The Granny

by Brendan O'Carroll

  For instance Buster once had a brainwave that they should run a street raffle. The idea was that he and Dermot would buy a book of cloakroom tickets and they would go door-to-door, street by street, selling the tickets for tenpence each, and offering a prize of five pounds to the winner. The scam was that there would actually be no winner. They would simply tell the residents of Wolfe Tone Park that somebody on Wolfe Tone Grove had won the prize, and they would tell the residents of Wolfe Tone Grove that somebody on Wolfe Tone Park had won it-and they would keep the ten pounds for the Boot Hill Gang.

  Sales began well, with one customer for every three calls. When asked what cause the raffle was for, Buster would simply say ‘Silver Circle’. Every school at that time had a Silver Circle raffle to raise funds for sports and such things. Within a couple of hours, ninety-nine tickets for the raffle were sold and the nine pounds ninety pence, nearly all of it in coins, had Dermot Browne’s trousers nearly falling around his ankles. They made six more calls in an effort to sell the last ticket, number 100, and after leaving the sixth door Dermot finally said, ‘Ah, nine pound ninety is enough, come on, we’ll call it a day.’

  But Buster, now full of enthusiasm that his scam was working out, insisted on carrying on. ‘Just one more call, Dermo, just one more - come on, we’ll try this one here.’

  The house he had picked was No. 57 Wolfe Tone Park. It had an overgrown garden that looked like a jungle. Someone had once taken the trouble of planting a privet hedge right around the garden, but it obviously hadn’t been cut for many years and was now as high as one of the fences in the Aintree Grand National. Dusk was falling and as the two boys walked up the path the garden seemed gloomy. The front door had once been painted buttercup yellow, but now the paint was faded, cracked and peeling. The solid brass door handle and knocker were the same as those on every house in Wolfe Tone Park and Grove - they were usually polished with pride by most of the housewives, but here they were dull to the point of being nearly black.

  The two boys arrived on the doorstep and Buster rattled the knocker. For a few moments there was no sound, and Dermot, with a nudge to Buster and a nod of his head, indicated that they should leave. Just as they were about to turn away they heard the sound of a chair being dragged across a floor to the door. Through the bubbled glass windows of the side panels of the doorway they could see a tiny figure climbing up on the chair, and then they heard the clank of a bolt as it was pulled back. The tiny figure climbed down again and the boys could hear the sound of the chair being pulled back from the door. Another clank indicated that the bottom bolt was now being pulled back and after a little fumbling at the Yale lock the door creaked open. The tiny elderly woman that peered through the crack in the door had more lines on her face than you’d find on an AA road map. She had two tiny little grey eyes, no eyebrows that the boys could see and frizzy hair that seemed to grow in patches on her head. Buster later remarked that she looked a hundred and fifty years old. She wasn’t. She was ninety-three. Her name was Nan Sheridan, and she had been moved out to 57 Wolfe Tone Park five years previously from her tenement in Frederick Street.

  Nan had met and married Robert Sheridan in 1903, and she soon gave birth to two sons, both of whom she reared with great care. Shortly after her second boy was born her husband Robert died in Blanchardstown Hospital of tuberculosis. So, over the next few years, Nan held down four to five cleaning jobs per day and used the money to educate her two boys. The two boys, Nan would proudly tell anyone who would listen, went on to become a solicitor and a doctor. They both married beautiful girls and Nan remembers the wedding days as being two of the best days of her life. By the time Nan Sheridan was faced that night with the Boot Hill Gang at her front door, however, she hadn’t seen either of her sons for four years.

  ‘D’yeh want to buy a raffle ticket, missus?’ Buster asked in his polished sales tone.

  ‘A raffle ticket? For what?’

  ‘For the Silver Circle.’

  ‘And what would I do with a Silver Circle?’

  ‘No, it’s for five pounds,’ Buster tried to explain.

  ‘Five pounds a ticket! Jesus Christ, that’s very dear.’

  Dermot could see that this wasn’t going too well, so he interjected in an effort to straighten things out.

  ‘Look, missus, the tickets are tenpence each. The prize is five pounds. The money is going to the Silver Circle. Now, d’yeh want one or not?’

  ‘Ten pence, now that’s different. That’s very reasonable. Come in, boys.’

