Ma, He Sold Me for a Few Cigarettes

by Martha Long

  ‘Bad cess te ye, ye dangerous liar. I don’t know where you’ve been keepin yerself, but ye weren’t mindin tha child. She told me ye had her in a home.’

  ‘I’ll catch up wit ye again, Aunt Lizzie. I’d better rush,’ an me ma grabbed me hand an took off in an awful hurry. ‘I’d better not let tha one find me,’ she said. ‘We’d better clear outa here.’

  Me ma took me on the bus an handed the conductor a ten bob note. ‘Nothin smaller, Mrs?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I didn’t get a chance te change it in the shop.’

  So the conductor gave it back an said he was only startin out an he hadn’t any change. ‘Don’t spend it all in the one shop!’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t,’ me ma said, an laughed.

  ‘I’ll meet ye outside the Tivoli at eight o’clock,’ he shouted after me ma when we stepped off the bus.

  ‘You’ll be lucky,’ me ma shouted back.

  We arrived at the home where me babby brother was kept. There was trees all aroun an high steps up te the big door. I stood on the iron thing fer cleanin yer shoes an looked in the coloured glass at the side a the winda. There was another door inside an a big pot holdin umbrellas. Me ma rang the bell, an me heart was poundin up an down. I fixed me hat te make meself look respectable, an hoped nothin would go wrong. A nun opened the door, an me ma said, ‘Good afternoon, Sister. I’m here te pick up me babby.’

  ‘And you are?’ the nun said. Me ma told her, an the nun brought us in. Me ma went inta another room, an I was told te wait in the hall. I sat on a big black chair, an me heart was flutterin in case they kept me here or they wouldn’t give us back our babby. Or maybe they’d call the police, cos me aunt Lizzie told them, an they’d take away me ma an lock her up. An I’d never get a chance te see me babby brother or me ma again.

  A big clock suddenly bonged, an I wet me new knickers wit the fright! I crossed me legs an dragged meself across the hall, lookin fer someone te take me te the tilet. I opened the door where me ma went, an said, ‘I need te go te the tilet.’ She was talkin te the nun, an she said I’d have te wait. I was jiggin up an down an tryin te reverse out the door, but me face was red, an I was sayin, ‘Ah! Ah! I’m wettin me knickers.’ I didn’t care any more about the nun, an I shouted wit me head in the door, ‘Ma, Ma! Me pooley’s comin.’ Me ma chewed her lip, an the nun jumped up, grabbed me by the arm an rushed me down the hall. She kept sayin, ‘Don’t soil the floor. You’re a very naughty girl.’ I was sloshin piss down me legs an inta me new shoes, an keepin me legs apart so I wouldn’t destroy me new dress. An leavin a trail of piss behind me. I couldn’t see where I was goin, cos me hat was knocked over me eyes, an I was holdin me frock an coat wit me free hand te stop them gettin full a piss.

  When we got te the tilet, I didn’t need te go, cos I’d pissed meself all the way down the passage. I was soppin wet, so I took off me shoes an me socks an me knickers, which were swimmin. An I put them on the floor, wettin the floor. An I wondered wha te do now. So I emptied me shoes of all the piss an put them back on again. Then I looked at me knickers an socks an decided te leave them there, they were destroyed.

  I came back out an looked fer the hall, an I went in the wrong direction. I seemed te be walkin fer miles, an I couldn’t find the hall. So I opened a door, cos I heard voices inside. An there was a load a nuns wit white veils an black veils an white aprons. Some were laughin an talkin, an some were knittin, an two young ones wit all their hair an a lace on their heads were doin a jigsaw. They all looked up, an I said, ‘Excuse me, can any of youse tell me where the hall is?’ An they looked at me, from me hat down te me shoes, an they burst out laughin. ‘I’m lost,’ I said. ‘I went te the tilet, an I can’t find me way back. I left ye’s a pair a knickers an me socks, they’re in the tilet. They’re no good te me, cos they’re soppin wet! But youse can wash them an put them on the childre.’

  The young ones asked me where I came outa an gave me a box of chocolates, te help meself, they said. Then they asked me loads a questions, an every time I opened me mouth they roared laughin. ‘An tell me now!’ they said, blowin their noses an wipin their eyes. Then one of the nuns said they’d better get me back te the parlour, an they gave me the rest of the chocolates in the box.

  When I got back, me ma said, ‘Where were you? The nun’s lookin everywhere fer you!’

  An the nun who brought me back said I was a tonic. They hadn’t enjoyed themselves so much fer a long time. An she was still laughin when she said, ‘Come and see us again some time.’

