Has Anyone Here Seen Larry?

by Deirdre Purcell

  Yes, it’s hard. But at rock bottom I know it is better to live here, even under Martha’s thumb, than to have to sit around like a stick in some nursing home with a whole pile of other sticks.

  Right now, it is almost five o’clock on a rainy June afternoon and here I am, sorting again. I’m in ‘my’ room, which is actually the dining-room of the house. Martha bought me this chair, kind of like a hospital chair, with a hard seat and a straight back. She also got me this footstool in some charity shop.

  She’s in the kitchen, frying onions. I hate the smell of onions and what I want to do is to open the window and let in the smells of the wet garden. But she doesn’t want to get flies all over the house. Even if I could find the energy to lift these old bones out of this chair, it’s not worth the row.

  I do spend a lot of my time each day sorting and re-sorting the bits and pieces I keep in a set of hat boxes. Old letters and newspaper cuttings so old that I cannot remember why I cut them out in the first place. Snaps of myself and Josie. Postcards. All the examination results and school reports.

  I have a special box for my dearest things. A pearly shell Josie and I found on a beach during our honeymoon in County Cork. A strand of green glass beads he gave me on our wedding day. The little silver bell that decorated the top of our cardboard cake. These were the war years and there was no sugar, so everyone had pretend cakes. We were wed at six o’clock in the morning. You had to get married to suit the train timetables. In those days everyone stayed in Ireland for their honeymoon. There was no going off to Italy or Spain.

  A miraculous medal that Mary brought home to me from Rome, blessed by Pope John the Twenty-Third. Six tiny teeth, the first lost by each of the children. A dance programme from the dress dance at the Gresham Hotel where I first met Josie. He was with another girl that night but came around to my work the next day in the Monument Creamery.

  A plait of my own hair, wrapped in blue tissue paper. I was so proud of my hair when I was young. When I finally allowed it to be cut, I made sure the hairdresser plaited it first so I’d be able to keep it to show it to my grandchildren.

  I have 11 grandchildren from my four in America. Ruth, Rebecca, John and James. But the 11 of them are all living their own lives and beginning to produce children of their own. So I now have three great-grandchildren as well. Those kids are modern Yankees, living quick, sure lives. I get snaps regularly, of little blonde boys and girls in front of their barbecues and shiny motor-homes. None of them would be interested, probably, in a faded plait wrapped in blue tissue. Even if they were here.

  I keep the birth certificates of my own six in a special little file. Imagine! Once upon a time I raised six children!

  6: Father Jimmy

  Precious Mary, with her Italian and her soft hands that never saw a bit of Flash or a drop of Domestos. Who does she think cleans the toilets around here? The toilet fairy?

  If it comes to that, who do they both think I am? Their body slave?

  Actually that is what I am, when you come to think of it. It’s just not fair, is it?

  Father Jimmy tells me that I shouldn’t be giving out so much – that there’ll be a special golden crown for me in heaven. Yeah, right. All I ask for is a bit of appreciation in this life.

  I don’t know what I’d do without Father Jimmy. He’s my life saver. Some evenings I’m able to slip away from here for a few hours and we go to the pictures together, Father Jimmy and I. He’s a holy man, of course. I wouldn’t dream of thinking of him as anything but a priest. But he’s good fun. I always look forward to our evenings out together. It’s usually the pictures, or a lecture in the RDS, or a piano recital or something.

  We just love the pictures, though. Father Jimmy knows a lot about them. He keeps up with all the latest ones. He’s a friar so he doesn’t have any money. I have to pay in for him but it is an honour. Why shouldn’t I take it out of the housekeeping money? I tell you, the kids in McDonald’s work half the hours I work and get paid for their effort. What do I get paid for all my work?

  Going places with Father Jimmy from time to time keeps me from going mad. He has one of these big open faces with freckles and a great smile, with this gap between his front teeth. And when he says Mass, I just love the way he handles the altar vessels, so gently. Unlike other priests I could name who treat those precious things as if they’ve been bought in Hector Grey’s. Father Jimmy has great hands, like a dancer’s or an artist’s. And although his hair is quite grey now, I’d say that when he was young he was a blondie. He has those whitish, stubby eyelashes and pale blue eyes.

