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honour of some championship event). She also had cat green eyes and I had big round brown ones, like a cow’s. Finn, in fairness to him, was no looker. He had dark brown hair, brown eyes and big brown freckles all over his body. But he had a cheeky grin and lots of confidence because he was good at hurley, so somehow he got away with it.
    I think my grandparents felt sorry for me. Granny was always telling me I had great potential. She never specified in what area, but it still made me feel better. I didn’t feel like a complete loser when I was with them. They lived in a small house on the outskirts of Dublin and when we arrived we were made feel like the most important guests in the world. They always had our favourite food waiting for us. Siobhan liked potato cakes (she would, wouldn’t she?), Finn liked roast chicken and I liked bacon butties with HP brown sauce, much to my father’s disgust.
    Granny Byrne always had HP brown sauce especially for me and I loved her for it. She was also the first person I confided in about my hatred of Irish dancing.
    So it was Granny Byrne I called after my row with my father.
    ‘I know it’s hard, Niamh, darling, I never liked it much myself. Maybe you could say you were going to Irish dancing on Saturdays and do tap instead. Didn’t you say they were in the same building?’
    ‘You mean lie to Dad?’ I said, shocked. Grannies didn’t encourage their grandchildren to lie to their parents.
    ‘No, not lie to him,’ Granny Byrne said, back-pedalling furiously. ‘But maybe you could do a tap class after the Irish-dancing class. You wouldn’t have to tell your dad you were doing it. Just keep it to yourself.’
    Granny Byrne was a genius.

6
    For the next three months, using money I was given on my confirmation, I tapped my way enthusiastically through Saturday mornings. Fred Astaire wasn’t exactly shaking in his boots, but I was a lot better at tap than at reels and jigs. I told my parents I was staying late to practise my Irish dancing and everyone was happy… except Father Hogan who said lying to my parents was a sin when I confessed my porky-pies. But I knew he was bound by the sacred gagging order of the confessional so my secret was safe.
    For my fifteenth birthday my parents decided to throw me a party at home. I know it may sound ungrateful, but I was dreading it. I knew the format. I’d seen it enough times at my cousins’ parties.
    My three uncles, Donal, Neil, Tadhg, plus their wives and children, all came over. I actually had another uncle – ‘poor Pat’ – but he was on holidays again. Uncle Pat was a roaring alcoholic who went to dry out at least once a year. The brothers chipped in for his treatments, although they were getting fed up because this was his fifth time. The adults tried to protect us from Uncle Pat’s condition by telling us he was on holidays, but we all knew he was in rehab.
    There were sixteen cousins altogether and we ranged in age from seventeen (my sister Siobhan being the eldest) to two. They descended upon the house bearing gifts. Some brought the type of presents a fifteen-year-old girl would want, like luminous pink leg-warmers, Duran Duran’s latest album and some fingerless lace gloves. The rest gave crossword-puzzle books and Irish-dancing socks.
    My mother forced me to wear a dress. I wanted to wear my jeans with the rip in the knee. I was fifteen, for God’s sake. But no amount of pleading and sulking worked.
    ‘Niamh,’ my mother said, grabbing my arm and frogmarching me back up the stairs, ‘only tinkers wear trousers with rips in them. Now, put on your blue dress and stop whingeing. Why can’t you be more like your sister?’
    Bloody Siobhan and her bloody perfectness! I was sick of her.
    ‘I’m not Siobhan,’ I roared, losing my temper. ‘Stop telling me to be like her. I’m a different person. Sister Patricia says you should accept people the way they are and not try to change them like the English did when