  The nurse brought in our babby. He looked different. His face was fatter, an he looks gorgeous. He had a mop a white curls, an his skin was so white. They must have washed him te nothin! He had a lovely red suit wit glitter buttons an a lovely blue furry coat. He stared at us, an me ma laughed an put her arms out te take him. ‘Ah, come on te me,’ she said. But he turned his head inta the nurse’s neck an cried. I jumped up an ran aroun te see his face, but he slapped me away. The nurse laughed an said he was makin strange cos he hadn’t seen us fer two months.

  Me ma asked the nurse fer a bottle fer the babby an maybe a few nappies, cos she hadn’t anythin left fer him. An maybe a few extra clothes, an she’d be very grateful. The nurse said she’d have te check wit Sister. She said the babby was twelve months old an was eatin solids, an the bottle was only te give him a drink when he was thirsty. Me ma was smilin an chewin her lip, an shakin her head up an down, an sayin, ‘Is tha right now? God, he’s gettin big, isn’t he!’ An then she said, ‘Wha do you feed him?’

  The nurse said, ‘Oh, mashed potatoes and mashed vegetables and mince and custard and ice cream and mashed banana. He has a great appetite and will eat anything you give him. You can give him the same food you cook for yourself, and cut down the Cow and Gate powder, he doesn’t need it now. You just put a couple of spoons in his bottle, particularly at night when you put him down to sleep, otherwise give him orange juice. He loves that.’ The nurse danced him up an down on her lap, an he roared laughin. I joined in wit the nurse an wrapped meself round him an kissed an sucked his face. He held on te me hair an squealed wit delight an tried te bite me chin. I was in heaven!

  The nun gave us a big bundle a clothes fer the babby an me. She wrapped them in a sheet an tied the bundle in four corners. Me ma carried the babby, an I carried the bundle. I was glad when we arrived at the bus stop. Me arms was achin me from carryin the weight. ‘Where are we goin, Ma? Are we goin home te Benburb Street?’

  ‘No! We’re not. I gave tha place up. We couldn’t stay there. They’re all animals, livin in tha place!’

  ‘So where are we goin, Ma?’

  ‘We’ll have te stay in the hostel.’

  ‘The Regina Ceoli, Ma?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  I said nothin, an I just looked at the babby. He was dozin off on me ma’s shoulder.

  It was gettin dark now an the street lamps had come on. It was cold an drizzlin, an the wind was beginnin te blow. I looked at a woman puttin up her umbrella, she was rushin home, I suppose. An I saw her in me mind, goin inta a room wit a roarin fire an a big round table wit a heavy cloth. An the lamp would be lighted, an she’d take off her coat an rush te the fire te warm her hands, an she’d ask the childre, ‘Do ye’s want a big bowl a stew fer yer tea an some lovely brown bread I made meself, wit lots of good butter?’ An the daddy sits at the fire wit his pipe an wearin his slippers. An afterwards, the daughter sits in his lap at the fire while the boy does his schoolwork at the table. An the mammy sews, an they all listen te the wireless. Tha’s what it’s like in the pictures, anyway. Tha’s what I’ll be like when I grow up. I’ll be respectable!

  Every mornin, we have te leave the hostel by nine a.m., an we can’t come back until night. The doors shut at eight p.m., an after tha ye’re locked out! At night when we go up the avenue, men an women are leanin against trees, hidden by the bushes. Me ma tells me not te look. We walk the streets day after day. Me ma carries the babby, an I carry our bundle. Cos me ma won�
��t leave our clothes in the hostel, cos she says they’ll be robbed. She worries a lot tha people might rob our things. So I have te carry them. Sometimes we can go inta a café an buy a cup a tea. An when they ask us te move on, we buy another cup if we have the money. Today, we have no money, an me ma keeps worryin, cos we’ve no milk fer the babby. ‘What are we goin te do, Martha? I’ve no money an I need te get milk fer the babby. Will we sell our clothes? What are we goin te do?’

  I say nothin, an we keep walkin nowhere, lookin fer somethin! I’m thinkin, if we sell the bundle, we’ll have nothin te put on the babby, an everythin will be gone. But the bundle is heavy, an I can’t manage it. I’m tired, an me arms is painin me. I don’t want te sell our clothes, an I don’t want te carry them every day. The babby has te have his milk, an we have te get money. ‘I don’t know, Ma. We’ll sell the clothes!’

  ‘But what’ll we do, Martha? They’re the good clothes, an we’ll have nothin te put on the babby.’

  ‘Ma, it’s too heavy fer me te carry.’

  ‘Wha? I don’t know what I’m goin te do!’ an me ma kept chewin her lip an worryin, an we kept walkin nowhere.

