Collected Stories

by Bernard Maclaverty

  That evening it was Grandma’s suggestion that we should borrow the Grimleys’ cat. The brother was sent and had to pull it from beneath the side-board because it was very shy of strangers. He carried it across the road and the rat-killer was so terrified of the traffic and Peter squeezing it that it peed all down his front. By this time Ma’s curiosity had got the better of her and she ventured from her sister’s to stand pale and nervous in our path. The brother set the cat down and turned to look for a cloth to wipe himself. The cat shot past him down the hall, past Ma who screamed, ‘Jesus, the rat’, and leapt into the hedge. The cat ran until a bus stopped it with a thud. The Grimleys haven’t spoken to us since.

  Ma had begun to despair. ‘What age do rats live to?’ she asked. ‘And what’ll we do if it’s still here when the Yanks come?’ Peter said that they loved pigs in the kitchen.

  The next day we bought stuff, pungent like phosphorous and spread it on cubes of bread. The idea of this stuff was to roast the rat inside when he ate it so that he would drink himself to death.

  ‘Just like Uncle Matt,’ said Peter. He tactlessly read out the instructions to Grandma who then came out in sympathy with the rat. Ma thought it may have gone outside, so to make sure, we littered the yard with pieces of bread as well. In case it didn’t work Ma decided to do a novena of masses so she got up the next morning and on the driveway to the chapel which runs along the back of our house she noticed six birds with their feet in the air, stone dead.

  Later that day the rat was found in the same condition on the kitchen floor. It was quickly buried in the dust-bin using the shovel as a hearse. The next day the workmen came, finished the job, and the Yanks arrived just as the paint was drying.

  They looked strangely out of place with their brown, leathery faces, rimless glasses and hat brims flamboyantly large, as we met them at the boat . . . Too summery by half, against the dripping eaves of the sheds at the dock-yard. At home by a roaring fire on a July day, after having laughed a little at the quaintness of the taxi, they exchanged greetings, talked about family likenesses, jobs, and then dried up. For the next half hour the conversation had to be manufactured, except for a comparison of education systems which was confusing and therefore lasted longer. Then everything stopped.

  The brother said, ‘I wouldn’t call this an embarrassing silence.’

  They all laughed, nervously dispelling the silence but not the embarrassment.

  Ma tried to cover up. ‘Would yous like another cup of cawfee?’ Already she had begun to pick up the accent. They agreed and the oldish one with the blue hair followed her out to the kitchen.

  ‘Gee, isn’t this madern,’ she said.

  Ma, untacking her hand from the paint on the drawer, said, ‘Yeah, we done it up last year.’

  ST PAUL COULD HIT THE NAIL ON THE HEAD

  ALL THAT AFTERNOON Mary’s world seemed to be falling apart at the seams. Each time she slipped out of the room she rolled the whites of her eyes to heaven. She kept rushing into the kitchen and talking in spikey whispers to the children, buttoning up their overcoats or giving them biscuits and drinks of water. She had managed to push the two boys, Rodney and John, out on to the street to play but the girls still hung about, afraid they would miss something. Now she came out to the kitchen again and stopped at the threshold. Deirdre, at two the youngest, said she was making the dinner out of cornflakes and HP sauce, sitting on her behind slopping the mess over the lip of the dish onto the floor. Mary whipped the dish from her and shook her by the shoulders, then tried to drown her screeches by shushing her.

  ‘Patricia, take that Deirdre out of my sight, up the stairs, anywhere . . . and wash her face while you’re there.’

  Patricia, seven years old and the eldest, led her snivelling sister up the stairs. Mary walking down the hall saw Deirdre’s white knickers, flannel grey from sitting on the floor, disappear round the stair head. She went into the front room balancing the scones on a plate.

  Father Malachy, a distant cousin, who had a parish somewhere in the depths of Co Monaghan, sat firmly in the chair in the corner sipping his tea from a china cup which rattled every time he replaced it on the matching china saucer. He came to Belfast every year in early summer, would visit Mary for about an hour then go on to stay with Jimmy Brankin for the rest of the week. He had arrived sometime just before dinner and Mary had opened the door to him, squinting against the sun.