  The two boys entered the house and Nan Sheridan ushered them through the hallway into the front room. Apart from the three bodies that had just entered it, the front room contained just two armchairs and a china cabinet. On top of the china cabinet were two wedding photographs.

  ‘Wait here now, boys, and I’ll get you the ten pence,’ Nan said, and she vanished into the kitchen.

  ‘Holy fuck!’ Dermot exclaimed. He was looking up at the ceiling, where a bare bulb hung from the cable. ‘She has nothing.’

  Nan soon emerged from the kitchen, opened her hand and into Buster’s palm she dropped seven pence. The two boys looked at the four brown coins.

  ‘There’s seven pence and I have three pence upstairs I think, hold on.’ She turned to leave the room.

  ‘Hold it, missus,’ Dermot tried to stop her, ‘seven pence will do. You’re all right, we’ll let yeh off with the three pence.’

  ‘No, no, I wouldn’t hear of it! That wouldn’t be fair to all the other people who bought tickets. I don’t know why I’m doing this, I never won anything in me life,’ the old woman moaned good-heartedly.

  Listening to the sound of Nan painfully making her way up the stairs the two boys from the Boot Hill Gang felt very small. It was five minutes before she returned with the three pence, smiling she handed it over to Dermot. Dermot tore out ticket No. 100 and placed it in Nan Sheridan’s wrinkled palm. She walked to the china cabinet and put the ticket carefully under the frame of one of the wedding photographs.

  ‘It’ll be safe here. Right, boys, let me show you out.’

  The two boys left and began to make their way home to Wolfe Tone Grove. At first neither of them spoke. Eventually when conversation did start it was stilted.

  ‘Good scam, eh?’ Dermot said.

  ‘Eh ... yeh.’ Buster sounded decidedly unenthusiastic.

  ‘Ten pounds - it’s not to be sneezed at. We could do this every week and get away with it!’

  ‘Yeh, Dermo, great isn’t it?’

  ‘I feel bleedin’ terrible,’ Dermot announced eventually, and he stopped and leaned against somebody’s railings.

  ‘So do I, Dermo, I feel shite.’

  They both knew what had to be done. So they did it.

  ‘I couldn’t believe me luck,’ Nan Sheridan told the girl in the post office next day. ‘Honestly, I thought they said five pounds of a prize, but I got a hamper and five pounds. And d’yeh know, I never won anything before in me life!’ She was smiling happily as she pushed her pension book across the counter to the young postmistress along with the five-pound note that she had been given as the prize by Dermot and Buster.

  The young girl stamped the woman’s pension book, both on the voucher and on the stub, tore out the voucher and began to count out the eight pounds seventy-five pence cash. She passed the cash across to the woman along with the turf voucher she was entitled to. She then picked up the five-pound note and asked Nan Sheridan, ‘What d’yeh want for this again, love?’

  Nan began to explain. ‘I want two postal orders, both for two pounds fifty. One made out to Liam Sheridan and the other made out to Philip Sheridan. They’re me sons, and they haven’t had time to get out and see me recently, so I thought with me winnings I’d send them the price of a drink - well, yeh know the way it is with boys, yeh have to look after them.’

  The Boot Hill Gang’s first scam had cost them forty pence.

  Having said all that, the Boot Hill Gang did have some minor succe
sses as would become evident if one had the opportunity to browse through the contents of Chestnut Hole. It contained toasters, electric kettles, small pieces of silver jewellery, and, thanks to Buster’s learning difficulties, two large brown cardboard cases of what were supposed to be transistor radios but were actually toilet rolls. Chestnut Hole, having served the two boys well as a play house in their teens, now served them in their mid-twenties as an excellent store-room. This is exactly what Dermot Browne was thinking as he pushed the large boxes of bum rolls aside to get at his ‘hidey hole’ - a loose brick in the south wall of Chestnut Hole, behind which Dermot kept his own little valuables (things like the condoms he had bought on a trip to Northern Ireland once, or about two hundred pounds he liked to have in case of an emergency). He also used his ‘hidey hole’ for his stash of cannabis. Dermot had got onto the dope soon after meeting up with Mary Carter. After a couple of unsuccessful attempts, Dermot eventually got his first ‘hit’ and now relished the thought of a ‘bit of blow’ before introducing his ‘soldier of fortune’ to a most welcoming Mary Carter. It was the ‘blow’ that Dermot removed from his hidey hole this night. After sticking the two little five-spot packs into the breast pocket of his mohair suit, Dermot checked his hair in the small mirror just beside the entrance of Chestnut Hole, straightened his tie and set off for another night of passion with Mary. Although Dermot Browne hadn’t found a love life yet, his sex life was doing fine.

