Ma, He Sold Me for a Few Cigarettes

by Martha Long

  We walked down along the quays an waited at the Ha’penny Bridge. There was no sign of Dickser. Me ma looked very anxious. ‘We’ll wait,’ she said, chewin her lip. She looked up an down an said, ‘He’ll come, he has te come!’

  We waited. ‘He’s not here, Martha. He’s gone. Oh, sweet Jaysus, he’s gone, an he’s taken all me money! The whole six pounds I was puttin by fer months. I gave it te him te mind fer me. We’ve nothin, it’s all gone! What’ll I do? Wha can I do now?’

  I said nothin, nothin at all. Me ma’s pain went inta me belly, an me chest was very tight. It was lovely te be happy, but it didn’t last. Me ma looks lost, an I’m afraid.

  We go up te St Kevin’s Hospital in James’s Street. It used te be called the Union. The porter lets us in te the waitin room. We’re hopin te get a bed fer the night. We wait a long time, but nobody comes te talk te us. Me ma gets restless, an I’m tired. The wooden bench is too hard te sleep on. She goes off te find out wha’s happenin, an I mind the suitcase. When she gets back, we have te leave, cos it’s too late fer a bed.

  She drags the suitcase down past the Guinness Brewery, an I can smell the hops. ‘What’ll we do?’ she mutters te herself. ‘We’ve nowhere te go.’

  We pass Frawley’s in Thomas Street, an a cat leaps outa an alleyway. It’s covered in rotten vegebales. It screeches an runs fer its life, knockin over the dustbin lid. It’s bein chased by a skinny dog tryin te protect its territory. There isn’t a sinner about, an all the shops are locked up wit the big grids pulled down te protect the windas an stop people breakin the glass an robbin the stuff. We turn down inta Francis Street an very slowly cross the road, the only noise made by our footsteps an me ma trailin the suitcase along the cobblestones on the road. I’m too tired te walk any further. An me ma is miles ahead of me. We pass the Iveagh Market, an I stop te look up at the buildin. Me granny used te sell here. But I never knew her.

  As I turn te move on, I’m suddenly lifted outa my body, an I’m wit me granny. We’re like air, the two of us! She wraps me up inside her shawl, an we don’t speak. I can see she has lovely blue eyes an long brown hair. I feel her holdin me tightly. She whispers in me ear, ‘Shush, child. I’ll always be mindin ye,’ an then it was over. I looked all aroun me, but there was no one there. I thought maybe I’d fallen asleep, but I was still standin in the same spot at the Iveagh Market, an me ma was passin the St Myra’s an Nicholas Church. I moved on, still feelin the warmth of me granny’s arms. We went inta Cork Street an sat behind the door in the hallway of a tenement house. There was a fight goin on in one of the rooms upstairs. A man was shoutin, an I could hear the woman cryin, tellin him not te wake the childre. We could hear him beatin her up, an furniture an dishes gettin smashed, an the childre were screamin. Me ma jumped up an said, ‘Come on, we’d be better off on the streets than listenin te this.’

  I wanted te lie down on the bench we passed in Camden Street, but me ma said, ‘No, we’d be arrested fer bein on the streets this time of night.’ We fell down exhausted under the stairs in the hallway of another old tenement house.

  We went over te Brunswick Street te stay at the Regina Ceoli hostel fer women, run by the Legion of Mary. But we were too early, the hostel doesn’t open until evenin. We had hours te kill, but we just sat on the steps, too exhausted te move. The men’s hostel is just next door. Tha’s called the Morning Star. By five o’clock we were stiff an cold. We hadn’t had any tea or bread since yesterday. But I was beyond carin an just wanted te lie down in a warm bed. We hadn’t said a word fer hours until a man came over te me ma an asked fer a match te light his cigarette butt. Me ma said, no, she doesn’t smoke.

  ‘It’s a long aul wait,’ he said, ‘but it shouldn’t be too long now till they open.’

  Me ma said nothin, an he wandered off te talk te other men who were arrivin an congregatin aroun the men’s part, smokin, an coughin, an spittin, an laughin, an throwin the eye at me ma. She pretended she didn’t see them.

  When we finally got in, we had te go te the office te talk te the sister in charge. Tha’s wha they call themselves! The woman was fat an had a tight perm tha looked like a roll of steel wool on her head. She had little glasses on her nose an asked me ma loads a questions. Me ma gave her a wrong name an said she was just back from England an was lookin fer somewhere te stay. Me ma said she had te come home cos England wasn’t a Catholic country, an she was glad te be back among her own. The woman seemed satisfied an then looked at me. ‘How old are you?’ she snapped.