  ‘Ach, it’s you Father Malachy, come in, come in.’

  The old priest removed his hat politely as he stepped into the hallway. He had a small navy blue suitcase worn through to the brown cardboard at a point on its flank where his leg constantly rubbed against it as he walked. He set it down on the quiet carpet of the hallway and shuffled into the front room. There were clothes strewn over the floor, on the backs of chairs. A pair of trousers partially obscured the face of the morning-dead TV.

  ‘Sit down here, Father,’ said Mary, clearing a chair and throwing the things onto the floor. ‘The place is in a mess. Why didn’t you drop me a line to say you were coming. O God, what a mess.’

  ‘Now, you know as well as I do there’s no need to worry about that. Where do you think I was reared?’

  Just then Mary noticed the pot with Deirdre’s load in it and got it out of the room as fast as she could, shielding it from him with her body and saying that he must want a cup of tea after the long journey. While the kettle was coming to the boil she took off her apron, combed her hair and took time to wash her face for the first time that day. She paraded in with the tea on the tray feeling a changed woman.

  ‘I’m sorry, Father, I never even asked you to take off your coat.’

  ‘No, no, I’ll not stay that long,’ he said.

  That was three hours ago. In the meantime he had refused dinner but took two bowls of soup with several potatoes ‘smashed’ in it. He was now in his third bout of tea drinking and had asked for another scone with raspberry jam. Mary offered him one from the plate and he ate it noisily, not bothering to close his mouth when he chewed. He had picked a spot somewhere about the level of the pelmet and stared fixedly at it most of the day. He seemed to use it as an excuse for not talking, as if it were a TV programme and he didn’t like to interrupt. It meant Mary could stare at him without being offensive. He had sunk deeper into the chair, his coat ruffling up at the back. Dandruff speckled his clerical black yet he had lost little of his white hair. His hands, except for the two yellow-brown nicotine fingers, had the whiteness of someone who had been in bed sick for a long time. Dusting the scone flour from his fingers, he steadied their tremor by joining them firmly at the tips and said, ‘While you were out I was noseying around. It’s a nice house you’ve bought. This room is lovely.’

  ‘Oh God, what a mess it was in this morning. I’m inclined to let things slide.’

  ‘Everything you have is good,’ he said, his white hands searching the texture of the leather arms of his chair.

  ‘Good?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Father Malachy. ‘Expensive . . . The contracting must be going well with Sam.’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s doing well. Demolition’s the thing at the moment. They’re knocking down the half of Belfast.’

  ‘Is that right now?’

  ‘Slum clearance.’

  They lapsed into silence again.

  Mary had gone down one day with the boys to see Sam and had watched the business of devastation. Bulldozers snarled in, crashing through kitchen walls, teetering staircases, leaving bedrooms exposed. They took great bites of the house then spilled the gulp into the back of a waiting lorry, the mandible unhinging at the back rather than the front. Mary felt she shouldn’t look, seeing the choice of wallpapers: pink rosebuds, scorned in her own family, faded flowers, patterns modern a generation ago. She felt it was too private. She rounded up the boys, ‘Come on, come on, this is no sight for children,’ and went home, remaining depressed for the rest of the day, snapping at the children unnecessarily. Since that day she had never gone ba
ck. She even disliked Sam in his large muddied boots as he clumped about the wood floor of the site hut, a yellow helmet tipped to the back of his head. While she was there Sam had shouted at one old workman, shouted so much that the spit had spun out of his mouth, then when the man had scurried away he turned and talked normally to her and the boys again.

  ‘How is Sam?’ Father Malachy asked, as if peering into her mind.

  ‘He’s fine,’ she said. ‘He’s a hard man to deal with sometimes.’

  ‘Sure, don’t I know that from the wedding,’ said Father Malachy.

  Mary laughed remembering, then said, ‘He fairly laid into the church that day.’

  ‘’Tis sad all the same.’

  ‘But he was only joking,’ Mary protested.

  ‘I know, but it’s sad anyway. Does he cause you any trouble . . . about your faith?’ he asked.

  ‘Ach, no, sure I’ve . . . we never talk about it.’

  Father Malachy persisted. ‘He’s never shown any desire to join has he?’

