‘Technically, yes.’ He helped himself to another two Weetabix sprinkling them liberally with sugar and splashing on the milk. He took a mouthful. ‘The Fogarty name still opens doors, you know. We are not nobodies. We belong there and Rosie will be the fourth generation. Now…’ His face suddenly looked grave, like a headmaster disappointed in the child who had been caught smoking. ‘I need to talkto you…’
‘Really?’ What had I done now?
‘The hall light was on,’ he said. ‘Why? It’s a summer morning? There’s really no need.’
‘I must have flicked it by mistake…’
‘It’s not the expense,’ he said, shaking his head at my absent-mindedness. ‘But the waste. If I am seen as wasteful, then I am not setting a good example for my constituents. They expect me to have the highest of standards, Mammy.We must live up to that ideal.’
‘Yes, Michael.’ Over the years, I had learned to nod and agree.
‘I am a public figure,’ he went on, ‘and must be beyond reproach. SIPL!’
‘Sipple?’ Was this some new, utterly perplexing, mind-bending, borderline-barmy EU policy?
‘Standards in Public Life. It’s my latest directive. I’vetoldyou about it before…’
‘Oh yes,’ I said weakly, glancing at my unreadpaper and thinking of the croissant I had just bought and had been looking forward to for the last hour. ‘So…?’ I tried to stay focussed on what Michael was saying but, as usual, when he held forth on Europe, my concentration wavered. Where was my nice pot of jam? I hoped Rosie hadn’t finished italloff.
‘Nowthisis really exciting,’ he was saying, ‘It’s going to be very popular with voters,I just know it. All politicians, across Europe, will sign up to this agreement, declaring that they are beyond reproach. Voluntary self-regulation and a move towards a different relationship between people and politicians. Bring back respect.’ He chattered away confidently in that way he had that what he was saying was of great interest to the listener. ‘We shouldn’t behave like ordinary people,civilians, the ones doing ordinary jobs, leading ordinary lives, like going to the park, or making dinner, or watching Strictly Come Whatever. Instead, we non-civilians will be shining lights, exhibiting impeccable human behaviour, so that others, the civilians know how to behave.’
‘Is that really what you politicians think is a good way to spend taxpayers’ money?’
‘Yes! Everyone hates a sleazypolitician, the one who accept backhanders or are just in it for the perks and the free lunches…’
‘It sounds like you are asking for trouble, Michael,’ I said. ‘Setting yourself up as a beacon of respectability.’
‘Well…’
‘You won’t be able to put a foot wrong,’ I said, thinking that life with Michael was just one extended episode of Politics Today. ‘You can’t forget to put something throughon the self-service tills or drive in a cycle lane or park in a disabled space…’
‘I have no intention of such things,’ he said. ‘I never go self-service and I am meticulous about staying out of cycle lanes. Anyway, it’s the idea – theideal!– which is the thing. Striving to be better, that’s it. Upholding common, decent values. Morals are too easily running down life’s plughole.’
‘It seemsas though you are setting yourselves a very high bar,’ I said. ‘Beyond reproach? It doesn’t give you much room to be human.’
‘Ah, but we aren’t human. Well, we are, technically. But we are above human… I mean, superhuman…’
I looked at his face. He was entirely serious. ‘As in Superman, super-human?’ I had to make sure he was saying what I thought he was saying. ‘Actually super-human, or justsuper humans?’
He looked confused. ‘Super-human,’ he said. ‘More than human.’
‘Right. Michael…’ I toyed with trying to discuss this with him but, as I usually did, I gave up. ‘It sounds like a complete waste of EU money, if you ask me.’
‘Well, I don’t and nor do many – very many – of my EU colleagues.’ He sounded annoyed. ‘It’s going to be voted on in a few weeks. Before we break up for summer.It’s the directive that’s going to make my name.’
Not for the first time, I thought that Michael’s pomposity would be his undoing.
‘Hi Dad,’ Rosie came into the kitchen and again I saw how pale she was. She’d lost weight, she was just wearing leggings and a long top, her hair scrunched up onto her head.
‘What are you doing home?’ she said, surprised but not displeased to see him. He was likea forgotten-about lodger, sometimes. We never knew when we would be graced by his presence but neither of us minded either way. Michael didn’t try to parent too heavily or husband too deeply, and we never complained about his peripatetic attitude to the home, so it all worked quite well. He loved Rosie, that was clear, albeit in his own way. She knew it and had, I thought, never felt a particularlack. He just wasn’t one of those rough-and-tumble dads or even the bedtime-story dads… and that seemed okay. Good enough.
‘And how’s Daddy’s little politician?’ He ruffled her hair affectionately.
‘She’s fine,’ said Rosie, flatly. He glanced at me, as though he had heard my concerns. Rosie was normally far chattier and full of life. But this had become her usual way of late, low-enthusiasmand energy.
‘Now, I hope you’re working hard. Mammy says you are.’ He looked at her intently. ‘Is everything all right? Are you eating properly? There’s some Weetabix in the cupboard.’
‘Weetabix!’ she said. ‘Is that your answer to everything?’