  ‘Four, Mrs,’ I said.

  ‘Sister! You call me Sister.’

  ‘Yes, Sister Mrs,’ I said, confused, cos she looked like a woman te me.

  ‘Do you wet the bed?’ she asked me.

  ‘No!’ I said, terrified, cos I do.

  She picked up a big walkin stick, an she said, ‘If you wet the bed, I’ll break this on your back. Do you hear me?’

  I didn’t answer, an me ma said nothin either.

  We slept in a very big room wit lots of other women all sleepin in single iron beds. I slept wit me ma, an there was one other child in the room. He slept in a cot, cos he was only two years old. His mammy didn’t sleep there, she slept somewhere else. I don’t know where. But every mornin he wakes up cryin, an his ma comes clatterin in on her high heels. An he’s standin up in the cot, holdin on te the bars an roarin his head off. His ma gets very annoyed when she sees the child has shit himself an the blankets are destroyed. So she wipes his arse wit the blanket an dresses him. Then she yanks him outa the cot an onta the floor. Then she says te her other two little girls, who are about five an six years old, ‘Right! Take him an get him outa me sight.’ An the little child goes off wit his sisters, one holdin each hand. An the little babby laughs happily, then the mammy marches off about her own business.

  We get ready an leave fer the day. Me ma collects a tin mug a tea an a chunk a bread an margarine. They don’t give anythin fer the childre, me ma says, so I share her bread an try te sup the tea from the tin mug, but it’s too hot an burns me lips. So I go without. We have te leave the hostel by nine o’clock. The doors are locked after us, an we aren’t allowed back in until night. We walk aroun, goin nowhere. If the weather is nice, we sit in the park. If me ma has the price of a cup a tea, then we’ll sit in a café an try te make the tea last. If it’s rainin, we go inta a church. But mostly we just wander aroun the streets waitin fer the time te go back te the hostel.

  This mornin I opened me eyes an was surprised I was awake first. The babby was still asleep an wasn’t standin up cryin. His cot was next te our bed. I watched him te see if he would wake, but he didn’t, an I was happy he was quiet cos when his mammy came in te collect him she would tell him he’s a very good boy an he wouldn’t get inta trouble. Everyone was now gettin up an beginnin te move aroun, but he was still asleep. Me ma was gettin me dressed when his mammy came in. She went over te the cot an shook him, but he didn’t move! She shook him again an then felt him. ‘He’s stone cold,’ she muttered. Then she screamed, ‘He’s dead! Oh, Christ Almighty, he’s dead! Me little boy is dead.’

  She started te shake the bars of the cot an scream. Then she started te pull her hair out. Me ma grabbed me an pulled me out the door, not botherin te wait fer her tea an bread. ‘Oh, God bless tha poor woman,’ me ma said. We left the hostel in an awful hurry.

  Me ma went down te collect her money from the relievin officer. I think it’s five shillin fer a week. The waitin room was crowded wit people, all sittin on long wooden benches behind each other an everybody starin inta space. Nobody talkin or lookin at each other. They were all smokin their Woodbines, an the place was thick wit blue smoke. I was beginnin te get a terrible headache, an me stomach felt very sick.

  When we got inta the relievin officer, he asked me ma an awful lot of questions. He asked her if she had any valuables she could pawn or sell. She said no. Finally, he said he would come up te the house te check, so she had te tell him she was now homeless, an we were stayin at the Regina Ceol
i hostel. ‘If that’s so,’ he said, ‘then you’ll have to bring me a letter from the people in charge, and until you so do this, I won’t be giving you any money. Now, send in the next one.’

  ‘But ... excuse me, Sir, when will I get me money? I’ve nothin te even buy the child a bit of bread or a drop a milk.’

  ‘You’re wastin my valuable time,’ he barked at me ma. ‘I’ve already explained that to you. Bring the letter to me next week, and then we’ll see. Now get out of here and stop wasting my time. I’ve nothing more to say.’

  We trailed out the door like two snails. Me ma was shocked. She didn’t think he’d find out an make trouble. ‘Tha’s it, then, we’re well an truly bet! What’ll we do now?’ I wasn’t listenin te her mutterins. I was too busy tryin te get sick. Me stomach is heavin an heavin, but there’s nothin comin out. Oh, me head, the pain is so bad. I just want te lie down, an I’m so thirsty. I need a drink a water. I drag behind her an start te cry. She whirls aroun an snaps at me, ‘What ails ye? Stop yer fuckin whingin, I can’t hear meself think.’ So I keep quiet an just follow behind.

