s not. Being good at tennis is cool. Being good at gymnastics is cool. Irish dancing is for nerds. I hate the stupid dresses and the silly hair.’

‘But you look gorgeous.’

‘I’m wearing a curtain,’ she said, mirroring my exact thoughts at the same age.

‘Yes, but you wear it so well. I looked like an idiot in my dresses, but you look like a star.’

‘I don’t want to do it any more. It’s so embarrassing. What I really want is to do ballet. I know I’d be good at it. There’s a ballet school in Marylebone that’s supposed to be brilliant. I want to go there. They do classes all day Saturday. Make Mum let me go – please, Niamh.’

I looked down at her pleading face and felt a pang of sympathy. She was just like me when I was younger, desperate to move away from her Irishness and do something more mainstream. But, unlike me, she was talented. ‘Don’t you want to do something you’re good at? You could win competitions.’

She gazed at me scornfully. ‘The only competition I want to win is in ballet. I thought you’d understand. I thought you’d be on my side. Mum said you were always causing trouble and fighting with Granddad.’

‘I didn’t cause that much trouble,’ I said, annoyed at Siobhan for slating me to her kids. ‘And I am on your side. I just want you to think about what you’d be giving up. You might not be as good at ballet as you are at Irish dancing. It might be a let-down for you. That’s all.’

‘I want to be a prima ballerina,’ she said, getting tearful. ‘It’s my dream. I’m going to dance at Covent Garden.’

‘OK, don’t get upset. I’ll try and help you, but I’m not sure what I can do.’

‘Talk to my mum. Make her see that the ballet school is a good idea. Make her see that I don’t want to be a stupid Irish dancer.’

‘Has she any idea how you feel?’

‘I tried to tell her but she just said I was being silly and went on and on about how great it is to be Irish and how we have to keep our culture alive over here. I don’t care about stinky old Ireland. I never want to leave London.’

‘You’ll change,’ I said, smiling at her. She was so like me, fighting to fit in, resisting talk of tradition and heritage. ‘When you grow up you’ll realize that it’s actually quite cool to be Irish and English. You can have the best of both worlds.’

‘When I’m eighteen I’m going to change my name. A ballerina can’t be called Muireann. It’s a stupid name that no one can say. I’m going to change it to Olga.’

I tried to hide a smile. I had predicted that Muireann would be a troublesome name for a girl growing up in London. But the new mature me loved it. ‘Olga’s a bit Russian, isn’t it? Muireann’s lovely and it’s sentimental too. You were called after your dad’s granny.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘As if I didn’t know that. I hear it every day. Can you imagine a ballerina called Muireann? I don’t think so.’

‘Olga O’Loughlin’s going to sound a bit strange.’

‘I won’t need a surname. I’ll be like Mariah or Shania. No one uses their second names. Everyone just knows who they are.’

She had it all planned out. I just hoped she was good at ballet because it was going to be a big disappointment if she wasn’t. She already had her name in lights at Covent Garden. Still, I’d thought I was going to be the next Ginger Rogers. It’d wear off.

‘I have to be allowed to do ballet,’ she said, gripping my arm. ‘I want to wear tutus and ballet slippers, not clumpy black brogues.’

‘OK, I’ll talk to your mum and try to make her see your point of view, but I can’t promise anything. I’ll do my best.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, hugging me. ‘I’ll never forget this.’

I smiled down at her. In her little eleven-year-old head this was life or death. Just like tap dancing had been to me. We were cut from the same cloth.

It was ironic. Here I was, back in London seeking my sister’s help in persuading Dad that marrying a black agnostic was my destiny, and now my niece needed me to persuade Siobhan that ballet was hers. If I could persuade Siobhan to let Muireann do ballet, maybe I could persuade my parents that Pierre was my perfect match.

I waited for the right moment. The six-year-olds were dancing and none of Siobhan’s kids was competing. I wandered over to her. ‘I was just talking to Muireann,’ I said. ‘She was saying she’s not as keen on Irish dancing as her sisters.’

Siobhan’s head snapped round. ‘What do you mean? Have you been putting ideas into her head?’

‘No! I didn’t say a word. She just mentioned she’d like to try ballet. If she’s good at Irish dancing she might be good at ballet too.’

