The Granny

by Brendan O'Carroll

  Chapter 18

  NO MATTER WHAT WAY TREVOR JUGGLED the figures around, once he added them up it made for depressing reading. There was no escaping the harsh reality - Nicholson Books Limited was in big trouble. It was going to be a bleak Christmas for the company’s two directors and sole shareholders, Trevor and Maria Browne. They had founded the company just two years previously. It was an idea Maria had had for a long time, to publish a selection of children’s books containing the highest standard of illustration. They had certainly achieved this - everyone agreed that the illustrations in Nicholson books were among the finest in the United Kingdom. But despite this, the books weren’t selling. Their first three publications - King Benny, Lady Esther’s Adventure and Jenny and Jane - had done reasonably well and even turned a little profit. However, they were followed by six very mediocre books. The last two that they had published, Louis the Lawnmowerand Pauly’s Folly, were unmitigated disasters.

  Trevor sighed heavily as he put his pen down. He removed his glasses and began to massage the bridge of his nose just as Maria arrived into the room with coffee and biscuits. She placed the tray on the table and then wrapped her arms around Trevor from behind. He smiled. It was one of Maria’s greatest talents, delivering a hug just when it was needed.

  ‘Is it that bad?’ she asked as she passed him his coffee.

  ‘Yes, it’s that bad!’ he answered. ‘We’ve a printing bill for three and a half thousand pounds, we’re two months behind in the payments for the car, we’re probably going to have the ‘phone cut off, and we still owe Hobson’s over a thousand pounds for those cardboard display boxes we got for Henry Hippo. Christ, they were a waste!’ Trevor threw down the pen again.

  ‘No, they weren’t a waste, Trevor. They were a good idea. And we certainly can’t blame them for HenryHippo’s failure. It was just a shit book!’ This statement brought a sideways glance from Trevor. He had illustrated Henry Hippo. Maria caught his glance and was quick to add, ‘The illustrations were fine, it was just a weak story. How are this month’s sales?’

  Trevor riffled through the pages on the table-top until he came across the sales results sheet. He began to run down the titles with his finger.

  ‘Well, Lady Esther and King Benny are starting to move a bit, they should sell well over the Christmas. It’s hard to know how these four — ’ he ran his finger over the page, ‘will go, but we can expect seventy-five percent of Pauly, and probably all of Henry Hippo to be returned.’

  ‘Christ, it is looking bad, isn’t it, Trevor?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ The couple began to sip their coffee, and they both sank into silent contemplation. Trevor stood up from the table and walked to the fireplace. He lifted the tongs and placed a few more pieces of coal on the open fire. A small Christmas tree glittered in the corner, the tinsel shivering in the heat haze that oozed from the fireplace.

  ‘If only we could attract some of the really big writers, like Keith Clarke or Wilbur Livingston,’ Trevor exclaimed.

  ‘But that takes money, Trevor. We don’t have enough to pay our own bills, never mind give big-name writers big advances.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Trevor replied in a resigned tone and returned to his coffee.

  ‘I spoke to Sue today,’ Maria announced and she brightened as she always did when Sue’s name was mentioned.

  Trevor also brightened. ‘Did you? And how are things in the advertising world?’

  Tony and Sue had moved to Liverpool where they too were pursuing their dream. They had opened up a small advertising agency of their own. At last count the Vescoli White Agency had twenty solid clients on its books. The business had grown from working from home to a large five-roomed office complex in Liverpool city centre. Tony was very proud of the fact that they had made a go of the agency without taking one single account with them from Hutchinson & Bailey. Not the usual practice in the advertising world.

  ‘Sue says business is quiet, although it always is at this time of the year,’ Maria answered. Maria paused, taking extra care about how she phrased her next sentence; her husband was a proud man. ‘Sue says ... that she and Tony could do with some help in the New Year ... if we’re not bogged down by work ourselves. What do you think?’

  Trevor saw through it straight away, but he wasn’t angry. ‘I know they mean well, love, but we really have to make a definite decision. Either we go on trying to make a go of this or we go back into advertising on a full-time basis. Don’t you agree? A handout from Tony and Sue, well-meaning or not, is still a handout and it will only solve our problems in the short term. I must ring them tomorrow and thank them.’

