But it wasn't really about tea and ironing and the freedom to fart with impunity. What Larry really loved was the way the girls brought the world home to him. Every morning at breakfast, and when they came home for the dinner, before going out again, they talked and shouted, all of them together, and Mona in there with them.
—He said it was the Red Bull that made him do it!
—So I said, 'D'you call that a pay rise!'
—The strap was killing me!
—I'm thinkin' o' buyin' shares in Esat, did I tell yis?
—Nicearse.com. Have a look at it tomorrow.
Their voices reminded Larry of the Artane roundabout – mad, roaring traffic coming at him from all directions. And he loved it, just like he loved the Artane roundabout. Every time Larry drove onto and off that roundabout he felt modern, successful, Irish. And that was exactly how he felt when he listened to his daughters. He'd brought them up, him and Mona, to be independent young ones, and that was exactly what they were. And he trusted them, completely. He was particularly proud of himself when they were talking about sex. That was the real test, he knew – a da listening to his daughters talking about their plumbing – and they did, not a bother on them – and about their sex lives, confidently, frankly and, yeah, filthily. And Larry passed the test with flying colours. Nothing his daughters said or did ever, ever shocked him.
Until Stephanie brought home the black fella.
2 A Black Man on the Kitchen Table
It was June, the first really decent day of the summer. Nicole was eating her dinner with her legs sticking out the kitchen door, grabbing the bit of sun before it was hijacked by next-door's wall. All four of the daughters had sunglasses parked on top of their heads. Laurence, the son, had sunglasses as well, like the ones Edgar Davids, the Dutch footballer, wore. On Edgar Davids they looked impressive, terrifying, even sexy. On Laurence they looked desperate – he looked like a day-old chick that had just been pushed out of the nest. Larry's heart went out to him.
And that was why he wasn't tuned in to the girls' chat that evening. He was trying to come up with a nice way to tell poor Laurence to bring the glasses back to the shop. So he'd heard none of the usual prying and slagging, the good-natured torture and confession that he loved so much.
He was wondering if Laurence still had the receipt for the goggles when he heard Vanessa asking, 'What's he do for his money?'
—He's an accountant, said Stephanie.
Larry sat up: no daughter of his was going to get stuck with a bloody accountant.
—At least, he would be, said Stephanie, —if they let him work.
—What's that mean? said Larry.
They all looked at him. The aggression and fear in his voice had shocked even him.
—They won't let him work, said Stephanie.
—Who won't?
—I don't know, she said. —The government.
—Why not?
—Because they haven't granted him asylum yet.
—He's a refugee?
—Yeah. I suppose so.
—Where's he from?
—Nigeria.
Larry waited for the gasps, but there were none, not even from Mona. He wished now he'd been listening earlier. This mightn't have been a boyfriend she was talking about at all; it could have been someone she'd never even met.
But Vanessa put him right.
—You should see him, Da. He's gorgeous.
And all the other girls nodded and agreed.
—Dead serious looking.
—A ride.
So, it wasn't that Stephanie actually brought home the black fella. It was the idea of him, the fact of his existence out there somewhere, the fact that she'd met him and danced with him and God-knows-what-elsed with him. But, if it had been an actual black man that she'd plonked on the table in front of Larry, he couldn't have been more surprised, and angry, and hurt, and confused.
He stood up.
—He is not gorgeous! he shouted.
Nicole laughed, but stopped quickly.
—He's not gorgeous or anything else! Not in this house!
He realised he was standing up, but he didn't want to sit down again. He couldn't.
Mona spoke.
—What's wrong?
He looked at six faces looking up at him, waiting for the punchline, praying for it. Frightened faces, confused and angry.
There was nothing he could say. Nothing safe, nothing reassuring or even clear. He didn't know why he was standing there.
—Is it because he's black? said Mona.
Larry didn't let himself nod. He never thought he'd be a man who'd nod: yes, I object to another man's colour. Shame was rubbing now against his anger.
—Phil Lynott was black, love, Mona reminded him.
Phil Lynott had been singing 'Whiskey in the Jar' when Larry and Mona had stopped dancing and kissed for the first time.
And now he could talk.
—Phil Lynott was Irish! he said. —He was from Crumlin. He was fuckin' civilised!