‘She’s not
good
at Irish dancing, she’s
brilliant
,’ said Siobhan, glaring at me. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you kept your nose out of my family’s affairs.’

‘Jesus, Siobhan, Muireann approached me. All I did was listen to the poor girl. She’s really upset. She doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. She knows how keen you are for her to continue with the Irish dancing but she wants the opportunity to try ballet. Couldn’t you get her a few lessons and see if she’s any good? It might satisfy her curiosity. Remember me with tap dancing? It only lasted a few months.’

‘You didn’t have any talent. If Muireann gives up Irish dancing she’s throwing away a God-given gift. It’d be a sin to waste it.’

‘Not if she’s miserable.’

‘Teenagers change their minds every five minutes. She’ll get over this ballet thing in a few weeks.’

‘What if she doesn’t? What if she has a natural ability for ballet too? Surely you don’t want to deny her the chance to try.’

Siobhan sighed. ‘Muireann saw a film about a ballerina a week ago and since then all she wants to do is ballet. Six months ago she wanted to be Britney Spears. It’s a phase, it’ll wear off. I know my daughter. She’s actually very like you, impulsive and stubborn.’

In the space of a few hours I’d gone from being pretty and clever to impulsive and stubborn. As Siobhan walked off, Muireann came up to me.

‘Well? Did you get her to say yes?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘You mean no,’ said my niece, accusingly.

‘Sorry.’

‘Thanks for nothing,’ she said, and stomped off to slate me to her friends.

Judging by my ballet fiasco, I was never going to persuade Mum and Dad that Pierre was the man for me. I was truly, utterly screwed.

36

I went to meet Pierre at the airport. I hadn’t seen him in more than a week and I had missed him terribly. I ran over as soon as I saw him and we hugged and kissed like long-lost lovers.

‘God, I missed you,’ he said.

‘Me too.’

‘So, have you told them yet?’

‘We’re going to meet my sister and my auntie Nuala today. After that we’ll tackle my parents,’ I fudged.

‘So you haven’t.’

‘I told you I wanted Dad to have a week or two to recover first. I’ll tell them in the next day or so. By the time you get back from your visit to your parents in Oxford, the deed will be done, I promise.’

‘OK, but that’s it, Niamh. Friday is the final deadline. We need to get a move on with the wedding plans.’

‘I know, I know. Anyway, look, you’re getting to meet two members of my family today for lunch. Siobhan, who, although she drives me mad at times, is very important to me, and Nuala, who is like my second mother. If we can get them on-side it’ll be a huge help with Mum and Dad.’

‘No pressure, then.’

‘None.’ I grinned.

‘Anything I shouldn’t say?’

‘Don’t tell them we live together. Don’t mention sex or religion. When they ask you what you do, give them the short version. No offence but the ins and outs of phonetics are a bit heavy for lunch. Don’t mention Vancouver and don’t mention the wedding.’

‘Can I tell them my name?’

‘I’m being practical. With my family you feed them information slowly. Siobhan knows about Canada, but Nuala doesn’t.’

‘Is there anything I can talk about?’

‘Me. Tell them how much you love me and how wonderful I am.’

‘I think I can manage that.’

I had booked Pierre into a hotel in Fulham for the night. He was going to visit his parents the next morning. He checked in and went to drop off his bags. I hurried him along as I didn’t want to be late for the lunch. I made him change his shirt twice. Although Pierre was more English than French in his attitude and the way he spoke, his dress sense was a little flamboyant. He was prone to wearing brightly coloured shirts. My family were a blue-shirt kind of bunch. I didn’t want Pierre arriving into the lunch in one of his red creations.

‘But I like that one,’ he complained.

‘I know, but trust me, the blue one will go down much better. If you turn up in the red one they’ll think you’re gay.’

He laughed.

‘I’m serious.’

‘Come on!’

‘Pierre, no man in my family has ever worn a shirt that wasn’t blue or white. We had one uncle who turned up in a yellow one and he was slagged so badly he never wore it again. When we’re on our own you can wear what you want – although, to be honest, I’m not a big fan of the red shirt, or the bright green one for that matter – but with my family, tone it down.’

‘I don’t tell you how to dress with my family.’

‘No, but your mother does.’

