An elderly gentleman strolls in to the kitchen, a gigantic lit Montecristo held in his plump digits. Sorcha initiates a coughing fit – a subtle hint aimed at reminding him that the house indoors is a no-smoking area – but he dismisses her signals, similar to how he disregarded the no-shoe indoors rule she once tried to implement.
Honor speaks next, “Will the incessant coughing never end? We have matters of urgency to attend to, you know?”
She has chosen to run for the post of head girl at Mount Anville in the coming year, with her grandfather volunteering as her campaign manager. Sorcha, a former head girl herself, should be overflowing with pride. But the reality is that Honor is just proving that she can wind up victorious in the election campaign effortlessly, thereby undermining her mother’s proudest accomplishment.
This is the way we do things in south Dublin.
Honor’s intention to run for the role of head girl at Mount Anville is merely to belittle her mother’s loftiest accomplishment.
‘How could you stoop so low! You are old enough to be our parents and you’ve still managed to beat us in three set games!’
The elderly gentleman chimes in, “I have a surprise for you, Honor!” He then places the cigar in his mouth and digs into his coat’s inner pocket, pulling out an object that has the appearance of a book.
Honor turns to me with a perturbed expression upon seeing the book and objects, “A book? I detest books.”
Indeed, she does have an aversion to books. I remember back to when her mother gifted her ‘The Chronicles of Nornia’ for her sixth birthday, the horrified expression on Honor’s face resembled someone who’d been asked to consume their own vital organ for a meal.
“This book is an exception!” the grandfather retorts. “The title is ‘The Prince’, penned by the renowned authour, Niccolò Machiavelli!”
Honor questions him next, “Is there content in here that I could’nt find on the internet?”
He responds, “This specific copy, Honor, was once owned by the late, esteemed Chorles Haughey! This was his Christmas gift to me in 1982 – following my assistance in his victory over Chorlie McCreevy and the infamous ‘Club of 22′!”
She then takes the book from him and casually flips through it similar to how she would if she were trying to create a breezy effect.
Breaking from the confines of the original text, imagine:
“Who are these highlighted paragraphs?” she questions. He swiftly responds, “They’re our most treasured quotations. You’d find immense wisdom in them and the man from whom they come!” Honor plucks a passage at random to read.
“Render the blow so crushing that the injured party’s retaliation is never to be feared,” she recites. Fionnuala used to tell me when I was little to keep my laughter at bay to prevent facial lines— that’s a life-hack from Honor.
“Charles, my dear, I am having second thoughts about our daughter reading such a text,” Sorcha states, concerned. He retorts, “Sorcha, I never pegged you as a censorer of literature!”
Her reply is swift, “I am not advocating for a ban, only pointing out that this is an election for a school not a nation!” The elder gentleman objects, “An election, Sorcha, is an election nevertheless!”
“Power must not be achieved through force, but through trickery: isn’t that fascinating?” Honor questions gleefully. “I am concerned that my daughter’s receiving a cynical education at her tender age,” Sorcha shares; “This school has nurtured the likes of Mary Robinson and Samantha Power.”
Then comes the age-old query from Honor: “Is it preferable to be feared or loved? The ideal would be a combination of both. However, as love and fear hardly coexist, if given a choice, it would be substantially safer to be feared.”
Sorcha snatches the text but is rebuffed by Honor. The elderly man offers his insight, “I’ve weighed this election for long enough. It might be beneficial, if only in the short run with the vote impending, to win affection from your eventual constituents. After you emerge victorious, you could start to instill the fear.”
Sorcha is skeptical, “How do you propose she accomplishes that, Charles? Honor has had a long history of making enemies here.” His advice to Honor was cut short before it could even begin.
Honour retorts, “I refuse to put on a smile.”
Her father observes, “In order you succeed in this upcoming election, you may have to reveal a gentler aspect of yourself to your rivals.”
She defiantly replies, “There is no gentler aspect.”
Honour confirms, “There isn’t. Furthermore, Fionnuala once told me, back when I was three, that to evade getting wrinkles as an adult, one should reduce smiling as much as possible.”
She correctly identifies Fionnuala’s uniqueness. Even while delighting in others’ mishaps, I’ve never seen her mouth even hint at a smile. It’s truly a talent.
I used to conduct Monday afternoon smiling sessions for Charles Haughey at Buswells bar, it was reminiscent of that film where a man mentors a king to cease his stammering. —Her Father
Sorcha exclaims with a touch of conceit, “Winning an election isn’t just about reciting cynical quotes from one of the most threatening books ever written.”
Her father chides, “Let’s see a smile, Honor.”
“I am unable to,” she confesses.
He sarcastically retorts, “At least give it a shot!”
She retorts, “This is me putting an effort.”
Her struggle to smile is visible on her face.
I remark, “Sir, your demands are unrealistic.”
Sorcha points out, “She physically can’t get it done.”
The father recalls, “Haughey used to say the same about himself! I used to train him to smile every Monday afternoon at Buswells bar, reminiscent of a movie where a gentleman tutors a king to halt his stammering! However, once he started smiling, the chap couldn’t cease. Give it another go Honor.”
She scrunches her face up, looking akin to a Chow Chow struggling to pass a peach pit.
I encourage her, “Go for it, Honor!” surprisingly rooting for her.
“She can’t,” Sorcha mentions. “It’s not part of her personality.”
However, her mother’s skepticism motivates her.
I cheer her on once more, “There you go Honor!”
As though by some extraordinary occurrence, I observe her lips twitch bizarrely. The elderly fellow announces, “Exactly! You’ve nailed it!” Unexpectedly, Honor is grinning like a lunatic on the way to her final sentence. Sorcha comments, “You give the impression of being in distress, Honor. It’s unlikely anyone will be deluded into voting for you.” The aged man retorts, “As the esteemed scripture states, people are typically inconsistent, twofaced, and avaricious!” Sorcha ripostes, “I suspect the young women of Mount Anville are on the brink of disputing that.” From her tone, it’s evident that she is almost convinced of it.