  ‘No Father, he’s not interested in religion of any breed.’

  Father Malachy cracked the stiffening joints of his fingers and stared again at the pelmet.

  ‘Perhaps seeing your good example, he may, someday. You’ve no idea how it impresses non-believers to see us Catholics getting up out of our beds for early mass every morning.’

  ‘I don’t go to mass any more, Father . . . on weekdays.’

  ‘Oh, but you still go on Sundays,’ he said smiling.

  ‘Yes Father.’

  Father Malachy put the cup to his head and drank all but the tea leaves and set the rattling cup and saucer over on the sideboard.

  ‘Last Sunday’s epistle was the boy eh? St Paul could always hit the nail on the head.’

  ‘Indeed Father. There’s more tea in the pot,’ she said aiming the spout at him like a duelling pistol.

  ‘No, no more for me,’ he said writhing in his chair, hunting his pockets for cigarettes. As he did so he made hollow clumping noises with his false teeth prior to smoking. He produced an untipped brand that he had been smoking since his days in the seminary, a brand that Mary had only seen in the Republic on holidays. He lit one and while inhaling picked the specks of tobacco off his tongue with finger and thumb.

  ‘And there’s no more family on the way?’ he said suddenly as if continuing from something.

  ‘No Father, why? Should there be?’

  ‘No . . . no,’ he said lightly.

  ‘We had the children we wanted. Then Deirdre was a mis . . . Deirdre was a mistake.’

  Father Malachy looked at her, almost smiling, through the triangle formed by his fingers.

  ‘We use the rhythm method, Father, that’s allowed by the church isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m not prying Mary. I know you well enough and I know the difficulties, especially when you’re married to a man who has no . . . well, let’s just say he’s not in agreement with the Church.’

  ‘What does the Church know about sex anyway. They’re in no position to judge.’

  ‘We can be unemotional about it, at least.’

  Mary, not wanting to get involved, did not reply and the afternoon progressed made up of great slabs of silence. During the silences she would think of something to do in the kitchen, or when she actually ran out of chores she excused herself and went out, folded her arms, leaned against the sink unit and flashed her eyes to heaven.

  At one stage she remembered about the children upstairs and knew they were too quiet. She said this to Father Malachy then opened the door and shouted, ‘What are you two doing up there?’

  She cocked her head to one side, awaiting the reply. Patricia’s voice came clear down the stairs.

  ‘We found Mammy’s clock with the tablets in.’

  Mary rushed out snapping the door shut behind her. She came back after some minutes, flushed and carrying Deirdre. Patricia’s cries from upstairs pierced the air for a long time. Father Malachy smiling from ear to dentured ear said, ‘Children can be an awful nuisance at times.’

  He leaned forward and tried to tickle Deirdre under the chin, but she girned and put her head under Mary’s arm.

  ‘When will this lady be going to the nuns?’ he said in a baby voice which didn’t suit him.

  ‘She’s only two! Don’t talk to me about nuns.’

  ‘I don’t like them either but they certainly gave you a grounding in your faith that’ll stand by you. Your mother and father, God rest them, gave them a great foundation to build on. That’s why you’re strong enough to survive, Mary.’

  ‘I know Father, it’s not their religious teaching, but the way they pried that I hated.’

  Then she told him how Sister Benedict had found the social position of every girl in the class after one Maths lesson. She gave sums on how long it would take a girl to clean a house of ten fifty square feet at such and such a pace. Hands up how many girls have detached houses, semi-detached houses, terrace houses? How many girls have maids to help with the cleaning? Another sum of distance travelled per gallon of petrol ended in a classification of those girls with or without cars and if they had a car what type it was. Rolls, Jag, Ford, Austin and so on. Sister Benedict was the girl. After this lesson the rows in the class were rearranged.

  Father Malachy laughed, his hands up in defence saying, ‘Charity, Mary, charity.’

  Mary felt a bit spent after her outburst and there followed another period of silence. She was glad that Deirdre was there at her knee, because she could croon over her, making childish conversation to fill the gaps. Then she explained to Father Malachy that the child usually slept for a while in the afternoons. While she was up the stairs putting her into her cot she heard the front door slam. ‘Who’s that?’ she shouted.

