Whose Life is it Anyway? Read Online Free PDF Page B

‘you’re going to have to come up with something better than that. Otherwise he’ll hit the roof. Think of a good reason why you can’t do it any more – like a new hobby. Tell him you want to take tin-whistle lessons to learn the old Irish songs, or concentrate on camogie or something like that.’
    My brother Finn had got out of having to do Irish dancing by excelling at hurley. He said Irish dancing was for fags and there was no way he was going to prance around on a stage in a velvet suit. He was sympathetic to my plight.
    ‘But I don’t want to play a made-up Irish game where you run after a little ball with a stupid stick,’ I wailed. ‘I want to do tap-dancing classes with Sarah. She said it’s brilliant.’
    ‘You’re a sucker for punishment,’ said Finn, in alarm. ‘Look, bring it up at dinner tonight and I’ll do what I can to help you out. But he’s going to go mad.’
    Later that day, I waited until my mother had served everyone their apple crumble, then pounced.
    ‘Dad,’ I said, my voice shaking, ‘you know the way I’m not very good at Irish dancing and Siobhan is brilliant and wins all the competitions? Well, there’s something I think I could be really good at and Sarah’s started lessons already and says it’s great fun. So I was wondering if maybe I could stop Irish dancing and take up tap instead. If that’s OK with you.’
    Silence from my father. My mother shook her head to warn me to stop before I made it worse and Siobhan was running her knife across her throat, mouthing, ‘You’re dead.’ Finn sank back into his chair.
    My father turned a deep shade of red, put his spoon down, leant over to me and roared, ‘No daughter of mine will be prancing around in her underwear to that racy black music. You will continue with your Irish dancing and you will take extra lessons so that you can improve like your sister Siobhan who never gives me a day of trouble. I did not move to this country twenty years ago, with nothing but the shirt on my back, to raise children with no respect for their heritage and culture. I have worked myself to the bone…’
    That was when he launched into his usual litany: ‘I had no money… I came over to London at sixteen years of age and worked on a building site… I saved my money, I started up my own company and now employ my four brothers and sixty other Irishmen… I didn’t want to leave my beautiful country, but I had no choice.’ Normally at this point tears welled in his eyes. ‘I had to make my way and help out the family… I was lucky enough to meet a lovely Irish girl and settle down. You are Irish through and through and don’t you ever forget it.
    ‘Niamh,’ he said sternly, ‘I will have no more of this nonsense. I don’t want you seeing that young Sarah Cooke any more. She’s a bad influence on you.’
    ‘You can’t stop me seeing her – she’s my only real friend. I promise I won’t bring up tap again,’ I squealed, feeling sick at the prospect of not seeing Sarah. I’d die without her. She kept me sane. Although her parents were atheists, they had sent their daughter to an all-girls’ Catholic convent school because it had excellent exam results. They were very cool: she was allowed to watch Top of the Pops and Dallas . I was only allowed watch Top of the Pops when Foster and Allen were on it in their leprechaun suits with my father howling along to ‘A Bunch of Thyme’. And Dallas was considered almost pornographic in our house, although I had caught my mother watching it once or twice when Dad was out.
    Sarah went on holidays to Brighton and Cornwall, snogged handsome English boys and had adventures. Her parents let her live the life of a normal teenager. For our summer holidays, we were always shipped over to my aunt Nora’s farm in Ballyban to help milk the cows and fetch the eggs. It was really boring. Her house stank of cow dung and there were flies everywhere. Getting up at six to milk cows was supposed to be