  ‘Ma! Let’s sell them, we need the money.’ I had an empty feelin in me stomach. We would have nothin left, but we needed the money.

  We walked down te Henrietta Street an went down the lane te the rag an bone man. The Jew man threw our bundle up onta the scales an weighed it. ‘One shillin an sixpence,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, no, Mister! Them’s good clothes. They’re not rags, ye know!’

  ‘That doesn’t matter, it’s the weight I go by.’

  ‘But they’re worth more than one an six! They’re the childre’s good clothes, an the babby’s blanket is worth more than tha!’

  ‘That doesn’t matter te me,’ he said. ‘We only go by the weight.’

  I understood. ‘Ma! He’s not bothered about the clothes, they could be rags ...’

  ‘But they’re not rags!’ she said.

  ‘I know, Ma! But the man doesn’t care. The weight of them is only worth one an six.’

  We all went quiet, an I watched me ma chewin on her lip an flutterin her eyelids an givin short coughs, tryin te decide wha te do. She slowly said, ‘We’ll take the money.’ An I watched him hand over the shillin an two thrupenny bits. An I felt bad, cos I told me ma te sell them, an we had been robbed!

  13

  We were walkin through the church at Church Street one night, on our way back te the hostel. Me ma said hello te a man walkin wit a bicycle. ‘There ye are again!’ she said te him.

  ‘Ah, hello there!’ he said, an they stopped te talk.

  ‘I was only up visitin someone in the Mornin Star,’ he said. ‘I’m on me way home. I have a place now of me own, an it’s grand te get outa tha kip.’

  ‘Have ye?’ me ma said. ‘Tha’s lovely! Wha have ye got?’

  ‘Ah, it’s only one room,’ he said, ‘but it’ll do me. It’s grand te be able te go in an shut yer door an have nobody botherin ye. So how are you? Are ye still in the Regina Ceoli?’

  ‘Ah, indeed I am,’ she said.

  I stopped listenin an jumped on the man’s bike. I was hoppin up an down, tryin te get it te move. ‘Hey, Mister! Will ye give us a lift, will ye, Mister?’ But they weren’t listenin. Me ma was happy an talkin away, an the man was laughin an talkin away te me ma. An they were at it fer hours. I was dyin te go te the tilet, but me ma showed no sign of movin. An I was so busy jumpin up an down on the bike an hopin the man might give me a lift, tha in all the excitement I pissed all over his saddle. It poured down te the ground, an they never noticed!

  Me ma was very excited when she finally left him. They had arranged te meet on the Wednesday, after she collected her money from the relievin officer. An as soon as she collected her pound, we went off te meet Jackser.

  ‘I hope he’ll be there! Suppose he doesn’t turn up, Martha ... Jaysus, tha’d be terrible,’ she said. ‘I hope he’s not makin a fool a me!’

  We met him outside the bird shop on Parnell Street. ‘Ah, there he is,’ she said te me, an she started laughin wit excitement. ‘Come on, hurry over te him.’ I was lookin at his bike an wonderin if I’d get a lift. But now they were gone a bit quiet an just kept smilin at each other.

  ‘So ... will we go, then?’ he said te me ma.

  We walked on, up Summerhill, an me ma said, ‘Wait here a minute!’ an she dashed inta a shop. I waited outside wit the man, keepin me eyes on the bike. When me ma came out, she had bread, an tea, an sugar, an even a quarter-pound a good butter! An Jackser said, ‘Ah, ye shouldn’t a done tha, there was no need te bother. I have plenty up in the room.’

  ‘Ah, sure ye’ll need it,’ me ma said.

  We turned left onta Rutland Street, an we passed old houses wit steps up te them. They had two storeys an a basement. We went inta the hall, an there were rooms there wit families livin in them. An then we went up the stairs onta a little landin wit a big sink an a tap fer water. Then we went up more stairs an came onta the landin wit two doors. We went in the first door, an there was a winda facin out onta the back yard. The other room faced onta the street, an a family lived there. I looked at the big bed beside the winda, an there was a chest a drawers an a wardrobe, an a table wit two chairs. An there was a fireplace fer doin the cookin on, an a big paraffin lamp fer givin the light at night time. Me ma put the babby on the bed.

  ‘Are we stayin here, Jackser?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah! But ye don’t have te call me Jackser. Yeah, ye can call me Daddy!’

  ‘But ye’re not me daddy, Jackser! I don’t have a daddy.’

  ‘No, but ye will now. I’ll be yer daddy.’

  I didn’t think much of this. I looked at him, an I felt very uneasy. I looked at the bed, an I was wonderin wha will I do when he finds out I wet the bed?

