Fergus Finlay: The little diamonds in my life are this grandfather’s best friend

First, I’m going to offer some utterly invaluable life lessons to any married men I know. And then I’m going to mention Paul. And Joe. But I’ll come back to Joe.

First life lesson. Don’t ever — ever — consider it appropriate to give your wife something you might consider practical as a wedding anniversary present. An electric carving knife was what I lovingly presented. Years later, the welts are finally healing.

Second, if you do need to recover from such foolishness, try research. For instance, try googling Chicago Public Librarians (and) Wedding anniversaries and you’ll find a list to treasure — the perfect and most appropriate gift for every anniversary imaginable.

If you’re an old romantic, or just a recovering philistine husband like me, it can lead you down some pathways that you just can’t afford. Which is why you need to find someone like Paul.

I think his full name is Paul Wojcik. I always knew him as Paul, the partner of Emma Stewart Liberty. He’s retired now, but back then he was an incredibly talented and empathetic jewellery designer. I would bring the requirements of the list to the shop that he and Emma ran — not every year but for all the big ones, usually every five years. And we’d discuss the possibilities, and very gently he’d inquire about how much budget I could bring to bear. With the help of someone like Paul, you can be genuinely romantic without being bankrupt.

Because of Paul, Frieda has a unique collection of one-off individually made pieces of jewellery, each of them telling a story. It started on our twentieth anniversary and the last piece he made for her before he retired was for her fiftieth.

The knottiest problem, and the most brilliant solution, was what Paul created for Frieda’s 45th. Her sapphire anniversary.

I researched sapphires before I talked to Paul. Mother of heavens. Who can afford sapphires? But Paul had found a way to enable me to afford not one but six sapphires, all framed in a pendant. Two to represent Frieda and me, and four slightly smaller ones to represent Mandy, Vicky, Emma, and Sarah.

“And,” says Paul, “there’ll be just enough left in the budget to add a tiny little diamond for each of your four grandchildren!” 

Of course I was thrilled. But it turned out that he had built in the capacity for even more magic. Because between the 45th and now, I’ve been able to add three more diamonds in honour of three birthdays and three more arrivals.

Which is where Joe comes in. Joe Fergus, if you want his full rather dashing name. Sarah’s youngest, he’s the most recent arrival and the last diamond to be added to the pendant. Well, maybe the last. There’s certainly room for one more on the frame, but no-one is making any commitment. I can live in hope I guess.

Because as each has arrived and grown, I have come to appreciate just how appropriate was the idea of a diamond to represent each one of them. They’re entirely unique, entirely their own personalities, entirely, each in their own way, amazing.

Ross is the eldest. He’s about to start the Leaving Cert cycle with the ambition to do well. When he was eight or nine I lent him some golf clubs and took him out on a nearby course. After his first few drives — straight down the middle and 150 yards a go — I asked him where he got that swing. “I was watching Rory on the television,” he said.

Later, when he was beating me regularly, he stopped calling me Grandad on the golf course and started using my first name. When I told him I insisted on the title of Grandad, he said “at home you’re Grandad. Here you’re just another opponent!” 

I honour each of my grandkids enormously because of the respect in which they hold their Auntie Mandy. There are places Mandy doesn’t always get the respect she deserves because of Downs Syndrome, but never among her nieces and nephews. When Katie was eight or nine, she took Mandy in hand. She choreographed a whole series of dances they could do together — they would practice them for hours and then put on demonstrations for the rest of us. A brand new teenager now, she has a singing voice that would break hearts. I still have on my phone a version she recorded for my birthday of Roy Orbison’s 'Crying'. And I still cry every time I listen to it.

Then there’s Mikey — eleven now, mischievous, intelligent. Mikey, I reckon, has the stuff of legend in him (if he can ever be persuaded to cut back on the Xbox) and is already the subject of dozens of stories of mischief and witticisms. Most of them can’t be repeated here because we want to protect his reputation. But we all believe he’ll rule the world some day. He’ll either be Superman or Lex Luthor.

They’re all Vicky’s. Carl and Toby are Emma’s two. Carl is 7. I’m not sure about this but I think he has written several novels and a couple of philosophical treatises already. I’ve never met a kid who seems to learn so fast and retain so much. He’s astonishing. His younger brother, Toby, is the less talkative of the two, and amazingly determined. If there’s a thing he can’t do — maybe because he’s slightly afraid of it — he just sets out to do it anyway. We’re holidaying at the minute in a place with a swimming pool, and he’s gone from being a bit timid in the water to telling everyone to watch his back flips, in a couple of days.

The last two are Hannah and Joe, Sarah’s kids. Joe I can’t tell you much about yet (but have I mentioned his name at all?), but Hannah. Oh Hannah. If she smiles you smile. If she reaches out to give you a hug you’ll go to the ends of the earth. Just three, but already the ability to conquer worlds.

Frieda always says that we should all have our grandkids first, because it teaches us an aspect of love that is much less fearful. Their futures are not our responsibility because we’re only there to help. Although there is a certain kind of grandad who can’t help knowing best. I’m trying to get over it. But most of all, my grandkids have taught me not just the beauty but the value of a clear-cut diamond.