  Chapter 4

  THIS CAN BE A WONDERFUL TIME OF LIFE -’ Pierre began.

  ‘Shut up, Pierre,’ Agnes snapped. Agnes didn’t like Pierre talking when she was thinking.

  There were four people sitting in the kitchen of Agnes Browne’s home in Wolfe Tone Grove. Along with herself and her beau Pierre, on the far side of the kitchen table sat Agnes’s daughter Cathy and her own beau, Garda Mick O’Leary. For a few moments there was silence. Then Mick coughed, one of those coughs that you know is going to be followed by a sentence.

  ‘It’s the way my work is, Mrs Browne. Guards get transferred all the time. I suppose I’m just lucky that it’s Wicklow and not Donegal, somewhere real far away.’

  ‘That’s exactly me point, son. Just because you’re getting transferred is not a good enough excuse for the two of you to get married. I mean, where will you live down there?’

  Mick and Cathy looked at each other as if both were going to speak. Mick leaned back, allowing Cathy to go on.

  ‘Mick has found a beautiful mobile home at the back of a cottage that we can rent. It’s near Brittas Bay, Mammy, just a few hundred yards from the beach!’ Cathy’s voice was excited.

  ‘Ah yes. Mobile homes today are a lot more comfortable than they used -’ Pierre began.

  ‘Shut up, Pierre,’ Agnes said again. Agnes had no objection to what was being said. She didn’t mind the idea of her daughter moving away from Dublin to live with the man she loved. She didn’t even mind that they would start their married life in a caravan; in fact she thought that quite charming. But there was something niggling at her. It was Mick O‘Leary - she couldn’t put her finger on it but there was something about him. At first she had liked him a lot and was happy that her daughter had found a man she loved, but the more she came to know Mick the more concerned she got. There definitely was something about him that unsettled her. Her own mother used to describe it as his ‘gimp’. That was it, there was a peculiar gimp about him. These days ‘gimp’ would probably be translated as ‘karma’. Mick O’Leary had bad karma.

  Agnes stood up from the table. ‘I need a cigarette,’ she announced. She left to go into the front room where her handbag was. Pierre followed. When the couples were separated by a wall, two different conversations took place. In the kitchen Cathy looked dolefully at Mick and asked, ‘Well, what d’yeh think?’

  ‘Well, I’m prepared to go along with this sham so far, Cathy, but I’ll tell yeh, you’re old enough to know your own mind and I don’t give a fuck what she says, we’re getting married.’

  ‘I know we will, Mick, but wouldn’t it be better if she was in favour of it and there would be no hassles then?’ Cathy pleaded.

  ‘Yeh, I suppose so.’ Mick crossed his arms and stared at the ceiling.

  In the other room Agnes was rooting in her handbag for her cigarettes, and Pierre came up behind her.

  ‘Why do you ask me to sit in on these family conversations?’

  ‘For mortal support,’ Agnes answered with a cigarette between her lips, scratching a match on the side of a box.

  ‘But you won’t let me speak.’

  ‘Mortal support doesn’t include speakin’,’ Agnes said matter-of-factly, and made her way towards the door.

  Before she got there Pierre said, ‘I think they should marry!’

  Agnes stopped in her tracks and slowly turned. She took the cigarette from her lips and exhaled the smoke slowly.

  ‘Do yeh now, Pierre, and why d’yeh think they should marry?’ Agnes asked him.

  ‘Because they want to.’

  ‘I see, because they want to! And if Cathy decided to pour petrol over herself and put a match to it, would that be all right, if she wanted to?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, that’s not what I mean. They are in love.’

  ‘Love, me arse! For a marriage to work it needs a lot more than just love.’

