my eldest daughter went off to university in London last September with two staples in her wardrobe; jeans and trainers. This is the uniform of youth in the town in Northern Ireland where she grew up.
Fifteen weeks later, when I arrived at Aldergrove to fetch her home for Christmas, all had changed. She wore a red felt skirt, tights with geometric stripes, an Afghan headscarf, biker boots, and jewellery from four nations.
The children (I have four more) were waiting in the living room at home, their eyes riveted to the gate. As I nudged the car into the driveway, they all rushed out. There was a short orgy of sibling hugging and kissing. All the children had missed their big sister. Yet on the faces of the two older boys, who are 13 and 10 respectively, I saw something wasn't right.
A few minutes later, when I found myself alone with these two, son number one hissed, "What's London done to my sister?"
"Yuck, the boots and tights," chimed in his younger brother.
"And the thing on her head," said the older.
"And the earrings," said the younger.
My sons sounded to me like two old colonels fulminating about a violation of the mess dress code. Come on lads, I wanted to say, does it really matter if your friends in town see you with your big sister looking like she does? I knew this was really at the bottom of their complaint. Their friends would survive, wouldn't they? Of course they would. But adult pieties like these don't cut any ice with children, so I said nothing.
A few hours later the older son came and found me.
"Take me to town, Dad," he said. He wore Vans trainers, Sonneti combats, Fila socks and a Cap jacket.
"Why? Your sister's only just home."
"It's the school disco." This was an alcohol-free event for young teens like himself.
I drove him into town. On the outskirts he suddenly said, in the abrupt manner of the cusp adolescent, "Let me out here."
"But this is an industrial estate," I said, "and the school's half a mile away. I'll drive you up."
"No," he said adamantly, "my friends are there." He pointed to a cluster of boys; each dressed more-or-less as he was, standing in the shadow of a furniture warehouse.
I stopped. He got out.
"Half eleven at the school gates," I called through the passenger window.
He flapped a hand in acknowledgement. I drove off.
At 11:29, I stood at the gates, the school towering on the hill above me, all lights blazing, and music throbbing inside. Behind me was a mob of boys who'd already left the disco. I was wearing a suit and anorak; this was unfortunate.
"Hey, it's a peeler," one wag shouted at me from the crowd.
"It's CID," shouted another.
"Going to bang us up, are you?" shouted a third, in the mockney accent favoured on The Bill.
I ignored the jests and gazed up the hill. Crowds of happy teenagers were slithering down the wet asphalt path and sliding out of the gate beside me. I scanned each boyish huddle that passed, hoping to see my son. It was hard work trying to find him because every boy looked the same; each had the same hair, shoes, jacket and trousers.
Suddenly, in the mêl?e behind, I sensed something. Trainers were scuffing, hard and soft body parts were colliding. I turned to look.
"Ye wanked on my grandda's chair and left a wet puddle, so you did," a boy shouted at another. He then nutted the second on the chin and kicked him on the side of the leg. The victim screamed, "I didn't go near your granddad," and started sliding towards the wet ground.
Do I intervene? I wondered. It was an appalling thought. I was one and they were many. Perhaps I could pretend to be a doctor. Yes, I thought, that would be good. I drew myself up and began to say, "Heads aren't generally made to be jumped on," (which was about to happen) when the victim struggled to his feet and sprinted off. He was, I couldn't help noticing, the only one in the crowd not wearing the trainers and combat uniform of the rest.
What a difference a few hours make. In my kitchen, when my son and his brother acted like old colonels, I was irritated. A few minutes in the company of their peers changed all that.
Fashion conformity is big in a small town like Enniskillen and at a certain age it amounts to tyranny. But my son was in uniform, I remembered, and felt relieved. Suddenly, his dress code wasn't sheep-like conformity but a sign of wisdom, a way to avoid trouble. He hadn't yet appeared but the music had just finished so he would show up any moment now. A crowd sauntered towards me that surely included him and, as it did, I prepared my brightest smile to greet him, my 13-year-old paragon of sensible acquiescence. n