  She wanders up te Thomas Street, lookin fer her aunt who is a dealer an sells fruit an vegebales. ‘Well! Wha do you want?’ Lizzie asks me ma. Me ma gives a little cough an chews her mouth while she tries te think of the best way te ask Lizzie fer somethin te keep us goin.

  ‘Eh, Lizzie, would ye ever be able te lend me somethin fer a few days? I’ll pay ye back when I get me money.’

  ‘An why would I do tha? Do ye take me fer an eejit? It’s lockin up you need! Lookit the state you’re in again. This is yer third time te get yerself in tha condition. You’re bleedin populatin Dublin all by yerself! Well, this time ye’ve gone too far. Enough is enough! I’m now goin te take steps meself te have ye put away. I’m gettin ye put inta the Magdalen Asylum in Gloucester Street. That’ll put a stop te yer gallop! So it’s money ye want, if ye wouldn’t be mindin! Is there anythin else ye’d like? Go on, be off wit ye. I’ve no time fer you.’

  ‘I’m sorry I asked ye!’ me ma said, an turned te go.

  As I turned te follow, Lizzie took me arm an put a half-crown in me hand, an she closed me hand over it. ‘Lookit you,’ she said, ‘you poor cratur. Are ye not well? What ails ye?’

  ‘I have a headache, Aunt Lizzie, an I feel sick.’

  ‘Bad cess te tha one. May God forgive her fer the way she’s carryin on. She’ll roast in Hell an the sooner the better. Bringin disgrace on everyone, she is. Here, eat this, it’ll build ye up.’ An she gave me an apple an a banana. ‘Go on, get after her,’ she said.

  I rushed after me ma, who was now miles up the road an just turnin down onta Meath Street. When I got up behind her, I shouted, ‘Ma! Ma! Wait fer me.’

  She half turned an then her head shot aroun when she saw me holdin up the money. Her face lit up, an she said happily, ‘Did Lizzie give ye tha?’

  ‘Yeah, Ma, an she gave me these.’

  Me ma started te laugh happily, ‘Oh, thank God fer tha,’ she said. ‘I thought we were goin te have te go without.’

  We spent another week at the hostel an made another visit te the office te talk te the aul one wit the steel-wool hair.

  ‘Make sure you come straight back here with the money you owe me. You won’t get in this door if you don’t pay it all. Do you understand this?’

  ‘Yes, Sister. Very well. I’ll be back here straight away wit yer money. There’ll be no hesitation about tha,’ me ma said. So we set off fer the relievin officer, me ma holdin on tightly te the letter in her pocket fer yer man. An he gave us two weeks’ money, cos Steel Wool told him te. She said she wanted te be paid fer the two weeks. So we were loaded wit money! He gave me ma a big ten bob note, it’s red!

  ‘Come on,’ me ma said, grabbin me an laughin.

  ‘Are we goin back now te the hostel, Ma, te pay the woman?’

  ‘Like hell we are! I’m not goin back te tha hell hole. No, we’re goin home.’

  ‘Home, Ma? But Nelly won’t let us in.’

  ‘She can’t stop us. It’s my home, too.’

  We stopped in Thomas Street te get the messages. We went inta the Maypole an got Marigold margarine, the good stuff. An two ounces of tea, an half a pound a sugar, an me ma asked me if I wanted Marietta biscuits, an I said yeah. Then we went te St Catherine’s Bakery an got two fresh loaves, an we got a packet of cheese an two bottles a milk. The ma gave me the milk te hold while she fixed the messages in the bag. An I forgot I was holdin the milk, an I let me arm go, an the milk smashed te the ground! Me ma was very annoyed, an she said, ‘I told ye te hold them! What am I goin te do now? Tha’s the last of me money.’

  I started te cry, but a very nice young woman, who was dressed lovely, came over te see wha happened, an she smiled at me an said te me ma, ‘Don’t worry! Here’s one and six, go and buy some more milk,’ an me ma an me was happy again.

  Nelly opened the door an stood lookin at us when we got there. But she let us in when me ma said she had the messages.

  Me ma took me aroun te John’s Lane Church te light a penny candle. Then she knelt down te say a prayer. I loved lookin at all the little candles burnin an the smoke curlin from them. An the grease drippin offa them when they melted. I was squeezin an feelin them, an gettin me fingers burnt, chewin on the bits a wax an tryin te put me fingers in the little hole where ye put the money, wonderin how ye got the money out. An then me ma hissed at me an told me te go away from them. So I wandered aroun the church an stopped in front of a box. I’d seen people go in an out before, an I decided te have a look. I went in an closed the door, an it was very dark. I was afraid, but I decided te sit down on the kneeler an wait, but nothin happened. So I decided te make whisperin noises like I’d heard other people do. But nothin happened. So I tried te get out, an the door wouldn’t open! I was locked in the dark!