  I’m different when I’m with him. I’m able to relax. I even get to laugh a bit. I can think of myself as a real person. Even, dare I say it, as a woman. That’s because he is so polite, holding the door open for me and so on. You probably wouldn’t recognise me if you only know me as the drudge around this house because I go to a bit of trouble for him. I put on a little lipstick and powder.

  Yes, he’s a special person and I’m very lucky to have him as my friend.

  But when I’m coming home on the bus, the nearer I get the more I imagine the front door of the house getting taller and wider. It opens up to swallow me like the jaws of a big trap. The more fun I’ve had, the worse looking the trap.

  I don’t know how it’s going to work out tomorrow night. Tomorrow is Saturday and Father Jimmy is coming here to have tea with us. He’s been here before of course, but only for a few minutes at a time, to say ‘hello’ to Mammy.

  But the last time he was here didn’t she up and invite him. And as I said, tomorrow’s the night.

  I don’t know if I’m excited or fearful. I suppose deep down I’m afraid she and Mary will ruin it some way for me. How I don’t know. But some way.

  Sometimes I just feel like running away to Australia. Then they’d be sorry.

  7: Here Comes the Monk

  Tonight’s the night. The salad sandwiches and fruit cake are already on the table, covered with damp tea-towels. Martha has bleached and starched the napkins until they are as white and stiff as shoe boxes. I’m sitting here, as washed and polished as her kitchen floor and under strict orders not to touch anything. ‘My’ room is no longer mine and I’m afraid to move in case I dirty the air.

  Father Jimmy, as Martha calls him, is coming to tea. The place is in such a holy uproar you would think it was the Pope coming instead of just a humble monk. And to think I was the one who invited him! Me and my big mouth. I’ll just have to grin and bear it, I suppose.

  Mary could not stick it. She went out at about four o’clock. To get her hair done, she said. I think that was just an excuse. The last straw for her was when Martha hounded her up the stairs to change her pop socks because there was a ladder in the heel.

  I sure hope she gets back before he arrives. Maybe she won’t come home at all until he’s safely gone. Dear God. That means I’ll have to be on my own with the two of them.

  What was I thinking when I invited him? As I told you, it just popped out of my mouth. I suppose in a way I was trying to please her.

  The music she has on is getting on my nerves too because she has fixed it on ‘repeat’. Faith of Our Fathers – the same thing over and over again. It was grand the first time, even the second time. I was always a big fan of Frank Patterson. But I’ve been listening to those dratted hymns now all afternoon and I’m sick of them.

  Mind you, the next record, the one she’s going to put on while we’re having our tea, is also Frank Patterson. Frank singing duets with Count John McCormack. I suppose she thinks it’s suitably clerical. It will certainly be a blessed relief.

  She’s out there now, rattling away, polishing the brasses for the third time this week. My eye.

  The brasses don’t need doing.

  She’s out there for one reason and one reason only. To watch for him.

  Why couldn’t Mary and myself be left alone to live together in peace. Although I have never said it out loud until now, you may have already guessed
that, secretly, I prefer Mary to Martha. She is the third in the family, after Martha and John.

  ‘They’ say that the third child is always the one to give trouble. Well, Mary is the living proof that sometimes ‘they’ are wrong. As a child, she was always the one with her nose stuck in a book. She has a job in the civil service, quite junior, I suppose, but good and steady, and with a pension to look forward to. She has no worldly ambition, really, except not to get hassled. I like that. She is the kind of quiet person who keeps her eyes and ears open and is always full of the wonders of the world. Smelling the daisies, I think they call it. It is restful to be around her.

