Irish Dairy

Sainsbury’s, May 2021

“Uncle Kieran can I have these water pistols?”

It’s been 30 years since I last took a child grocery shopping. It was bad enough in the 1980s with the kids wanting the sweets at the end of the checkout and all that. Fast forward to the 21st century and the problem has mushroomed, along with the size of supermarkets in general.

Before I went to prison supermarkets only sold food. These days they sell everything from sun-dried tomatoes to fecking funeral plans. Nothing is sacred from these corporate giants. There are whole sections devoted to toys so there’s no avoiding the inevitable pleas from children presented with their every wildest dream every time you call in for a pint of milk. Our Matthew’s grandson Rory is no different. The little lad is only four years old and to him this toy section is like every Christmas morning he’s ever dreamed of all rolled in to one.

“Eh?” I say.

Rory lifts a box of four water pistols from the shelf and almost topples over under the weight of them. I grab it quick and steady him before he smacks his head off the corner of a shelf.

“Woah,” I say to him, “steady on, our kid.”

“I want these water pistols,” Rory says emphatically, “there’s four altogether. You, me, Uncle Nicky and Grandad can all play with them in the garden.”

I look at the box. The pistols are nothing special. I’ve seen more power in a carrot. But the kid is right. It’s a boiling hot day and perhaps an hour in the garden shooting each other up is exactly what this fecked up family needs to bond.

And who can say no to little Rory, who hasn’t seen his daddy in over a year. His Dad Deaglan has been stuck in New York over this bloody pandemic, unable to get home to his son and rather conveniently missing out on all the drama we have going on here. The kid, innocently caught in the middle of it all, deserves a little joy in his life. I take a pistol out of the box and work my finger over the trigger, pretending to shoot, while Rory laughs and crouches down low.

“Aye you can have them,” I tell him, and ruffle his hair with my fingers.

Right on cue the ever uptight Nicky slides up to us, almost falling over himself in his desperation to spoil any fun. He’s swaggering about in his police uniform with a stick up his arse as usual. No tie or epaulettes but you can still tell he’s an off-duty police officer. The prick.

“I don’t think so,” he says rather efficiently as he plucks the box and the pistols out of my hands.

“What the f…Nicky!” I say, and pull the box back from him, “what’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t think it’s appropriate for children to play with guns,” Nicky says matter-of-factly.

“Aww!” Rory whines, “please, Uncle Nicky!”

His face creases and I can’t bear to see him look sad. I know from experience that arguing with Nicky isn’t easy. He’s a jumped-up, self-important and arrogant little bastard. In fact he’s just like me when I was his age. It amuses me somewhat. I know that he’ll get wound up like a clock if I challenge his decision - and I’m really trying to make friends with him, honest - but I’ve got to try and change his mind, for the little lad’s sake.

“Well they’re only water pistols,” I say with a little shrug, “not gonna do much damage with them, eh, Nick auld fella?”

Nicky pulls a straight-laced expression and looks down his nose at me like a seasoned bloodhound would look at a yapping pup. He thinks I’m scum, I realise as we face each other off. He’ll always look down on me like this, because in his bright, British eyes I’ll always represent the dangerous side of Ireland. I feel the vein on my temple flicker. I have to take a deep breath to keep my cool.

“It’s not about any potential risk of damage,” Nicky breaks the tension between us with a belittling sniff, “it’s about the psychology. Teaching children that guns are good fun and can’t hurt anyone is a slippery slip. Before we know it he’ll be twelve years old and shooting up his gym class.”

“Fuck off Nicky, this is England, not America,” I try to laugh off his point but he just keeps staring.

“And I don’t think you, of all people, Kieran O'Driscoll, are in any position at all to be encouraging my nephew to take an interest in firearms,” Nicky looks down his nose at me again.

I’ve been trying hard to handle his snooty arrogance for weeks. I really have. But something inside me snaps.

“Why?” I ask, squaring up to him, “because I was in the IRA? Is that it?”

I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m 79 years old. Nicky is 45. I haven’t got a chance against him in a fight, especially not with all his police training, but it’s my pride that pushes me on. I have to stand up for myself, be a man about it. Teach this little arsehole a lesson.

“Yeah, it is actually,” Nicky nods his head, “because you dealt firearms for terrorist organisation. And I don’t want you playing with any sort of gun, imitation or otherwise, in front of my brother’s son.”

Deaglan is Nicky’s own twin brother. They’ve never met. They were seperated at birth. Deaglan stayed in Ireland with Matthew, Nicky went to England with Kate. And now he fancies himself as the big Englishman, the creme de la creme of Britishness, superior above each and all other nationalities. And he spent his whole life loathing the Irish for putting his mother in a wheelchair. She was was a British soldier, victim of an IRA bomb, Newry police station, 1975. She was pregnant with the twins, though she didn't know it at the time. All three of them were lucky to survive only for her injuries to force a seperation between them all.

It was a terrible shock to poor Nicholas Jamie Hawley when he discovered that his father was not, as his mother always told him, a dead British soldier who died for his country in a halo of bullets. His father Matthew is in fact a proud Ulsterman who is very much alive and even did time for murder. It was an even bigger shock to learn that he has an identical twin brother he's never met. A man who shares his face and speaks with an Irish lilt. Nicky’s brain must have exploded inside his skull when it tried to digest this information. When he realised that half of him bled for Ireland it nearly knocked him sick.