  ‘So, when do you think we should make this decision, then?’

  ‘Well — I think it would be foolish to make any decision till we see how the Christmas sales go. We’ll leave things sit over the Christmas period and maybe by mid-January the picture will be clearer. Let’s make our decision then. If we decide to go back into advertising full-time, it may mean moving out of here and back to London,’ Trevor said with a little woe in his voice.

  Maria let out a sigh; she liked this house. She liked the area too. When they had decided to go into children’s book publishing they had also decided to move away from London. It was Maria who found the house they were now renting in Altringham, just on the outskirts of Manchester. She hated the thought of moving out of this house nearly as much as she dreaded the thought of moving back to London.

  Chapter 19

  PIERRE OPENED THE FRONT DOOR of 43 Wolfe Tone Grove. Agnes Browne stood before him in a dreadful state. Her hair was ragged and dripping wet from the rain, her coat was soaked and covered in mud all down one side. Her wool-lined suede boots were covered in so much mud that you couldn’t see the zippers.

  ‘My God, what has happened to you?’ Pierre exclaimed.

  ‘I fell. Get out of the way,’ Agnes said, disgruntled, as she pushed past Pierre.

  ‘Where were you?’ Pierre asked, concerned.

  ‘Out!’ Agnes snapped as she made her way to the bathroom, kicking her boots off on the way. Within fifteen minutes Agnes was immersed in a steaming hot bath. Pierre had taken her boots out to the back yard where he scraped all the mud off and left them in the coal shed to dry. He went back into the kitchen, put on the kettle and while he waited for it to boil, he gathered up Agnes’s wet clothes and hung them in the hot press to dry. He then brought Agnes in a cup of steaming hot tea and sat down on the toilet bowl.

  ‘You were out looking for Dermot again, weren’t you?’ Pierre asked.

  Agnes lay in the bath, her eyes closed, the scent of Radox gently tickling her nose. She didn’t answer.

  ‘You know, Agnes, my love, Dermot has a lot of things to get right in his mind before he even dreams of mending fences. Six and a half years is a long time to be locked away, Agnes. Things that you and I take for granted, Dermot must learn all over again. Simple things like crossing the road. And big things like how to become part of society again, how to deal with people, how to deal with pain. When he’s ready he will come,’ Pierre finished.

  Agnes didn’t move. Her eyes didn’t open nor did her expression change. ‘Pierre, leave me alone, please.’ Agnes’s voice was tired.

  Pierre left the bathroom and returned to his armchair by the fire, where he continued to wrap the Christmas presents for Agnes’s grandchildren.

  All along Dame Street in Dublin’s city centre, people were scurrying this way and that in an effort to stay out of the rain. The film of rainwater on the ground made the streets look black at night and they reflected the city lights. In virtually every shop doorway along Dame Street people were sheltering. Not Dermot Browne however. He walked along the street with the footpath virtually to himself and a smile on his face. He loved the feel of the rain. In prison he had missed the rain. If it were raining, the inmates were not allowed out into the exercise yard, so for six and a half years Dermot Browne hadn’t felt the rain on his face. To Dermot the ice-cold rain dripping from his face was
a symbol of freedom.

  He had just finished a ten-hour day at the Gresham Hotel. The hotel was at its busiest during the Christmas weeks, with dinner dances and Christmas parties. He liked working overtime. He’d little else to do. When he arrived at the Iveagh Hostel, dripping wet, he was met in the hallway by one of the volunteers with a cup of hot tea. He then went to his cot, on the end of which he hung his wet clothes. The hostel was noisy and overcrowded, but it was warm. He propped his pillow up against the headboard of his bed and sat cross-legged on the bed. He lifted his nylon bag from the floor and took out his books.

  The English course he had taken in prison had encouraged an interest in reading. He was a fussy reader and preferred children’s or teenage books to adult books. Adult books, he thought, were too complicated and many of them were too sad to read in prison. So instead he had taken to books aimed at a younger audience and he devoured everything that they had in the library. He had been stunned one day to find a book called Lady Esther’s Adventure in the children’s section - stunned because it bore the name of Trevor Browne as author and illustrator. Just a quick flick through the illustrations confirmed to Dermot that his brother was now writing and illustrating books. He glowed with pride. He also stole the book. He then wrote a letter to Trevor at the publisher’s address given in the book, telling him how proud he was of him, and was delighted within weeks to receive a package containing seven more books. But he had to admit that although the illustrations were beautiful the stories were crap. Nevertheless, his youngest brother was an author and publisher, and Dermot was very proud of that. He flicked through the pages of Lady Esther’s Adventure once again. He wondered what young Cormac would think if he knew that he had an uncle who was an author and illustrator. He wondered if young Cormac knew that he had an uncle.