  She has a kind of special status here, the way the political prisoners used to have in the H Blocks up north. Since all I have is the few shillings from the widow’s pension and since Martha brings in not a brass farthing, it is only right that Mary doesn’t have to do any of the housework. After all, she has enough to do with her job. Brain work is as tiring as working with your hands, even more tiring perhaps. I would truly believe that because Mary is always exhausted when she comes home in the evening.

  So after tea, while Martha washes up, Mary puts her feet up. She reads her books, or we watch something on television and eat chocolate or Fig Rolls. It’s such a relief after all Martha’s vegetables and things that are good for me! And so lovely and soft on my poor old gums! We have grand, slow discussions about what we’re watching. Sometimes, as a special treat, she rubs my feet with her hand lotion. My corns are very bad these days.

  Or I listen to her Italian verbs. Because she loves Italy so much, she is learning the Italian language. She bought me one of those really bright halogen lamps so I could read her text book and help her with her vocabulary. You see my eyes are nearly as bad as my feet. Hey folks, the big news is that there is nothing good about getting old!

  I don’t have any problem with her going on her holidays, she deserves it. But from my point of view, it’s like a desert around here during those two weeks every year. The only good thing about it is looking forward to my present – a shell necklace, or a little box lined with mother-of-pearl, or a delicate fan. Always something really pretty. Mary has great taste.

  I was surprised she never got married. Lucky for me, of course.

  As for poor Martha – the girl is such a fuss pot, who’d have her?

  It’s unfair of me to say that. I sometimes think that since Martha works so hard and does all the practical things for me, it’s very unfair that I prefer Mary. But there you are. It’s a long time since I thought there was anything fair about this world of ours.

  The rattling at the letter box has stopped and I can hear voices. The Great Man is here. And I think I hear Mary too. Thank God for small mercies …

  8: Martha’s Mad Tea Party

  The monk comes in to the sitting room as does Mary. She is pink about the ears and smelling of hair spray. ‘Hello!’ says Father Jimmy cheerily to me. ‘And how are we this afternoon? How is my absolute favourite little granny?’

  I don’t take offence. When you’re my age, you get used to being talked down to. It’s ‘we’ this and ‘we’ that. ‘We’ get to brush ‘our’ hair and ‘we’ get to lace up ‘our’ shoes every morning.

  There’s something about people talking in that way which makes you act like that. So I go all coy as I shake his hand, fine and plump and white. ‘Hello!’ I chirp back at him. ‘I’m grand, thank you for asking.’

  ‘Isn’t this a great wee party?’ He plops down on the sofa. It is quite a big plop. Father Jimmy is no light weight.

  ‘It sure is.’ I am smiling so widely my teeth might fall out. Which reminds me that I need more Fixodent. But I keep smiling. I am trying to be nice for Martha’s sake, but God alone knows why. It’s not as if this fella could be a son-in-law.

  Mary sits down too: ‘How are things down in the monastery, Father?’

  ‘Oh, fine, fine. The usual – you know – all men together. Brother Mark does his best. You should see his collection of cookery books, but there is nothing like the woman’s touch!’ His eyes dart over to the table and I can see him undressing the food.

  If this is what passes for fun conversation between the monk and Martha, she’s welcome to it.

  Martha catches me sniggering and glares. She hasn’t sat down, of course. She is so jittery, poor girl, that she can’t. Instead, as if she is reading Father Jimmy’s thoughts, she starts whipping the covering off the food.

  Now she’s backing to the door: ‘I’ll just go and put the kettle on, Father, shall I?’ And she’s gone, speeding into the kitchen, leaving the three of us to continue our conversation as if we were at a garden party in Buckingham Palace.

  I have to say that the tea, when Martha does bring it in, is lovely. Little fairy cakes and, as well as the salad sandwiches already on the table, a proper ham salad with dressing she made herself. She has rolled up the ham into hollow sausages and decorated them with cocktail sticks and tiny onions. Father Jimmy stands up from the sofa immediately – or rather, he rolls off it. We all sit down to eat.