  It was the boys.

  Patricia had gone out to the garden to sulk.

  The boys were talking and mumbling in the hallway, again too quiet for Mary’s liking. She hung over the banisters and looked down. The two boys were crouched on the carpet, Father Malachy’s case open in front of them, exploring. Mary rushed down the stairs, her voice compressed with anger hissing, ‘Get out, you nosey brats.’

  She smacked Rodney hard on the back of his head with her bony hand but John was away before she could draw back and hit him. Rodney ran, his mouth hanging black and open in a cry which had not yet been translated into sound. She slammed the door after them and hunkered down to fix the case. She squatted for what seemed a long time looking into the case, expecting the front door to open at any second. A pair of striped pyjamas, grey and maroon, more old fashioned than her father had worn when he was alive, long cream woollen combinations, a tin of powder for cleaning dentures, a jar of yellow capsules, a handful of holy pictures, only the gold haloes catching the light like a scatter of coins. She lifted the combinations, trying to look underneath without disturbing them. A breviary and a paperback detective. She pulled back the elasticated pocket at the side, saw only an old cigarette, a dry white arc, then she put all the clothes back as she thought they should have been. She was conscious of a throbbing bruise beneath her wedding ring, where she had hit the thick bone of Rodney’s skull for doing what she was now doing herself. She closed the case and as quietly as she could snapped the lock shut. Brushing down the folds of her dress, she rose and went in to Father Malachy feeling a slight shake in her knees as she walked.

  After a while he asked her: ‘What time does Sam come in at?’

  ‘Oh, you can never tell with Sam.’ Then she added, ‘I suppose you’ll be going up to see Jimmy Brankin as usual, Father.’

  It was a long time before he replied.

  ‘Poor Jimmy’s dead, God rest him.’ Then his mouth turned downwards at the corners, like a fish mouth. His face seemed to crumble and collapse but he rubbed his cheeks hard with the palms of his hands and prevented himself from crying.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know,’ said Mary, her mouth remaining in the ‘O’ position. He seemed not to hear her but went o
n talking.

  ‘In December. He was stupid too, to be an oul bachelor, when he had the choice. A wife and children take the cold out of the air. But he’s away.’

  He rubbed his cheeks vigorously again so that his speech was deformed. Mary heard him say something about new friends being hard to make. She became embarrassed and went forward to sweep the hearth. Without looking at him she tried to comfort, saying, ‘But you’re holy. What about God?’

  ‘Of the spirit, little comfort, little comfort.’

  Then he jumped up, surprisingly sprightly, and said, ‘I must get to Smithfield before it closes. Belfast would be nothing without a visit to Smithfield.’

  He bent backwards to get the stiffness out of his bones, for it was the first time he had been out of the chair since he arrived. Mary followed him into the hall and as he picked up his case, heard the handle squeak. He opened the catch on the door and extended his hand to Mary.

  ‘Goodbye Mary, please God I’ll see you next year.’

  ‘But where will you stay, now that Jimmy’s . . .’.

  ‘I know a hotel that’s good in University Road. My curate has stayed . . .’.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ said Mary sharply. ‘You’ll stay here in the spare room.’

  He refused and blustered for some time, then quietly let Mary take his case from him.

  ‘But I’ll go on down the town anyway. You can tell Sam before I get back. God bless you.’

  He turned to go, then remembered something. He sunk his hand deep into his pocket. ‘Here, there’s a few wee medals I got from Lourdes. You can pin them on the children’s vests.’ He said it in a tone that belittled the present as he pressed them into her hand.

  ‘Oh you shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t.’

  He waved his hand over his shoulder as he walked away. ‘The wee bits of religion about the children does them no harm.’

  Mary closed the door and sighed to herself, ‘Oh Jesus, Sam,’ then put the case in the alcove under the stairs. She went to the front room and left the medals, almost too light for metal, on the mantelpiece. She cleared the tea things and washed them. Back in the front room again she stood for a moment at the fireplace, then scraped the medals off the mantelpiece as she had seen Sam draw a pool to him at poker and put them in her handbag where they wouldn’t be seen.