The Granny

by Brendan O'Carroll

  The boy walked to Dermot and Dermot picked him up and sat him on his lap. Maria looked over her shoulder and smiled at the scene. It was nice to have a child in the house. Her smile died when the boy asked Dermot, ‘Dermot, where’s me mammy?’

  Dermot became uncomfortable. He looked from Trevor to Maria and then back at the boy. The boy’s pale face was turned towards Dermot’s. He expected an answer.

  ‘Your mammy died, Cormac,’ Dermot answered, averting his eyes from the boy’s gaze.

  ‘What’s died, Dermot?’ the boy asked.

  How do you explain ‘died’ to a child? Dermot thought. The quiet in the kitchen was broken by the clicking sound of Maria turning on the kettle. She leaned her back against the kitchen sink and crossed her arms as Dermot sat the boy up on the table facing him.

  ‘Died is like changing from what you are into something better, more beautiful.’ The boy’s face was puzzled. ‘Once upon a time,’ Dermot began, ‘there was a pond. And in this pond there lived many, many different things. Things like frogs, little fish, spiders, and right at the bottom of the pond lived lots and lots of grubs. Growing right out of the middle of the pond, from the bottom right through the water out into the sunny air, was a long blade of grass.’

  Dermot could see he had the boy’s interest. So he went on: ‘Every now and then one of the grubs would climb up the blade of grass, right up to the top and out of the water, and would never be seen again! So, one day all the grubs got together and decided that one of them should go up the blade of grass, out of the water, see what was there, and come back and tell the rest of them, so that they would know.

  ‘One of the little grubs stepped forward and said that he would go. And all the other grubs clapped at his bravery. He set off on his journey, crawling up the blade of grass. He was so tiny that he didn’t even move the grass as he climbed along it. Halfway up, he looked down to see all his little friends staring up at him, eagerly waiting. He climbed some more. Just as he came to where the grass left the water, he turned to look at his friends one more time. They were waving and smiling and he waved back.

  ‘Then, taking a big breath, he climbed up the blade of grass out of the water. At first he felt no different, so he climbed on until he got right to the top of the blade of grass. Then, in the blazing sunshine, a wondrous thing happened. The little grub changed into a magnificent dragonfly. He was green and yellow and blue, and had four wings. At first he didn’t know what the wings were for, but when he flapped them he took off and began to fly. He flew around the pond, and frogs would look up and say, “Look at that beautiful dragonfly.”

  ‘But now he couldn’t get back into the pond to tell his friends. Still, he knew they would find out for themselves some day. So, flapping his wings he took off into the warm sunshine with a great big smile on his face.

  ‘So you see, Cormac, that’s what “died” is. Your mammy has become a dragonfly!’

  When the story ended Cormac smiled. ‘Oh goodie!’ he exclaimed as he threw his arms around Dermot’s neck.

  ‘Now, son, it’s bed for you!’ and Dermot carried the boy back upstairs. Within minutes the boy was asleep again and Dermot returned to the kitchen. When he sat down he sensed the riveted attention of both Trevor and Maria. He looked from one to the other, eventually holding his arms in the air and asking, ‘What? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Where did you hear that story, Dermot?’ Trevor asked.

  ‘I just made it up. Why?’

  Trevor didn’t answer. Instead he turned to Maria and said, ‘Maria, this is it - the real thing!’ But Maria was already on her way to the writing desk to get some paper. They asked Dermot to write the story out exactly as he had told it to young Cormac. An air of excitement filled the kitchen.

  Chapter 22

  IT WAS AT PIERRE’S SIXTIETH BIRTHDAY PARTY in Wolfe Tone Grove that Betty announced she was expecting her second child. Agnes was thrilled at the thought of a fifth grandchild. The gathering in the kitchen included Agnes, her sons Mark, Rory and Simon, her daughters-in-law Fiona and Betty, and her friend Carmel Dowdall, and the kitchen was now abuzz with ‘baby talk’. The boys were feeling uncomfortable enough on the edges of this conversation, but when Betty exclaimed that she hoped her next birth wouldn’t take as long as her last, and then Agnes burst in with ‘Don’t talk to me about long deliveries. I was so long in labour on me fourth that they had to shave me twice!’ the boys made a hurried exit, while the girls howled with laughter.

