I let Honor know I’m impressed by her. Not literally, obviously; her only accomplishment for this St. Patrick’s Day was a beach clean-up at Curracloe, fulfilling her community service duties. I just want to acknowledge her taking responsibility for her actions.
She slumps into the passenger seat, sulky and reeking from her efforts. I hastily roll down all the windows before setting off towards Dublin, our home.
She’s feeling salty. Couldn’t help but tick off her done hours. I estimate around 30. She counters by asking how many are left to serve. My calculation skills aren’t fantastic, but I think she has approximately 470 remaining. She hosted an expletive-fest.
“Physical labour isn’t popular, Honor,” I remind her. She wonders whether Hennessy could have helped her avoid this situation. I remind her that, thanks to him, she escaped jail time and is only serving community service, but she thinks prison might have been better.
I argue against her sentiment. But she insists and reveals that she’s interacting with criminals during her work. She even tells me about a drug dealer she encountered who shared her number, with an intent to meet.
“What was her reason for sharing her number?” I question. I remember her anxiety attack at Loughlinstown roundabout and dismiss the notion of her meeting this drug dealer in Bray.
His gaze moves between my face and my name. Then he recognises me somehow. His reaction comes as a surprise: he seems to recognise me.
“Keep in mind, if I slip into a life of criminality, it’s primarily because you failed as a father to safeguard me.” She warns.
“Sometimes Honor, in life, there are situations where we are obliged to do that which we’d rather not.”
“I, er, was not aware of this,” responded Honor.
“Well, it’s a fact. There are occasions where all we can do is brave it out – and this happens to be one – damn it.”
“What’s the matter?”
“The Feds are tailing us. He’s signalling for us to pull in with his lights.”
“How fast were you driving?”
“Somewhere over a hundred. Damn, any more demerit points and I’ll be banned.”
“Why not try to evade them?”
“Evade them? Honestly, I’m concerned about your recent crowd. They would have noted my number plate by now.”
The bloke activated his siren then flashed his lights at me again. I had no choice but to pull over on the hard shoulder. I turn to Honor and say, “Allow me to handle the conversation, alright? The gift of the gab and all that.”
Approximately twenty seconds later, a thickset officer was standing at my window. I roll down my window halfway and ask, “What’s the issue, mate?”
He responded, “You were speeding at 138km/h.”
I feigned surprise, “Was I going that fast? What’s the speed limit around these parts?”
He cribbed, “Certainly lower than 138km/h. Could I please see your driving license?”
Just as I’m about to respond, Honor interjects, “Dad, just hit the road.”
The officer’s eyes bulged in surprise.
Feigning a sense of urgency, I said, “She’s been mixing with bad influences recently – as per court orders,” and I swiftly tug out my wallet. “Here’s my license,” and I slid it to him.
He takes a good look at my license and then my face. Then he says, out of the blue, “Do I know you from somewhere?”
Honor added, “He already has nine demerit points, possibly you’ve pulled him over before.”
To which I respond, “Honor, I specifically asked you not interfere.”
Breaking the tension, the officer casually asked, “Did you used to play football?”
I find myself saying, “Absolutely no chance,” appalled by the absurd assumption they’ve made about me.
He retorts, “You did. You were a footballer in Rathnew.”
I respond, “I’ve never taken a footie field for Rathnew, or anyone else for that matter.”
“You’re the spitting image of a chap who did.”
“All I can say is that I take offence at the suggestion.”
He’s scrutinising me intently for the longest twenty seconds, then leaves, saying, “I will return momentarily,” as he takes my driver’s licence back to his vehicle to, presumably, verify it.
Honor pipes up, “Are you being obtuse? He’s giving you a chance to save your skin.”
I reply, “Beg your pardon?”
“When a copper insinuates about football, it’s their way of saying, ‘Look, we’re on the same team here,’ in the same way a lawyer might drop a hint about their client attending a rugby school to a judge.”
Sure enough, half a minute later, the bloke is at my window again. Returning my licence, he warns, “You do realise you already have nine penalty points?”
“Look, Honor,” I object, “I’m not playing along with his Gaelic football game.”
“So, you’d rather get your licence suspended then?” She has got a point there.
I confess, “I’m not sure I could bring myself to say it.”
She quips, “Remember what you were preaching about having to do things we might not necessarily like?”
“Not every rule is unequivocal.”
“Dad, I just spent eight hours tidying up a beach – do you have any idea what things I had to handle with my bare hands?”
“I’d rather not know.”
“If I can stomach that, you can handle saying you used to play Gaelic football.”
“But where on earth is Rathnew?”
“Who gives a damn? Just admit playing football for their team. He’ll then either commend their form by saying, ‘They’re performing well, might even take the championship,’ or he’ll moan, ‘They’re having a poor season,’ then promptly advise you to reduce your speed in future. Dad, welcome to Ireland.”
Throwing my hands up, I yield, “Alright – have it your way.”
Within half a minute, the guy is back at my car window, handing me my driving permit and querying, “Are you aware you already have nine penalty scores?”
Puzzled, I replied, “How well are they performing this season?”
Confused he asked, “Who?”
“No, I mean Rathnew. Remember, not long ago you inquired whether I was ever part of their team,” I responded.
He chuckled. “Oh, now I remember! Your face seemed familiar! I don’t easily forget a face!” he declared.
Then, to my surprise, I found myself saying, “No, that’s not me. I’ve never participated in Gaelic football. Can’t stand it.”
Suddenly, Honor leans towards him and inquires, “Can you recommend a place nearby that sells Leap Cords?”