Free Whose Life is it Anyway? by Sinéad Moriarty

Mother Teresa, she said, to see a living example of what miracles compassion and kindness could perform. I decided on a compromise. I’d go and make my hot chocolate, and if I could still hear him crying on my way back to bed, I’d go in and be saintly.
    After a nice hot cup of Nesquik I felt decidedly better and very sleepy. I tiptoed past the lounge, praying to anyone who’d listen for the crying to have stopped. But it hadn’t. It had got worse. Shit, I was knackered and a fifteen-year-old needs her sleep, I thought. But then I looked up and saw one of the fifteen pictures of the Pope staring down at me and knew I had to go in.
    My father was sitting in his big green velvet chair (all our furniture was green, our national colour) and crying into his hankie. He looked old and distraught. I took a deep breath and went over to him. ‘Dad? Are you OK?’
    I realized it wasn’t the most intelligent or comforting thing to say, but I was new at this.
    He tried to talk and I made out, ‘… ruined… work… for nothing… shame… eldest… beautiful…’
    ‘It’s OK, Dad. It’ll be all right. They’ll get married and everything will be OK.’
    ‘It’ll be a sham of a marriage,’ he wailed. ‘I’ve always dreamt of having a big wedding. The best of everything, all the relations over from Ireland… Me walking her up the aisle, as proud as Punch. I’ve been saving for it for years. Now it’ll be a fiasco. My beautiful Siobhan, how did it all go so wrong? I blame myself. I should never have moved to this country with its wayward morals. But what could I do? I had to get out of Ireland and make a life for myself, and sure haven’t I helped out my brothers? What a mess. I’ll never have a lovely wedding now…’
    As my father debated with himself on the pros and cons of moving to England, I fumed. How dare he say he’d never have a lovely wedding? What about me? What about dreaming of walking me up the aisle? Where was I in his matrimonial savings plan? He’d obviously taken one look at me when I was born and said, ‘Stuff that for a game of soldiers. No point putting my hard-earned cash away for that one. She’ll never get a guy to marry her.’
    Mind you, I thought, suddenly remembering my fiasco on Friday night, he was right. I never would get married. I couldn’t even snog a guy without causing mayhem. I began to cry as the image of my life of loneliness rolled out before me. Even my own father didn’t think I had a hope in hell.
    He handed me his hankie and smiled at me. ‘Poor old Niamh. It’s been a shock for you too,’ he said, patting my head. ‘Come on, it’s way past your bedtime and you’ve school tomorrow.’
    ‘School? I can’t go to school tomorrow, Dad. Everyone will be looking at me. Besides, I’m suffering from traumatic shock. I want to stay at home tomorrow with Siobhan and Mum. I’ll go in on Tuesday.’
    ‘You’ll go to school tomorrow and act as if nothing has happened. Nobody knows anything yet, and until we speak to Liam’s parents no decision will be made. I’ve one daughter with her future ruined, I won’t have another. You’ll go to school and concentrate on your books. I want no nonsense out of you, Niamh. I’m going to ask Sister Patricia to keep an extra eye on you. I’ll be damned if this happens again. In fact, I’ve a good mind to send you to boarding-school in Ireland.’
    ‘ Nooooo , Dad, don’t do that. I promise I’ll be good. I swear I will!’
    ‘Go on now, off to bed with you. I’m too tired to argue. I’ll see you in the morning.’ And with that he shuffled upstairs in his slippers, shoulders slumped.
    Could this day get any worse? Now I was to be banished to boarding-school in Bally-go-sideways because Siobhan was an old slapper. The injustice of it!
    First I was always in the wrong because the perfect Siobhan was always in the right, and now that she’d gone and got herself up the duff, I was being punished too. I couldn’t win. No