  Father Jimmy bows his head and says Grace. I’m too old for this, I think, but I bow my head anyway. I always feel uneasy now when God is brought in like this, in public, as if it is taken for granted that we are all of the same mind and heart. But how do they know if I am still a Catholic? I could be a secret Protestant, or a Hindu, for all they know. Nobody bothers asking these days, of course.

  ‘They’ say that old people should be saying their prayers. To tell you the truth, it is far from praying I spend my time. I doze or try to make up little stories in my head to take my mind off the pains and aches. Or I daydream a lot, usually about small things. I might think of the day all six of them went on strike and said they would not eat one more fish finger. Or the autumn day Josie took off work and, while they were all at school, swept me off on a mystery bus tour. We ended up in the Pine Forest where we sat on a wooden bench to eat our sandwiches. The smell of the trees …

  Small things like that.

  ‘Amen,’ I say like a good little granny when Father Jimmy blesses himself at the end of the Grace. We start the tea.

  The row blows up out of nowhere. One minute we are sitting, four points on the cross, the next, all hell has broken loose.

  9: Crash! Bang! Wallop!

  I don’t know where to start. Mary and I are going out of our minds with worry. Here we are at Mammy’s bedside in this hospital in Cork.

  Yes, you heard right. The city of Cork.

  There is nothing we can do except to sit here, listening to that awful bellows thing keeping Mammy alive.

  But for how long? How long will they give us before they switch it off?

  Will they do it just as soon as all the others have arrived from America and said their good-byes?

  Oh my God, are we going to have to make this decision?

  We have about 48 hours, that’s when they’ll all be here. Rebecca, who has to come from California, will be the last.

  This is awful. We had no idea Mammy was capable of doing such a thing.

  To vanish, just vanish. With just that measly note that we all misread – I wouldn’t wish the last 24 hours on my worst enemy.

  Thank God that she took her pension book with her so that when it happened we could at least be contacted.

  Although what she thought she was doing with it, I don’t know. I mean how long was it going to be before somebody noticed that a woman of almost 90 was wandering about by herself, with only a stick for company.

  God, please keep her safe.

  Please, please, Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with thee …

  God, please, we’re not ready. Please make her get better. Just for another little while. I promise I’ll never say a cross word to her again. Ever in my whole life.

  I’m sorry, Mammy. I’m sorry I shouted at you and made you upset about such stupid things as stains on a carpet. I’m sorry about the row.

  And it was such a stupid row. It was
just that I was so upset that she was having a go at Father Jimmy.

  Dear God, please let her come back to us. Just for a while. Just so I can make it up to her. It was all my fault. I should never have made such a fuss.

  Mammy … please, please wake up. Wake up, Mam. Why won’t you wake up?

  Listen, you old cow, you’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Just to punish me …

  10: Just a Jaunt

  In bed the night of the sad tea party, listening to the low murmur of my bedside radio, I went back over it all. If Father Jimmy and Martha fall out over this, I thought, she’ll blame me and my life will not be worth living. If I was in the whole of my health, or just a bit younger, what I should probably do is lie low for a bit.

  The more I thought about it, the more a break from my humdrum, boring old life sounded really great. As a matter of fact, a break from each other would do all three of us the world of good.

  Killarney popped into my mind.

  Josie and I had always planned to go there to see the lakes from the back of a jaunting car. We got as far as Glengarriff on our honeymoon, and we were so happy there, we never moved on. Even though County Kerry was just at the end of the road.

  I got so excited I sat up in the bed. Why not? I thought. I knew I wouldn’t be able to manage a jaunting car, but I could find some way to see those lakes. It would give us all a break. I would take my travel pass and my money and I would go first thing tomorrow.

  Then I had to plan how to do it. If I said anything to them in advance, they’d try to stop me. So I decided I wouldn’t tell anyone, that I would just go, leaving a note so they wouldn’t worry.

  I couldn’t sleep for excitement.

  I’ll never forget that knock on the door, never. Martha was hammering away at the telephone, ringing every hospital in Dublin. Who would have thought to start ringing hospitals in Cork?