  The boys joined the rest of the party in the sitting room. In there, Pierre and Mr Brady, Buster’s father and Agnes’s next-door neighbour - a baker - were discussing the different techniques of baking. Mr Brady was passing on tips to Pierre that could be useful in Pierre’s pizza business. Pierre, on the other hand, while recognising the convenience of the sliced pan, was explaining to Mr Brady that only in France could ‘real’ bread be bought.

  Pierre noticed that Rory seemed to be wandering aimlessly through the party, so he excused himself and went to join Agnes’s third-eldest son.

  ‘Dino is not coming then, Rory?’ Pierre got straight to the point.

  ‘No, Pierre.’ Rory looked down into his glass and added, ‘It’s over, Pierre, he’s gone!’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Rory, you two have fought before. You will see, in a few days everything will be all right.’

  Rory shook his head. ‘No, Pierre, this time it’s over for real. I blame that fuckin’ shop, we should never have opened it!’

  ‘The shop’ that Rory was referring to was a hairdressing salon in Prussia Street named The Lazy Curl. Rory and Dino had indeed at last made the move to go into business for themselves. The premises had been a salon before, but not a very successful one, so the two men took a lease on the building in the hopes that they could turn it around. They didn’t. Where it’s not always true that lovers do not make good business partners, unfortunately in the case of Rory and Dino it was. The real problem was that, although both of them were excellent stylists, when it came to business neither of them knew their arse from their elbow. Also, jealousy began to creep in. The salon was unisex, and any man that came in to get his hair done by Rory would find himself attended to by Dino also, who would be sweeping up imaginary hairs from under the man’s feet, at the same time poking in little comments at Rory like, ‘God, that man’s hair must be very difficult, it’s taking you so long.’

  Or if Rory was engaging a man in friendly conversation Dino would pop by and say, ‘Ah, Rory, it’s great to hear you laughing; you go on ahead, don’t mind me. I’m just going to unblock the toilet.’ After which the toilet door would slam.

  While Rory tried to convince Dino that what he was doing was called PR, and was essential for business, Dino insisted that what Rory was doing was called flirting. Eventually the bills outweighed the profits. The shop closed after only ten months, although both men went straight into good positions in other salons.

  This was the first time in ten years that the two men had been parted during working hours, and the parting began to put a strain on their relationship. They had one or two rows, after which one or the other would leave, but then return the next day, and the making up would nearly make the row worthwhile. But this last row was serious. Rory knew it was the end when Dino began dividing up the CDs, most especially when Dino insisted on keeping all the Leonard Cohen ones for himself. In a deep depression, Dino moved out into an apartment in Rathgar, and Rory returned to his mother’s.

  When Rory had recounted the latter part of this story to Pierre, Pierre’s face was very serious. ‘He took the Leonard Cohens? Mmm, that is serious, Rory!’

  They both smartened up when they were joined by Agnes. ‘How yis? Great night, isn’t it?’ she said brightly.

  ‘Yes,’ the two men answered, virtually in harmony.

  ‘And Betty pregnant. Did you hear the whinin’ out of her? Jesus, at her age I was on me seventh!’

  ‘Ah, Mammy, couples today aren’t like that, they don’t have as ma
ny children,’ Rory exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, that’s true, Rory, and they don’t have as much fun in bed either!’ Now Pierre winked at Agnes and the two of them began to giggle like teenagers.

  ‘Ah, here, you two are making me sick,’ was Rory’s parting shot as he went to mingle.

  ‘He seems a bit down,’ Agnes commented to Pierre when Rory was out of earshot.

  ‘Yes, he is a little. Oh, I’m sure everything will sort itself out. So, you are enjoying yourself, Agnes?’

  ‘Of course I am. Jesus, Pierre, sixty! Where did the time go?’ Agnes mused. ‘It’s a pity Cathy didn’t make it tonight. Still, I’ll have her home in the morning!’