And now Stephanie was right in front of him, tears streaming from her, and he couldn't hear a word she was screaming at him. And he couldn't see her himself now, his own tears were fighting their way out. And he wished, he wished to Christ that they could start all over again, that he could sit down and listen and stop it before all this had to happen.
It was Mona who rescued him.
—We'll have to meet him, she said.
This was just after she'd hit the table with the frying pan.
—No, said Larry.
—Yes, Larry, she said, and he knew she was right. If he kept saying No they'd all leave, all the girls. It was what he would have expected of them. 'Stand up for your rights.' That was what he'd roared after them every morning, on their way out to school. 'Get up, stand up. Don't give up the fight.'
The house was empty now. Mona had imposed a ragged peace. Larry and Stephanie had hugged each other, yards of brittle space between them. The girls had taken her down to the local. They'd be talking about him now, he knew. Racist. Bastard. Racist. Pig. His cup was empty but he hadn't noticed the tea.
—It could be worse, love, said Mona.
Larry looked at her.
—He could have been an estate agent, she said.
3 AIDS, War, the Works
—Ben, said Mona, sounding just a little bit impatient.
—Ben?
—Yeah, she said. —It hasn't changed since the last time you asked.
—It's just, I'm hopeless with foreign names, said Larry.
And Mona slammed the door. Larry watched her out in the garden, murdering the hedge with bites of the shears that, he knew, were meant for him.
It had been a week since the blow-up with Stephanie, since the invite had gone out to the black lad – he kept forgetting his name. He really did.
—Ben.
And he – Ben – was coming tonight. Larry looked at his watch. In three or four hours.
He looked out at Mona.
She was worried as well, upset, just like him. He wasn't the only one who'd been lying awake at night. She'd been getting up, wandering around downstairs. She wasn't a happy woman out there.
It had been a week of politeness, smiles and heavy silences. He could hear cutlery on the plates for the first time in years. He tortured himself for things to say, nice things that would prove he wasn't a bigot.
—Does he know Kanu? he asked Stephanie. And he couldn't believe it as he heard himself.
—Who? said Stephanie.
—The footballer, said Larry. He was stuck now. —He's Nigerian. Plays for Arsenal.
—I don't know, said Stephanie. —Do you know Roy Keane?
—No.
—Well, then.
And then she smiled, and there was a hint of an apology in it; she didn't want to make a fool of him. And he'd smiled. They'd all smiled. But, still and all, it had been the worst week that Larry could remember. All week, he'd had to think, and ask himself r
ough questions.
He asked himself questions all the time. Where did I leave my keys? Will I have the last HobNob or will I leave it for Mona? But it was a long time since a question had made him squirm. And he'd been squirming all week.
He wasn't a racist. He was sure about that now, positive – he thought. When he watched a footballer, for example, he didn't see skin; he saw skill. Paul McGrath, black and brilliant. Gary Breen, white and shite. And it was the same with music. Phil Lynott, absolutely brilliant. Neil Diamond, absolutely shite. And politics. Mandela, a hero. Ahern, a chancer. And women too. Naomi Campbell – Jaysis. There wasn't a racist bone or muscle in his body, nothing tugging at him to change his mind about Stevie Wonder or Thierry Henry because they were black. And it worked the other way too. Gary Breen, black, still shite but no worse. Naomi Campbell, white, probably still gorgeous but better off black. Bertie Ahern, black – Larry laughed for the first time in a week.
But, why then? Why didn't he want a refugee in the family?
Well, there was AIDS for a start. Africa was riddled with it. And then there was – it wasn't the poverty, exactly – it was the hugeness of it, the Live Aid pictures, the thou sands and thousands of people, the flies on their faces, the dead kids. Heartbreaking, but – what sort of a society was that? What sort of people came out of a place like that? And all the civil wars – machetes and machine-guns, and burning car tyres draped around people's necks, the savagery. Fair enough, the man was an accountant but that was the place he came from. And why had he left – what was wrong with Nigeria? He could be a criminal, like Al Pacino being thrown out of Cuba in Scarface. He could be one of those religious fanatics, or married already, two or three times for all they knew. And they'd never know – it was too far away. It was too different; that was it. Too unknowable, and too frightening for his daughter.
—Ben, he said quietly. —Howyeh, Ben. Great weather. Must remind you of home.