  Trevor was the first person that Dermot had ’phoned on his release from prison. He rang Trevor at his home in Manchester to thank him. Just a week before Dermot’s release day he had received a letter from Trevor containing fifty pounds, which Trevor had sent to help Dermot in his first days of freedom. Things must be good in the book world, Dermot thought. Over the following couple of weeks Dermot contacted all of his family. Except his mother. He’d had a varying reaction from each of them, but they all wanted to help him. He was glad of that but refused all their offers as he knew the next few steps had to be taken alone.

  When he called in to Mark’s office at Senga Furnishings, Mark’s initial welcome had been warm, with a big hug for his brother. Then, over a cup of coffee, Mark offered him a job in Senga where now, by the way, Buster Brady was also working. But Mark had insisted that before he could take Dermot on, he would have to make up with his mother. Dermot told Mark that what was between his mother and him was his business and none of Mark’s affair. Mark then kicked into his fatherly mode and the whole thing degenerated into a row. Dermot marched out of the offices with Mark shouting ‘Selfish bastard!’ after him.

  Rory and Dino were delighted to see Dermot. Dino styled Dermot’s hair while Rory filled Dermot in on all the family news. He went back to their apartment on Appian Way in Donnybrook for dinner that evening. Before he left them, Rory and Dino offered Dermot some clothes to wear until he got himself ‘fixed up’. Dermot was thankful for the offer and knew it was genuine - but he wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he would get in the Iveagh Hostel if he arrived in skin-tight denim jeans and a cerise chiffon blouse, so he declined.

  He hadn’t been down to Arklow to see Cathy. When he ‘phoned her she had asked him not to come, as a visit from an ex-prisoner might ‘unsettle’ Mick. At Simon’s house in Raheny, Dermot was made feel very welcome and he actually stayed the weekend there. Young Thomas was around the same age as Cormac, and was a real character. He really took to his Uncle Dermot, and the feeling was decidedly mutual. Over the weeks, Dermot had met up with Buster on a few occasions to have a couple of drinks. Buster was living with his eldest sister Sharon, out in Ballyfermot. Buster told Dermot he was getting on well in Senga Furnishings and had started saving in a building society account in the hopes of some day getting a mortgage to own his own house. Buster Brady owning his own house, what was the world coming to? Dermot smiled to himself as he sat on the bed in the Iveagh Hostel. He returned Lady Esther’s Adventure to the bag and took out one of his Biggles books, which he read till he fell asleep.

  Chapter 20

  IT HAD NOW VIRTUALLY BECOME A TRADITION. On Christmas Day all of the Browne family who were Dublin-based would come to Mark and Betty’s house for tea. Everybody would make their own arrangements for Christmas dinner, but by early evening Agnes Browne’s children and grandchildren would be sitting in Mark’s house exchanging Christmas gifts. Agnes’s arrangements for Christmas dinner changed every year as she shuttled between each member of the family. This Christmas she and Pierre were to have Christmas dinner in Raheny with Simon, Fiona and Thomas. The five of them would then drive out to Mark’s house for tea.

  Rory would join Dino’s family for dinner. The Doyles were well aware that their son, Dino, was homosexual, and were delighted that he had found a stable partner in Rory. Rory was welcomed into the Doyle home as if he were a son. Dermot had declined an offer of Christmas dinner at Simon’s, because his mother would be there. He’d also declined the evening party at Mark’s for the same reason. Instead, Dermot joined hordes of Dublin’s homeless at the Mansion House in Dawson Street where he enjoyed a slap-up Christmas dinner and a few glasses of wine with the compliments of Dublin’s Lord Mayor. He left the Mansion House around 7pm on Christmas night, a little tipsy. He didn’t want to go straight back to the Iveagh Hostel so instead he walked the streets of Dublin.