  As the party was in full swing in Finglas, Cathy O‘Leary and her boyfriend were loading her luggage and the baby’s things into a car in Arklow. Her intention was to move herself and Pamela in with her mother for a few months until she got herself sorted. Mark had promised her a job in Senga Furnishings, and Agnes had agreed to take Pamela during Cathy’s working hours. Once settled, Cathy intended to get herself a place of her own, or co-habit with her boyfriend; she hadn’t decided yet. One thing she had decided was that Mick O’Leary was about to become a bachelor again. The breaking of the news to Mick had been one of the shortest conversations Cathy and Mick had ever had.

  ‘I’m moving back in with me mother, and I’m taking Pamela with me,’ Cathy had declared.

  Her husband was sitting on an armchair with his feet on a footstool. He had a newspaper on his lap and the television was switched on with the sound turned down. Mick’s eyes were fixed on the screen as he watched a boxing match. He seemed to enter into the match himself, going with every punch, his muscles tightening at each throw. Mick did not respond; he didn’t even turn his head. Cathy awaited some kind of reply.

  ‘I couldn’t give a shite,’ Mick eventually said, telling his wife the truth for the first time in many years.

  Cathy sat in the front passenger seat of the car, with Pamela sleeping on her lap, as they sped through the night towards Dublin city. Between the towns of Rathnew and Bray, Cathy had a silent cry. Her boyfriend-and-driver looked straight ahead, not wishing to intrude on the beginning of the woman’s healing.

  Chapter 23

  WHEN YOU CONSIDER THE EVENTUAL SUCCESS over the next few years of Dermot Browne’s stories, it’s hard to believe how close Dragonfly came to not happening. Within six weeks of Dermot recounting the story, thanks to the hard work of both Maria and Trevor on the illustrations, Dragonfly was ready to go to print. Unfortunately, the printer decided he wanted to be paid up to date before he would print any further books for Nicholson Books. There followed twenty-four hours of depression, which was lifted when miraculously Geoffrey Collington, the printer, called to say that he would do this one last book on credit, but no more! Trevor was delighted, but wondered what it was that had changed the printer’s mind.

  Maria Browne knew exactly what it was. Vescoli and White Advertising Agency channelled at least thirty thousand pounds worth of business a year through Collington Printers. Tony Vescoli called Geoffrey Collington and agreed to personally guarantee payment of any outstanding Nicholson Books debts in three months if Collington’s would go ahead and print Dragonfly. That was when Mr Collington had his miraculous change of heart. Maria would not tell Trevor about this. Her husband was a proud man. Tony’s guarantee was never called upon.

  Sales of Dragonfly were healthy enough right from the start, but when Peter Ustinov chose it as his subject for reading on BBC’s Jackanory storytime, the sales went through the roof ! Dermot Browne received a generous royalty on sales of Dragonfly, and, anxious to hang on to their talented brother and have him involved in the business, Trevor and Maria also offered Dermot a fifteen-percent shareholding in the company if he agreed to come up with four more stories. This Dermot did. His latest offering was a story about two young boys whose parents were treating them so badly that they ran away from home. For research Dermot called upon his memory of the many days spent with Buster by the river in Finglas. The book was of course named Chestnut Hole. It was a huge hit with young readers and it gained Dermot the Young People’s Writer of the Year Award in 1991. In the time between the telling of a tale in his brother’s kitchen to the award, just three years had passed, and Dermot Browne had established himself as one of the most prominent children’s fiction writers in the United Kingdom.

  Nicholson Books now had thirty-one titles on the shelves of bookshops throughout the United Kingdom and Ireland. Along with Dermot Browne, they had also attracted Wilbur Livingston to their increasingly talented stable. Needless to say, Trevor and Maria were delighted with the success of the company, but not complacent. They were careful to consolidate each step forward before risking another new writer, with the result that the company’s growth was very solid. Their best year yet came in 1991. Dermot’s fifteen-percent shareholding was in good hands. But what really set them all up was three film deals that were made for Dermot’s titles. Two major feature films were already in production, and a third was in preparation. Dermot had struck gold.