  Well, I nearly lost me mind. I banged me fists on the door, an I screamed fer all I was worth. I heard feet runnin, an an aul one wit a black shawl wrapped aroun her head whips open the door. The light hurt me eyes, but as soon as I had me senses back I shot out the door, an the woman grabbed me. ‘Tha’s not for playin in,’ she snorted at me. I looked up at her. I was red-faced an pumpin sweat. ‘There now, ye gorra fright, but ye’ll be OK. Come on wit me an we’ll say a prayer.’ Me ma was on the other side of the chapel an was pretendin she didn’t know me. She doesn’t like me te make a show a her.

  The aul one tightened the shawl aroun her chin an pulled me down te the statue. ‘Now!’ she explained, ‘This here is the statue of St Jude. He’s the saint fer hopeless causes.’ She joined her hands an held them high in the air, an lifted her eyes up te the statue, an started te pray in a loud voice. I was sittin beside her on the kneeler, an she told me te hold me hands together an pray.

  I didn’t know wha te say, so I just made it up. I was sayin, ‘Hally, Mally, Vecha, a do,’ an the aul one smiled an nodded at me, an said I was great. Then the ma came down the chapel, an we went out inta the sunshine. I felt a very good girl.

  7

  The noise woke me up, an I sat up in the bed wonderin wha was happenin. Me ma was standin at the side of the bed, shiverin an moanin. Nelly told me an Barney te get up an put our clothes on. I saw blood on the floor an blood streamin down me ma’s legs. Nelly threw her coat over her shoulders an shot outa the door. She was back in a minute, an a load of aul women streamed in behind her. They started fussin aroun the ma. One aul one picked me ma’s only frock up from the chair an swooped down te wipe up the blood from the floor. I didn’t think tha was a good idea, cos what is me ma goin te wear now? Another aul one grabbed me an said, ‘Here!’ handin me a shoppin bag. ‘Go down an get the potatoes an messages fer the dinner.’

  I’d never been sent fer messages, an we didn’t get potatoes, but I thought this was a great idea. So I held onta the bag an looked up at the aul one, waitin fer her te give me the money. But all she did was roar at me an say, ‘Go on! Go down te the vegebale shop, yer mammy needs the messages.�
��

  So I set off confused. I thought ye needed money te buy the potatoes. When I got te the shop, I handed up the bag te the woman behind the counter. I knew what I wanted now. I’d heard me ma an Nelly talk often enough about it. ‘Ye can give me a bit a bacon an cabbage, an potatoes, an a load a good butter, an two loaves a bread, an a bottle a milk,’ I said. ‘An a bit a tea an sugar. An gimme a nice big cake fer the tea.’

  ‘Grand,’ yer woman said. ‘Now where’s your note wit the money in it?’

  ‘I haven’t gorrit,’ I said.

  She stared at me an said, ‘Where’s yer mammy?’

  ‘At home,’ I said. ‘They sent me fer the messages.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Granny Rafters did.’

  ‘Well, you can go home an tell tha aul Granny Rafters I’m not behind this counter fer the good a me health. Ye need money if ye want te eat!’

  When I got home, they wouldn’t let me inta the room. ‘Go off an play!’ An they slammed the door shut! I called fer Tommy Weaver, an we came back an sat outside our room on the landin. We watched the commotion, wit aul ones runnin up an down the stairs. ‘Wha’s wrong?’ I asked. ‘Why’s me ma sick?’

  Then one aul one said, ‘We’re busy. Ye’re te keep outa the way. Why don’t ye look out fer the doctor, he’s comin wit a new babby fer ye!’

  I was delighted. Tommy Weaver was ragin an then said te me, ‘Anyways, I’m bigger than you! I’m six, you’re only five.’ So then I was ragin. So I snatched the pencil an copybook from his hands an said, ‘Lookit! I can write.’ I did lovely wavy lines. He said I was a liar an I didn’t even go te school like him – tha he was goin te be a scholar. So I asked him how did the doctor bring the babby, an he said the doctor brought the babbies in his bag. We went off te sit on the street an wait fer the doctor. But he never came. So Tommy went in fer his dinner, an I went off collectin ice-pop sticks along the streets on me own.