  * * *

  Me ma was upset, cos Jackser said he was goin up te the Mornin Star te see someone. She wanted me te go wit him. When we got there, he parked his bike at the end of the road, outside the shop opposite the Richmond Hospital. He told me te mind his bike, an if I didn’t move away from the bike, he would buy me a Halloween mask in the shop winda when he got back. I stood lookin in the shop winda, tryin te decide which mask I would buy, all the time lookin te keep an eye on his bike parked at the kerb.

  He was an awful long time comin, an the shop was beginnin te close. Then the shop closed, an it was very dark now, but there was still no sign of him. I wanted te go up te the corner, te see if he was comin, but I was afraid te leave the bike. There wasn’t a soul on the streets, an I was freezin cold. I wondered if he would ever come back.

  At last I saw him comin, an I said, ‘The shop is closed, wha will I do about me mask?’

  ‘Never mind the mask, get on the fuckin bike,’ he said.

  So I kept quiet. I felt really let down. No mask after all tha!

  When we got back, me ma was sittin up in the bed, waitin. Jackser went down te get paraffin fer the lamp, an me ma was ragin. ‘Wha kept him? Who was he wit?’

  ‘I don’t know, Ma. I was mindin the bike.’

  ‘What! Ye didn’t go up wit him?’

  ‘No, Ma, he left me te mind his bike.’

  ‘He was wit another woman, tha’s wha he was doin!’ she said. ‘Why didn’t ye watch him?’

  ‘I couldn’t, Ma, an he didn’t buy me a mask. He said he would!’

  ‘Was he lookin at dyed blondes?’

  ‘No, Ma!’

  ‘He was!’ she said.

  ‘No, Ma! He wasn’t lookin at any dyed blondes.’

  ‘Tell me the truth an I’ll give ye a penny.’

  ‘Will ye give it te me now, Ma?’

  ‘When you tell me the truth, I will.’

  ‘Where is it, Ma? Give me the penny now an I’ll tell ye.’

  ‘Here!’ an she gave me a penny. ‘Now, wha was he up to? Why was he gone all this time?’

  ‘I don’t know where he went. He left me te mind the bike.’


  ‘So tha’s it! He didn’t want you te see wha he was up te, cos he knew I’d find out. Was he lookin at women?’

  ‘Yeah, Ma! Dyed blondes.’

  ‘Are ye sure? Ye told me he wasn’t!’

  ‘He was, Ma.’

  ‘An did he say anythin te them?’

  ‘No! He was jus lookin.’

  ‘Ye’re not tellin me everythin tha he was up te.’

  ‘I am, Ma! He was whistlin at two dyed blondes in high heels.’

  ‘I knew it! Ye never told me tha.’

  ‘Will ye buy me a mask, Ma, if I tell ye the rest?’

  ‘Ye’re makin a fuckin eejit of me. I want te fuckin know wha he was up te.’

  ‘He wasn’t up te anythin, Ma.’

  When he got back, me ma roared at him he’d been wit another woman. He said she’s only in the place five days, an he’ll do wha he likes. An she’d better not talk, cos she had two bastards from different men, an no other man would take in a woman wit two bastards an give them a home. An if she kept this up, she can take her two bastards an get the fuck back on the streets where he found her.

  Me ma wouldn’t let go an asked him why he didn’t take me up te see wha he was doin. Why did he leave me well outa the way? He lunged at her, draggin her from the bed an throwin her on the floor. I ran te the corner an hid behind the chest a drawers. I watched as he punched an kicked her, an she kept tryin te get up. The babby woke up an started cryin wit the fright. I wanted te get over te him, but I couldn’t move.

  Jackser stopped killin me ma an looked up at the babby. I was terribly afraid. Jackser’s eyes were bulgin, an he was dribblin from his mouth. I was ready te grab me babby, an I was watchin Jackser’s eyes when suddenly he plunged the babby from the bed an charged out the door onta the landin. ‘I’ll fuckin show you, ye whore.’

  Me ma jumped up, an I raced out after him. He held the babby by one leg over the banisters an was threatenin te drop him down inta the hall. Me ma was screamin, an I was screamin, an the babby was givin piercin screams. He was frightened outa his life. Me ma was tellin him not te drop the babby, an the people from downstairs came out an were lookin up. Jackser was foamin at the mouth an tellin everyone she was a whore an these were her bastards – she expected him te take another man’s leavins. I was creepin down the stairs, hopin te find somethin te catch the babby in an tryin te think of a way te stop Jackser from killin me babby brother. The man from downstairs was talkin up te Jackser an tellin him it wasn’t worth doin time fer. ‘An you a good man. It’s not many that’d take in another man’s childre. Fer the love of God, give the child back te his mother.’