Could he say that? He didn't see why not. But he didn't want to hurt the lad's feelings, or get into trouble with the women. He'd be polite, fair. He'd like the lad – Ben – he'd shake his hand, and hold it long enough to prove that it wasn't about his skin.
But then what was going to happen?
He had his answers, his objections – AIDS, war, the works. But how could he list them off when they were having their dinner? And, more to the point, how could he do it if he wasn't certain, in his heart of hearts, that they were his real objections?
Larry was an honest man, but it was a long time since he'd had to prove it.
He looked at his watch.
The time was crawling. And that suited Larry just fine. He was dreading the dinner, terrified of what was going to happen.
4 A Gorgeous Smell
That was the bell.
Damn it, he had one leg in his underpants, the other one hanging over the floor. Larry had wanted to be down there to meet the black lad – Ben – at the door. Hello, Ben – not howyeh, he'd decided – 'Great weather. Must remind you of home.' But here he was, up in the bedroom, fighting his knickers. This wasn't what he'd planned at all. He didn't want Mona and the girls thinking that he was avoiding the lad, that he was being rude or just ignorant.
—Calm down, calm down, he told his fingers as they tried to button his shirt.
He'd decided against the suit. The young fella would probably be in a tracksuit. So Larry was dressing himself a bit up from that, just enough to impose his authority – the older man, the citizen, the firm but fair father. So he'd chosen the good trousers and a clean shirt, no tie. And his black shoes – where were the stupid bloody things?
Under the bloody bed. Bang in the middle, just out of reach. For a second – less than a second – he saw Mona down on her hunkers, shoving them in under there with the brush. But he shook himself; he was being stupid. He put on his runners; they were grand – nearly new, still white.
He took a quick goo at himself in the wardrobe mirror.
He'd do. He took the corner of toilet paper from just under his chin. The blood clot came with it. He was grand now, ready.
Down the stairs. Into the front room. There they all were, squeezed in. He saw all the girls first, Stephanie and Vanessa and – where was the black fella? Maybe it hadn't been him at the door at all – but Tracy stepped aside and there he was.
In a fuckin' suit.
The best, most elegant suit Larry had ever been close to. A small lad – very, very black – and completely at home in the suit. The wall looked filthy behind him.
—Howyeh, Ben, said Larry.
Damn it, he'd said Howyeh.
He took the couple of steps to shake hands with him.
The first black hand Larry had ever shaken. He felt sophisticated – not a bother on him – shaking a black hand. Not even looking at it.
He'd been expecting someone like Eddie Murphy, without the grin and the shine. But that type of look. But this was more like meeting Sidney Poitier. Larry suddenly felt that he was the one being interviewed.
—Great weather, wha'. It must remind you of home.
And then he heard it. The rain. Whacking against the window behind him. He looked, and saw a sheet of the stuff charging down the glass.
Where had it come from? It had been lovely when he'd gone up to shave. He was still hanging onto the lad's hand. There was sweat in the clinch now, and it was Larry's. He was failing here.
But they were laughing, the girls, Mona, even young Laurence. They thought Larry had been joking. They were grateful. He was breaking the ice, making the lad feel at home. For a few seconds Larry forgot why they were all there, he forgot completely. He just wanted them all to love him. Especially the black lad in the suit.
He was on the verge of saying, 'Welcome to Ireland', when he remembered what had to be done – and he looked properly at the lad for the first time and tried to see the religious fanatic, the AIDS carrier, the crook, the bigamist.
But all he could see was a small, handsome, intelligent man looking straight back at him. Not a scar or a squint; his eyes never budged from Larry's. Again, Larry felt a sudden, roaring need to impress him, a demand from his gut to be liked by him.
But the smell saved him.
It was too sweet to be aftershave and not sweet enough to be coming from Mona or the girls. It was the lad – Ben. He was wearing that men's stuff. Men's perfume.
Jesus.
Larry let go of his hand.
Larry had rules. He always held doors open for Mona when they went out together. He never let a woman cut his hair. He never put on anything that smelt – aftershave, bay rum, even talc if it was scented – they didn't get near Larry. A man with a smell was hiding something. That was what Larry believed.
And what was this guy hiding? Larry got ready to stare him out of it, to let him know that he knew. The suit hadn't fooled him. The suit and the—