‘I wasn’t sorry to see the tracksuits go,’ he admitted.

‘That’s all that’s going. I like my clothes.’

‘I like you out of them,’ he said, grabbing my bum.

‘Not now, we’re late. Come on, put the boring blue one on. Oh, and one other thing. Try not to wave your arms about too much when you’re talking.’

Pierre rolled his eyes. ‘It was easier to get a degree than meet your family.’

When we got to the restaurant, Siobhan and Nuala were pretending not to see us, although I could see them staring from behind their menus.

‘I presume they’re the two ladies sitting in the corner gaping at me open-mouthed,’ muttered Pierre.

‘Yes, that’s them,’ I said, as my stomach lurched. I was praying they’d like him.

We walked over and I introduced Pierre. They all shook hands and we sat down. There was silence.

‘Harry Belafonte,’ exclaimed Nuala.

‘I’m sorry?’ said Pierre.

‘That’s who you look like. The image of him.’

‘Who’s Harry Belafonte?’ I asked.

Pierre and Nuala laughed.

‘He’s one of the most famous singers from the fifties and sixties,’ said Nuala. ‘He sang “The Banana Boat Song”.’

Siobhan and I looked at her blankly.

‘“Day-o,”’ sang Pierre.

‘“Daaaaaay-o,”’ sang Nuala.

‘“Day-li-light and I wan’ go home,”’ they sang in unison, laughing as they finished.

‘Oh, I like that song,’ I said.

‘He was an actor too,’ said Nuala.

‘And an advocate for civil rights,’ said Pierre. ‘He was one of Martin Luther King’s confidants and helped organize the march on Washington in ’sixty-three.’

‘I’ve never heard of him,’ said Siobhan.

‘I think he’s more our generation than yours,’ Pierre said, winking at Nuala – who blushed!

‘Oh, now, Pierre, I think I’m a little older than you,’ she flirted.

‘You certainly don’t look it,’ said Pierre, using his French charm to win her over.

She beamed at him.

Then, turning to Siobhan, he continued the charm offensive. ‘Tell me, Siobhan, how are your daughters? I’ve seen photos of them, they’re cracking-looking girls.’

‘Oh, they’re very well, thanks. They all won medals at the
fèis
last week. Muireann, my eldest, won best overall dancer. She’s very talented.’

‘I believe you were a champion dancer yourself. Niamh told me you won every competition you entered.’

Siobhan blushed. Bloody hell, this was incredible!

‘I wasn’t bad in my day, but sure it’s behind me now,’ she said, sitting up straighter.

‘I don’t know about that. Once a dancer always a dancer.’

‘Pierre, what is it you do?’ asked Nuala, batting her eyelids.

Pierre, despite my warnings, gave them the long version. He was very passionate about phonetics, and although I knew most of what he was saying was going straight over their heads, my sister and aunt hung on his every word like star pupils.

The lunch continued, with Pierre plying Nuala and Siobhan with wine and charming them with stories of moving to Oxford aged ten and trying to fit into his new posh school – French, black and terrified. ‘Can you imagine it? I was an easy target for bullying, but it didn’t last long. I learnt to speak English in record time and lost my French accent as fast as I could. I just wanted to fit in. I was sporty too, which helped.’

‘I can see that. You look very fit,’ said my lush of an aunt.

‘What did you play?’ asked Siobhan.

‘Rugby, and then I did a bit of rowing in college, but it’s a long time ago now.’

‘Once a sportsman, always a sportsman,’ said Siobhan, smiling at him.

I couldn’t believe it. This was so much easier than I’d thought. Maybe Mum and Dad would be fine about it too.

But then Nuala piped up, ‘Niamh tells me you’re not religious.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Pierre, as I kicked him under the table to stop him going into a long diatribe on the futility of organized religion.

‘And you’ve no Irish blood in you?’ asked Nuala.

‘None. Sorry.’

‘Do your parents have any Irish friends in Oxford?’ asked Siobhan.

He shook his head.

‘Come on now, Pierre, we need you to help us out here. You’re a lovely lad, very handsome, but Niamh’s parents are not going to be happy about this match. There must be someone Irish in your past,’ said Nuala.

Pierre thought for a minute, then said, ‘There was an Irish matron at school, Molly. She used to look after us when we were sick.’