But he had to get used to the idea because this pandemic threw us all together under the same roof, forcing us to learn to love and live with each other. And so here we are, factions of a long-estranged family trying to find common ground, and about to start fighting over water pistols in Sainsbury’s.

“You’ll never forgive me for being ex-IRA, will you?” I ask him.

“Never,” Nicky lifts his chin, “once a terrorist, always a terrorist in my book.”

“I did my time, Nicholas,” I tell him, “27 years in a hell-hole of a prison. Oh Lord I suffered. And I’m deeply sorry for my transgressions as a younger man.”

“Sorry will never be enough,” Nicky whispers, “what your sort did to my mother…”

I close my eyes. I don’t like think of it. And all this upset over some water pistols to make the little lad happy!

The Voice of Reason enters stage left. Here is Matthew O'Driscoll, everyone’s favourite peace-keeping fence-sitter. He spent an age parking the car and has only just joined us. He’s as Irish as I am but everyone loves him, even Nicky, because…well because he’s Matthew. Need I say more?

Matthew is astute. He studies the body language between me and his long-lost son and folds his arms, awaiting explanation.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“The wee bairn wanted a few water pistols to play with,” I said, “and PC Gobshite over here has got an issue with it.”

Matthew looks at Nicky who blushes a little as if he suddenly feels rather foolish.

“I didn’t think it was ok,” he says. His mouth is suddenly dry and he swallows, “to promote guns to a child. I’m in Loco Parentis for Rory. Deaglan has trusted me to look after him. I don’t want to fuck it up and send the kid back to his dad thinking guns are ok. Because they’re not. What would Deaglan think of me?”

He gives Matthew a slow look. Matthew nods his head. He is trying to understand Nicky’s perspective. The man is nervous about all this family stuff. He’s still reeling from the shock of discovering he has a family he never knew, that the family is Irish, that there is a man out there in the world who shares his face. Appearance and reputation is key right now. Nicky has never been a parent and suddenly, thanks to the pandemic, he’s stepping in to care for his twin brother’s son. He wants to do a good job. Of course he does.

It’s interesting that Nicky never gives Matthew any stick about being Irish. Let’s not forget that Matthew did prison time too. In 1994 he shot his own best mate in the head to stop the IRA from kidnapping and torturing him. We’ve never spoken about the fact it was me who ordered Brophy’s kidnapping in the first place. If I’d have got my hands on Donnachadh Brophy all those years I’d have cut his balls off, fried them in Crisp N Dry oil, added little salt and pepper to taste and made the cunt eat them. But not now. I’ve mellowed out now. I’m not like that any more. I wouldn’t hurt a hair on Brophy’s head if he were alive today. And I don’t deal in guns. Except water pistols because…well they’re water pistols for feck’s sake.

“You mean you’ve taken offence to Kieran handling a gun because he’s Irish, is it that it?” Matthew asks.

“Not because he’s Irish, per se,” Nicky says, “but because of…it’s because he has previous.”

Matthew nods. The simple action brings calm to the situation. Nicky is feeling heard. He relaxes a little.

“I know you still suffer the fear of the IRA,” Matthew says to him softly, “I know as a kid they haunted your dreams. You grew up thinking you had to protect your Mammy from them. But it’s all in the past, Nicky. Wether we like it or not we’re all together now and there are things we have to forgive each other for if we’re going to survive this virus. And survive as a family. Because that’s all any of us ever longed for, isn’t it? It’s time to let go, son.”

Matthew takes the pistol from Nicky’s grip. The police officer tightens but then releases his hold, surrendering control to the father he never knew he had, and letting go of the toy gun. It’s very poignant, metaphorical moment. Makes the man in me uncomfortable so I try to inject some humour to make it bearable.

“Fecking hell,” I scoff, “who do you think you are Matty eh? A walking example of the Good Friday Agreement?”

Matthew doesn’t take his eyes from Nicky’s face. A silent agreement is passing between them.

“Shut up, Ki,” Matthew says without looking at me, “it’s all right, Nicky. We’re going to take these pistols home, fill them up with water and have a big old laugh together. Three generations shooting cold water at each other. And it will be safe, it will be ok. Because it’s what families do together all the time.”

“Ok,” Nicky starts scratching at his arms in that way he has when needs to self-soothe with a wash, “we’ll have a water fight. Together. But I’ll need to get a shower first.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Matthew nodded.

He understands Nicky’s need to be clean better than I do. I’ve never known a man so obsessed with washing his skin, changing his clothes, marinating in aftershave because unfamiliar smells upset him. As soon as you walk into the house we all share his first question is 'have you washed your hands?’ He won’t let you touch anything until you wash your own hands at the kitchen sink. Which by the way is a Belfast model. That little detail is lost on Nicky. It brings me a private sort of amusement.

Nicky’s scratching intensifies. We’ll have to hurry up with the shopping now because he has it in his head that he needs a wash and a preen. If he doesn’t get to a shower soon he’ll start getting all upset with himself. There’s no time to argue now.

Matthew hands the pistol to the four-year-old whose innocence is responsible for bringing us all together. And then we all walk on, four abreast, to find the pint of milk we all came in looking for in the first place.