CHAPTER 1

 

He stands beside the fireplace of black Kilkenny marble gazing down at the vase of dried flowers in the hearth.

Two life-sized busts of Roman Senators sit on the dresser opposite him, eyes drilling into him, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels.

          - What are you standing there like that for?

- Take your hands out of your pockets in front of your mother!

          He shifts uneasily from foot to foot, nervous under their gaze.

          His photograph has pride of place on the dresser. Black cap and gown sandwich a beaming face, parchment scrolled tightly in his fist. Two paintings face each other across the room - Gainsborough’s ‘Enthronement of the Empress’ over the fireplace; O’Malley’s, ‘The Dargle at Sunset’ between the windows of the gable wall.

          - And where have you been hiding? 

          Josephine Francine Leopoldina McArthur, a later portrait of that robust monarch, sits opposite her only son, rocking in her chair in the centre of the room.

          - A shop girl, Jim? You could have done better than that, look at all the girls you could have had.

          - I love her, Ma, I’m marrying her.

          - Love her? You don’t know what love is …………….. ah, marry if you want to!! You’ll regret it when I’m dead and gone, when I lay me old bones down in Glasser, it’ll be too late to change things then!

          She looks him up and down.

          Don’t want my son to leave me, want to keep him here forever. How can he do this to me? Marry that country tart! After all I’ve done for him. Father a farmer in the West?! They’re only after the one thing! We haven’t crawled out of the gutter for you to drag us back into it again, Jim! Think about what you’re doing!         

          - Bring her round by all means, we’d be delighted.     

          - Met her at a dance, did you?

His father, dressed nattily in tweeds, pokes his head out from behind his newspaper on the sofa.

- You can meet thousands of girls at dances. Doesn’t mean any of them are any good.  

          Josie, good cop now. 

          - Ah, leave the poor lad alone.                 

          Jim snaps back at his father.  

          - What do you know about it anyway?! Sitting on your arse all day!  You were never there for me anyway!          

- Jim!

His mother glares at him.

- Don’t talk to your father like that! You’re still not too old for me to take you across my knee and give you a good hiding!  

          Father and son eyeball each other across the room.         

- What are you looking at? I’ll give you something to look at! 

          - I love her! I’m marrying her! I don’t care what you say! 

          - Ach, do what you want to!! But don’t come crying to me when it all goes wrong!! 

          - Ah, to hell with you!! 

He storms away from the fireplace. 

- ‘To hell wit ye!’, ‘To hell wit ye!’ 

His father mocks him.

- Is that all ye can say?! Go on then, leave then, run away, boohoo! That’s all you ever do! IRA, I ran away, boohoo!    

          He storms out of the room.

The couple look at one another in silence. The ticking of the glass-fronted clock fills the room. 

          - Will he be alright? Josie says, after a moment, uncomfortable in the silence.

          - Ah, he’ll be alright!! Bert says, roughly. 

          Wish she’d show the same concern for me!

          - And if he isn’t….     

          He rattles his newspaper in disgust.  

          It’s no fault of ours.

 

 

- Come on there, get a move on! He shouts up the stairwell of Riverside Rooms.

A red flush rises from his throat to his cheeks, nervous at the impending visit to his mothers’.

          She sits at the dresser doing her face.

          - The spit of your mother, girl!

          High angular cheek bones, jet black hair, coal black eyes.

          What’s he shouting for anyway? We're only going to visit his Ma’s! It’s not as if he wants to anymore than I do!        

          You don’t have to do anything, a voice in her head says, you could get up right now, say in that singsong voice of yours, “just nipping down to the shops for twenty fags”, disappear forever, never come back. 

What are you talking about? 

          She looks down fondly at her pregnant belly. 

          And where would I go?    

          England?  

          England? Been there, done that. I’ve made my bed now, we’re married, sanctified by Holy Mother Church.

          She stares at the mirror, sees the scene of her marriage rise before her.