  In Arklow, Cathy O‘Leary was enjoying her best Christmas since the day she was married. She had made the excuse to her husband that Pamela was too ill for the long drive to Cork. Undeterred, as soon as Christmas dinner was finished, Mick loaded gifts for his parents into the car and took off alone for Cork, where he would stay for the next three days. Thanks to his departure, Cathy was having something on Christmas night that she had not had for many years. Sex! Pamela was asleep in her cot in the other room, after a wonderful day. And now Cathy, smelling of Chanel No. 5, a gift from her lover, was kneeling naked on her double bed. She was bent over her exhausted, sleeping lover, her long black hair sweeping across his stomach. She gently rolled her tongue around his nipple and even in his sleep he smiled in recognition of the pleasurable sensation. Fuck you, Mick O’Leary, was Cathy’s thought as she snuggled into her lover’s arms.

  At nine-thirty, Agnes made the excuse to her family that she was feeling tired and that Pierre was going to drive her home. After lots of hugs and kisses, she and Pierre pulled away from Mark’s house. When they reached the crossroads at the Oscar Traynor Road, where Pierre would usually turn right and head for Finglas, Agnes instructed him to drive straight on and into the city centre. She had an errand to run. Fifteen minutes later, Pierre’s car pulled up outside 26 Michael Collins Court in The Jarro. Pierre unlocked the boot of the car and gave Agnes a box wrapped in Christmas paper. As Agnes made her way to the front door, Pierre sat back in the car and waited. The door was opened after the second knock. Margaret O’Brien, Mary Carter’s eldest sister, was a little startled to see Mrs Browne standing at the front door with the Christmas gift for Cormac.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you on Christmas night, love ... this is just something for Cormac.’ Agnes proffered the gift.

  Instead of taking the box from Agnes’s hands, Margaret stood back and held the door open. ‘Step in for a minute, Mrs Browne, won’t you?’

  Agnes stood into the hallway and Margaret closed the door. ‘Maybe you’d like to give it to him yourself, Mrs Browne?’

  ‘God no, eh ... you give it to him, love. It’ll just confuse him, he’ll wonder who I am. It’s just a little something, eh, that Dermot sent for him.’

  ‘And why didn’t Dermot deliver it himself, Mrs Browne?’

  ‘Oh he’s away, o
n business,’ Agnes lied.

  ‘I don’t think so, Mrs Browne. He’s actually standing in a doorway across the street.’

  After walking up and down across the street from 26 Michael Collins Court for an hour Dermot had begun to think he was going mad. ‘What the fuck am I doing?’ he asked himself aloud. He stood into a doorway directly across the road from the house. From where he stood Dermot could see a crack of light come through the side window of number twenty-six, where the curtain was slightly parted. If I could sneak over there I could probably peek in through the crack and see the boy, he thought. He left the doorway and walked to the edge of the kerb, but suddenly heard a car coming down the street. He turned quickly and stepped back into the shadow of the doorway. He would wait till the car had passed. But it didn’t pass; instead it pulled up outside number twenty-six. Dermot recognised the driver. It was Pierre.

  ‘What the fuck are they doing here?’ Dermot exclaimed.

  When Dermot saw his mother step from the car, his eyes filled up and he began to gag a little. He watched as Agnes and Pierre went to the boot of the car and took out a large box covered in Christmas wrapping paper. He watched from the shadows as Margaret O‘Brien held the door wide open; then Agnes stepped through the doorway and the door closed. Twenty minutes later Agnes emerged from the house, and she exchanged words with Margaret O’Brien before the door closed once more. Agnes then got into the car, and she and Pierre talked for a few seconds before Pierre gunned the engine and the car disappeared around the corner. Dermot waited for five minutes. The street had now become totally quiet and it had begun to snow. He left his hiding place in the doorway and quickly walked across the street through the flurry of crystal white snow. Instead of going in the gateway of number twenty-six he went instead in the gateway of number twenty-eight. He walked up to the door as if he were going to knock on it, glanced quickly around to see that nobody was there, then vaulted the fence into twenty-six and pressed himself flat against the side wall. Crouching, he made his way to the side window and slowly rose till his eyes were level with the crack in the curtain.