  While Trevor and Maria had now taken up an option to buy the house they had previously been renting and make it their permanent home, Dermot still rented his home. Trevor urged him to buy a place of his own, but Dermot insisted he was happy to carry on renting. In the back of his mind, like all Irish exiles, Dermot still harboured thoughts of moving back to live in Dublin. He could write just as easily from there. Cormac, now ten years old and growing fast, looked more like his father the older he got. He was doing well at school. He was a bright kid and nobody was surprised when he took the district under-eleven public speaking championship award.

  Dermot lived very comfortably. He was happy to take his money in dribs and drabs as it came from Nicholson Books, and on only one occasion asked Trevor for a substantial loan. It was for two thousand pounds, which he told Trevor he was sending home to Buster Brady. Buster, it seemed, had decided to start up his own little gardening business and Dermot was borrowing the money from Trevor to loan it to Buster. Trevor called it an advance rather than a loan and deducted it from future royalty payments. Buster, Dermot told Trevor later, paid back the loan within eighteen months. The business was going well for Buster.

  Trevor was pleased to see Dermot settled and enjoying his parenthood of Cormac so much. Life at last, he felt, had taken a turn for the better for his older brother. The only sad part for Trevor was that, despite his encouragement, Dermot had still not spoken to his mother, and Trevor knew how much this was hurting both of them. Maria had assured her husband that given time these things would sort themselves out and she urged him not to interfere. Trevor followed Maria’s advice though it broke his heart to do so.

  Chapter 24

  IT IS SAID THAT THERE IS A CHILD IN US ALL. Or is it maybe that for brief periods in our time as adults we return to our childhood? For instance, is it the child in us that plans surprise parties? Is it the child in us that makes us feel so excited as we hand out our Christmas presents to friends and family? Whatever it is, it was a childlike excitement thai filled Dermot Browne’s heart as he planned the surprise he had in store for Buster Brady. It all began one morning when Buster’s letter arrived on Dermot’s mat at his home in Manchester.

  Flat 2c

  The Villas

  Cabra

  Dublin 7

  16th February 1992

  Dear Dermo,

  I am in receipt of yours of the 27th inst. The business is going well. With spring just around the comer I expect to be busier than ever, I have seven large gardens now which I am tending on a contract basis and the few bob is coming in. You wont believe it but one of the contracts I have started recently is the grounds around Finglas Garda Station. Its gas how times change things isnt it?

  I have just finished reading ‘Chestnut Hole’, its brilliant! I can recognise so many of the places and stories in it, it was like a trip down memory lane. You know Dermot, those nights we spent sleeping o
ver in Chestnut Hole when you would tell me stories till I fell asleep were great times, I wouldnt change them for a million pounds.

  Speaking of loads of money, this brings me to my next news. There is a house for sale in Kilbride (see newspaper clipping enclosed). Its a big house with five bedrooms, on about six acres. Dont panic, Im not thinking of buying the big house, the gardening business isnt that good. But on the edge of the grounds there is a gate keepers lodge. Its not huge but it has two bedrooms and has been recently done up. So I have been on to the auctioneer to see if it was possible to buy the gate lodge separate from the big house. He says he doesnt think its a possibility with the current owner, but believes that a new owner might be attracted to the idea as it will take some of the financial pressure off the cost of the house. Well wait and see, Ill write to you as soon as I have any more news.

  Your brother Mark has been a great help, four of the customers that I have were introduced to me by him. He has also helped to keep my books and God knows I need help with them. I would rather do ten gardens than do one set of books.

  I hope this letter finds you as it left me, fit and well.

  Your friend always,

  Buster Brady.

  Dermot read the newspaper cutting with interest. He immediately rang the auctioneers in Dublin to get more details on the house. He didn’t even know where Kilbride was. The information he received from the auctioneer was quite pleasing. Kilbride was midway between Finglas and Ratoath. It was a nice area and had a good school nearby. The asking price for the main house, the five and three-quarter acres of land, and the gate lodge was £132,000. The house had been built in 1896. Little was done to the house over the next eighty-four years until a German gentleman, a Mr Helmut Schtoll, had purchased the premises in 1980. He had completely gutted both the main building and the gate lodge and refurbished them over the following two years. Herr Schtoll enjoyed the experience so much that he had now decided to buy another property, this time in the west of Ireland, and repeat the procedure. Thus the Kilbride house was up for sale.