 

Heads bowed, they stand at the alter, lambs to the slaughter. Families ranged behind them on either side. His parents, siblings. Her parents, shimmering in ghostly light; Matthew, in drooping lounge suit, long gaunt face looking solemnly at her from the front row. Julia Grace, round, red-faced, Cox’s pippin, squeezed in beside him, smiling shy encouragement, ‘Go on there, girl, go on! Don’t look at me, look at the priest!!’ Whooshing her away, laughing.

          - Go on!

- Mother!

          The priest smiles at the couple below him. 

- For this reason, a man shall leave his family and join his wife, the two shall become one.

He turns to the congregation.

          - Husbands, love your wives as Christ so loved his Church, give yourselves up for her so that you may sanctify her. You may now kiss the bride.

          She pulls up her veil. He leans over, kisses her.

- I hereby declare you man and wife. What God has joined together let no man tear apart.

         

Kick!

- Ow! Stop that!

She scowls down at her belly.  

Leave?!! he says, leave?! What are you talking about?! You young scallywag! Blasphemer! And us just married by Holy Mother Church! Leave?! I don’t think so.

          She looks down fondly at her belly, pats it.

Another kick.

- Ow!

Asking me to break my marriage vows?! The shame of it!

          Hears him revving the car up in the driveway. 

          And what would happen to you if I did go?! I’d have to leave you in an alleyway!! Give you up to the nuns! You wouldn’t like that now would you?!  

You’d better get going, Fiona, if you don’t want him shouting again.

          She jumps up from her chair, grabs her handbag. 

          -Bye, mother. 

          Fingers to lips, caresses the creased faded photograph wedged into the bracket in the corner of the mirror. 

          - Wish me luck! 

          God knows I’ll need it.

Her mother smiles back at her, saying nothing.

Pops her lipstick into her handbag, runs down the stairs, out the door to the waiting car.

- Come on!! Come on!! 

He swings the car door open to her, as she rushes down the path.

 

 

From Riverside along the coast to Port Leary, clamour of yachts and boats in the port, turbines churning up the water as they pass, faded mansions stabbing sunlight in his eyes.

          - Blinded! He says, snapping up the screen.  

          Past the forty-foot. 

Naked for a dip at Christmas?

          Turn right at the tower, follow the road to Dawky. Round the corner, the house sits squat in a crook of the road, its light blue puncturing the azure blue sky above.

 

 

Bert rocks in his armchair in the back room, the long ash of his cigarette bent in the pit of the ashtray, eyes focussed absently on the news.

 

“ …….. and now over to Moscow where the American ambassador to Russia, Sir Crispin Frye, has landed for talks with his Soviet counterpart on the deployment of missiles to Cuba ………”

                    The anchorman shuffles his papers on the desk. 

 

Josie prepares food for her visitors in the kitchen, shouting instructions in to her daughters in the back room.

          - No no no, Grainne! What do you think you’re doing?!!! Don’t put out the best china for that one!! Who do you think is visiting? The Queen of England?!    

          - Yes, Ma. 

- No, Ma, three bags full, Ma. 

She says under her breath.

The daughters exchange glances, stifle giggles, as they fuss around their father, squatting Sphinx-like in his rocking chair, behind black-framed spectacles, wreathed in smoke.

 

 

Jim swings his Morris into the lane. Already Ruth has taken his parking place in the garage. They pull in their stomachs as they squeeze past her car in the gloom. The house looms over them as they mount the steps, the boughs caressing their shoulders as they pass underneath. The sound of the church bells carries over to them across the water, the dew-beaded crocosmia brush against her legs as she passes. She shivers. Someone walks on my grave.

          They reach the gate. She pushes down the latch, enters the garden. Josie’s washing potatoes at the sink. She looks up. Their eyes lock.

          - Bitch! 

- Bitch!

They glare at each other through the glass. She examines the lines on the older woman’s face. Jim, like a boy by her side, admiring the gash of forsythia in the hedge.

 

 

- You worked where? She says shortly, eyes drilling into Fiona from her chair.

- A shop, Fiona answers curtly.  

- And your family?

- I have a brother and sister in Dublin.

          Josie frowns.    

          - Anything wrong, Josie?   