  ‘Agnes, you sound like a woman that has never been loved.’

  ‘And, Pierre, you sound like a man that has never been fuckin’ married.’

  With that Agnes turned on her heel and re-entered the kitchen. After a few moments’ pause for thought, Pierre did likewise. He took his seat by Agnes’s side and Agnes began to speak to the couple.

  ‘Well, I don’t have to tell the two of you that marriage is a huge step. You’re both adults and if your minds are set on it I’ll not stand in your way. I’ll just ask you this, to be kind to each other and remember how together you feel right at this moment, because it’s only that togetherness that will make your marriage work. Love will make your marriage happy, but first you need to make your marriage work.’

  The young couple smiled and hugged each other, then Mick stood up, walked around the table and kissed Agnes - and got quite a surprise when Pierre leaned over and kissed him. After a couple of cups of tea the wedding date was set for the twenty-fourth of August, and preliminary wedding lists were drawn up.

  News of the impending marriage was received with mixed reactions in the Browne household. Mark and Betty were delighted for the couple and Mark immediately promised them a wedding present of a suite of furniture. Rory and Dino both wanted to go to Hickey’s fabric shop with Cathy to help pick out her wedding dress and bridesmaids’ fabrics. Dermot and Buster Brady threw up - a Garda in the Browne family was unthinkable. Simon and his girlfriend Fiona Rock were delighted for the couple and Fiona was doubly delighted when Cathy, having no sisters, asked Fiona to be her maid of honour. Trevor Browne’s heart sank when he heard the news. Not that he was disappointed for Mick and Cathy - quite the opposite, he was delighted to see Cathy so happy. His heart sank because he wished it was him announcing the news that he was about to marry Maria Nicholson.

  Trevor’s plan was not going well. He now had just one painting to complete, a beautiful piece by Nicholson, fittingly called ‘Relief. Yet Maria Nicholson herself was no nearer to finding the mysterious artist and Trevor no closer to declaring his love for her. But he had made one giant leap forward. On two mornings in succession while passing her in the corridor he had said, ‘Good morning, Maria.’ But her replies were disappointing. On the first morning she answered, ‘Good morning, Terry,’ and on the second she didn’t even venture a name, she just said, ‘Yes it is, isn’t it?’ On the evening when he completed the Nicholson piece Trevor sat in his bedroom putting the final touches to the tiny frame when Rory entered the room wearing one strawberry pink sock and in search of the other.

  ‘Trevor, yeh didn’t notice a sock lying around, did yeh?’

  ‘No, and if
it’s the match for that one you’re wearing I’m sure I would have.’

  ‘Very funny. I like bright colours, okay?’ Rory suddenly noticed the tiny painting in Trevor’s hand. ‘Jesus, Trevor, that’s beautiful. How much will it sell for?’

  Trevor chuckled and told Rory that this painting wasn’t for sale - and he went on to explain to Rory that a true artist didn’t create his paintings for sale anyway, he painted them because he had to. This is why so many painters died penniless.

  ‘Well, if you’re not goin’ to sell it, what are yeh goin’ to do with it?’

  ‘I’m going to give it to someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A friend of mine.’

  ‘A friend? Oh, a friend! Who is she?’ Rory sat down opposite Trevor on the bed ready to be filled with gossip.

  ‘Ah, it’s a long story, Rory. It doesn’t really matter.’ Trevor tried to brush Rory off, but Rory wasn’t having any of it.

  ‘It must matter if you’re doin’ a paintin’ like that. It is a girl, isn’t it?’

  Trevor looked into Rory’s face and two things struck him. Firstly, Rory was genuinely delighted that it might be a girl, and secondly, Rory wasn’t surprised that Trevor might have a girlfriend. Rory’s confidence in his female pulling power relaxed Trevor and for the first time he told somebody else the entire story of Maria Nicholson, the pictures and his failure to get a response. Rory sat silently throughout the whole story, although changing his expression at every twist and turn in the plot. By the time Trevor had finished, Rory sat, his circular glasses sliding down his nose and his mouth agape. Trevor indicated the end of the story with a shrug of his shoulders.

  Rory almost attacked him. ‘Jaysus, Trevor, yeh have to tell her!’

  ‘I can’t! I just can’t.’