A family affair
Picture the scene: It’s summertime. A Friday morning. You awake and stretch contentedly, already looking forward to the weekend ahead. You reach out for your beloved, your spouse, the one with whom you plan to see out your days. But they’re not there. Their side of the bed is empty. This is unusual, they’re never up first, you’ve always been the early riser in this marriage.
Dressing quickly, you descend the stairs, wondering if they’ve chosen to break the habit of a lifetime and make you breakfast. But no, there’s not so much as a cup of coffee waiting for you. Just an irate partner sat at the kitchen table.
“Morning?” you venture, worried but not sure why. “I’m leaving you,” they reply. You suppress a giggle, relieved that it’s just another of their silly jokes. “I’m serious,” they say, stony-faced. “Okay then, like a cup of tea before you go?” you ask, enjoying yourself now, wondering if this play-fight might lead to a rare bout of slap n’ tickle. “Listen to me,” they hiss, “I’m leaving you, it’s over. Do you understand?”
You scan their face for signs of mirth; a curling of the lips, a lightness in their eyes. But there’s nothing, it’s like looking into an abyss. The person you’ve shared an entire lifetime with, your partner in sickness and in health, is no longer there. “But. Why?” you stammer, your world falling apart, “what did I do?” “It’s not what you did,” they answer, “more what you didn’t do.”
Recriminations follow; tearful phone-calls to disbelieving relatives, apologies for misdemeanours unknown, plaintive vows to change, to do whatever it takes. But the facts don’t change: It’s over, they’re leaving, you’re on your own. “When do you think you’ll go?” you ask tentatively. “I haven’t decided,” they reply, haughtily, “but it’ll probably be about three years from now.”
Three years? You’re well aware that divorce proceedings can be drawn out, messy affairs, but three years? Surely there must be some mistake? “Three years?” you ask. “Yes, and I intend to live here for the duration.” Head spinning, you listen on as the details of the split are laid out for your delectation. “I’ll be going in approximately three years, but in the meantime, I’ll regularly update you on my plans for the future. You’ll receive daily emails, dozens of them, outlining just how much money you’re going to lose when I leave. There’ll be phone calls too, mostly from my lawyer, but some directly from me, mocking you, telling you about the new house I’m moving into with my new partner, and all the great sex we’re going to have there.”
Presented with this set of circumstances, how long do you think you’d last? How long would it be before you abandoned all semblance of civility and forcibly ejected your one-time sweetheart from your marital abode? I reckon I’d last about a day, losing the plot somewhere between the first phone call and the sixteenth email, bagging up her belongings in some bin-liners and slamming the door in her face, warning her never to return. That’s just me though, I’m quite impulsive.
The European Union on the other hand has the patience of a saint. It’s more than happy to pander to the shenanigans of those who want out, to engage in lengthy debates about how two quarrelling lovers should part amicably and to listen to its own methods and practises derided by one whom they once held so dear. It’s stoical in the face of provocation, magnanimous rather than bitter, content to facilitate Britain’s departure with the kind of stiff upper-lip its soon-to-be ex is renowned for.
That’s all well and good though, it’s truly fantastic that at least one of the adults is being mature about this, that Mammy is taking Daddy’s mid-life crisis in her stride. What about the kids though? Where do they come into things? Don’t they get a say? Well, it’s already been proven that Scotland, the eldest, most troublesome child, has no say whatsoever. They were given an opportunity to speak their piece and all they could do was mumble some shit about still liking Daddy even though he’s always been horrible to them.
Wales, the second eldest, barely even noticed there was an argument going on, and Northern Ireland, that difficult, unloved middle-child peculiar to all large families, was mostly too afraid to get involved even though it prefers Mammy and would really like to go live with her. Which leaves us, the baby, the rebel, the one who looked Daddy in the eye many moons ago and said, “to hell with you and your tyrannical ways,” before high-tailing it to the hills. Once there we vowed never to look back, to live our lives without interference, independent and grown-up, free of him and his ways.
Except, we didn’t really do that. Yes, we may have got out of the house and struck out on our own, but this was Daddy, big powerful Daddy. We relied upon him, still needed him, Mammy was great and all, but there was no telling how long she’d last, or what way her moods would swing on any given day. No, Daddy was the one, the one we had to keep on side, even though we didn’t really like him that much. And, over time, we grew to tolerate him, valuing his economical acumen if not his tendency to belittle us and make fun of us when he thought we weren’t listening.
When he announced that he was leaving her we, unlike the rest of the kids, nailed our colours firmly to the mast. We were in the Mammy camp, off with ya Daddy and tell Wales he’s only a bollix. But, as we’ve since discovered, it’s not that simple, it never is where families are concerned. Far from being a case of moving in with Mammy and pretending Daddy never existed, we’ve been caught in between, part of a custody battle where both parents would sooner be rid of all its snot-nosed offspring.
Too busy settling their own disputes, us kids have been left to our own devices, unloved and uncared for we’ve taken to speculating about our own future, the topic turning to living arrangements. Come live with us and Mammy we said to Scotland, knowing that for all its bluster it’d never leave the sanctity of Daddy’s monied estate. What about you Northern Ireland, we jested, half-afraid of getting a few digs for even broaching the subject. “Ah,” it said, “could we not move in with Mammy and ye move out?”
But that’s all it is; speculation. We know exactly how it’s going to finish. Nothing will change. The others will all stay with Daddy, terrified that any show of defiance will see the purse-strings tightened and the pocket money cancelled. Scotland and Wales, they’ll watch on in silence as Mammy walks out the door, sad that she’s gone but not sad enough to call her back. The North, momentarily torn, might mouth a silent, insincere goodbye before hopping up on Daddy’s lap and asking him to tell the one about the time he kicked Scotland up the arse.
And us? We’ll do what we always do. We’ll plough our own furrow; nominally aligned to Mammy, doing everything she tells us and being the bestest boy in all of Europe; but all the while keeping Daddy sweet, letting him know how much he means to us, how we could never live without him and how he was dead right to leave Mammy, the insufferable cow. And we’ll get away with it, ‘cos the youngest gets away with everything.
Cop yourself on
If you’re a regular reader of this column you will, by now, be aware of my religious beliefs, or lack thereof. Yet, despite my views I fully support the right of those of faith to practise their religion whenever and wherever the occasion calls for it.
Allied to that, is a belief that, as a democratic society, we must accept the will of the people whether we agree with it or not. However, in Dáil Eireann at least, it appears that neither democracy nor the rights of others are particularly valued.
Led by Solidarity TD, Ruth Coppinger, a coterie of our elected officials are refusing to stand for the daily Dáil prayer, believing that such rituals have no place in a cosmopolitan, multi-denominal workplace. Ordinarily I would agree with Deputy Coppinger’s stance, reasoning she is well within her rights to oppose any enforced ceremonies.
But this was put to a vote. Coppinger, and her allies cast theirs and came out on the wrong side, just as those who ran against them in the general election did last year. Accepting defeat and its consequences is part of every politician’s lot, every politician apart from Ruth Coppinger that is.