          - Wrong, Fiona?! I don’t know if anything’s wrong, do I, Fiona? I’m not a mind reader, am I, Grainne?  

          Turns to her eldest, a teacher in town, tall, thin features, curly brown hair, smooth pale skin, she squints when she smiles, as if trying to see into the future.   

- No, Ma. 

          - In any case, it’s none of your business what I do, Fiona says. 

Jim rolls his eyes to the ceiling.  

          Jesus, Fiona! Don’t get her started!

- None of my business what you do?!!

          Clatters her cup down on the saucer. 

          - None of my business what you do?! You’ve married my son!! 

          - I married your son, not you!!    

          - That’s no way for a wife to talk to her mother-in-law! Who do you think you are, Fiona McCormack, coming into my house with your airs and graces?!! You’d better get off your high horse if you want to live long and happily in this world!!

          - Like you, you mean?! 

          - Like me ………. What the?!!! Good Lord, Jim, are you going to let her talk to your mother like that in her own house?!!  

          Jim looks at Fiona, pleading.    

- What?!!! She says loudly, answering his look. 

          Are you going to let her talk to me like that? I’m your wife. Are you going to support your mother over me? If so, then forget it, the marriage is over, done with, finished, zip, nada, rien, nothing, dun roamin’, it’s over, rover, finished, I walk!!! Whose side are you on, Jim?!

          - What, Fiona?! What?!! Jim says, whose side am I on? What are you talking about, Fiona?!! Calm down! Calm down!

- Calm down?!!! Calm down?!! What do you mean? I’m no fool! They’ve made it perfectly clear they never liked me from the start!  

          - Now you know that’s not fair ………..….. 

- Not fair?! Not fair?!!!   

She snaps at him.

- Who’s side are you on, Jim?!! Not fair?!!! What are you talking about?!! You fool! You should be supporting me, not her!     

- Now just hold on there a minute.…  

He looks at her wildly.

The drone of the Sunday traffic drifts in through the open window filling the silent room. 

Josie inhales loudly in the silence, shouts at her daughters.

          - Is one of youse going to bring us in a cup of tea, or are we going to die of thirst in here?!!       

Ruth, the youngest, jumps up.

- I will, Ma!  

- And Grainne’ll help you! Josie says, glaring at her eldest.

-Yes, Ma!

Grainne jumps up and follows her younger sister out of the room.  

Jim faces Fiona across the room.

She nods back at him, silently mouthing.  

- Now! N-O-W!

He looks at his mother, clears his throat, swallows. 

- I’m taking the department’s offer, moving to Cork.  

- Cork!! Josie squawks, Cork! Cork! What do you want to move to Cork for? Haven’t you just moved here?!!

- Cork! Cork! She barracks him.

- What are you talking about? You just got married and now you want to move again!

What are you up to, Jim? Are you trying to get away from me?! Are you saying you’re different to me?  

‘Get away from you’?!! ‘Get away from you’?!! What are you talking about?! I’m a grown man! I can do what I like! 

I can’t be bothered with you anymore, the fighting, arguing, put-downs, I’ve had enough of it, can’t stand it anymore! I want out!! Out! Out! I don’t want this anymore! 

Don’t want it?! Don’t want it?! That’s rich coming from you!! You enjoyed it well enough when you had it!! Fine, fine, you don’t want it … …. What do you mean, you don’t want it?! We had it, why shouldn’t you have it?! Yeah, we had it!! Why shouldn’t you have it?! Who do you think you are?! Yeah, we had it! Why shouldn’t you have it?! Yeah, good! Don’t want it! Don’t want it! What are you talking about?! Think you’re better than us? What makes you so special? You’re just the same as us! Why shouldn’t you have it?! We had it!! You can have it too! You’re just the same as us!!!

- Fiona’s pregnant, we thought a change ……….….   

- Pregnant? A change?! It’s all news to me ……….…. 

 She looks at him, hurt expression on her face, the windmills of her mind working overtime. 

They can have it down there, return when it’s done. The neighbours will hardly notice they’re gone. 

They sit like statues locked in time. Josie, a fat Miss Havisham, the arthritis cementing in her bones in the dust-filled room. The young couple, like a pair of stuffed owls, hunched over their teas on the sofa.

- Ach, let’s get out of here and get some air, Josie barks, isn’t that why we moved here in the first place?

She gets up heavily from her chair, wobbles past the saluting Romans at the door, troops downstairs to the kitchen, Jim and Fiona following dutifully behind.

- Bert! She shouts in to the back room as she passes. 

- Join us in the garden, dear. 

- Yes, dear, Bert calls back, dutifully.

Without moving. 

- We’ll take that in the garden, Grainne, she says, indicating the tea things on the tray.

‘We’ll take that in the garden’, Grainne silently mimics to Ruth, raising her eyebrows.

Ruth, erupts, hand over mouth, stifling laughter. 

Grainne lifts the tray from the sideboard, follows her mother into the garden.

 

 

Enclosed by a lattice fence, overgrown with ivy, secluding it from outside view, the garden adjoins the path running the length of the house, from the cliff at the top to the garage at the bottom. Two gnarled apple trees stand on the lower level, looking out across the bay.

- Go down there and get some cooking apples for your daughter-in-law. 

Josie calls in to Bert through the open window. 

- She’ll need the practice! 

- Yes, dear, Bert replies.  

His eyes remain fixed on the screen.

A battered urn stands in the centre of the garden, bearing the faded inscription:      

 

How vainly men themselves amaze,

To win the palm, the oak, or bays,

And their incessant labours see,

………..… 

 

The rest, fading, illegible.

A small cypress, buffeted by the wind and rain, rises bravely from the centre. The same wind that now carries the discordant chimes of the church bells from St. Lawrences’ across the bay.  

- Is that the bells for the five o’clock mass?  

The girls jump up.

- We’d better be off! 

They pull on their slip-ons, scurry up the steps to the main road.

- Say a prayer for your poor old Ma, Josie calls after them, and don’t forget the rashers for Father Cloughessy on your way out!!!!  

- We won’t, Ma, we won’t!!! 

Their laughter gusts down to them from the main road, hanging on the afternoon air.

Fiona walks over to the hedge at the end of the garden, looking down at the red dot of a trawler in the bay, the ropes and flags smacking against her mast. Seagulls fight for the fish heads the fishermen throw from the boat. The sounds carry up to her amplified by the curve of the coast.

Jim lays back on his elbows, admiring his wife, the curve between hip and waist, visible through the thin material of her dress.  

- Come here and give your poor oul’ Ma a kiss!

Josie interrupts his reverie.

He gets up awkwardly from the blanket, crosses to his mother, kisses her. Fiona turns, sees this. 

Kick!   

The knot tightens in her stomach.

- Let’s go, she says curtly, throws the hold-all for their things at him, landing on the ground at his feet.

He glares at her.

- Whatcha do that for?!

I was just kissing the woman, that’s all, she is my mother!!     

As for you and your mother!! I’m sick of you and your mother! Make your mind up, Jim, who do you love?! Me or your mother?!!! The sooner we get out of here the better! 

They gather up their things off the grass, bundle out through the gate.

Josie stands, hands on hips above them, watching them retreat down the steps to the garage door.

I’m not having that country tart steal my son away from me, not after all the hard work I’ve put into rearing him! She can go whistle!! I have a niece down there who’ll keep an eye on things when they’re gone. See how smart you are then, Fiona McCormack!! See what a smart little baby-maker you are then!!

She walks back stiffly into the kitchen, sees Bert still rocking backwards and forwards in his chair in the back room.   

-  I thought I told you to come out and give us a hand in the garden, you fool, with your horses and cards!!! You should have paid more attention to him growing up, we wouldn’t be having this trouble now!!     

- Ah, nonsense, woman! Stop bothering me! He always did what he wanted to anyway! Let me watch the race in peace!  

- Ach, I’m sick of the lot of you! Bring those chairs in from the garden when you’re finished! Put that fish on for supper when you’re done! 

She mounts the stairs with a sigh, and climbs to the upstairs room.