‘No, love, he’s definitely dead. Definitely. Isn’t he, Marion?’
Marion agreed. ‘Absolutely. I know him years, and I’ve never seen him look so bad. Dead, definitely dead!’
‘Look Mrs ... eh, Browne, I cannot process this until you get a death certificate from the hospital or doctor that pronounced your husband dead.’
Mrs Browne’s eyes half-closed as she thought about this. ‘So, if I can’t get this until tomorrow, I’ll lose a day’s money?’
‘You won’t lose anything, Mrs Browne. It will be back-dated. You will get every penny that’s due to you. I promise.’
Marion was relieved for her friend. She poked her in the side. ‘Back-dated, that’s grand, Agnes, so you needn’t have rushed down at all.’
Agnes wasn’t convinced. ‘Are you sure?’
The girl smiled. ‘I’m absolutely sure. Now look, take this form with you - it’s all filled in already - and when you get the death certificate, hand them both in together. Oh, and bring your marriage certificate as well, you’ll get that from the church that you married in. In the meantime, Mrs Browne, if you need some money to get by on just call down to the Dublin Health Authority Office in Jervis Street and see the relieving officer there.’
Agnes took all this in. ‘The relieving officer, Jervis Street?’
The girl nodded. ‘Jervis Street.’
Agnes folded the form. She was about to leave but she turned back to the girl. ‘Don’t mind that one-legged “gotchee”. You’re very good, love, and you’re not a bollix!’
With that, the two women stepped back out into the March sunshine to prepare for a funeral.
Chapter 2
DUBLIN OF THE SIXTIES WAS - and in the nineties still is - a city of many sections and divisions. There was the retail section, the market sections, the residential section and the (now almost disappeared) tenements.
The retail section had two divisions - the southside and the northside - with Grafton Street being the main shopping street of the southside, and Henry Street and Moore Street the flagships of the northside. A stroll through both sides of the city would leave one in no doubt as to which was the affluent side and which was not. The largest Cathedral is on the south, the largest dole office is on the north; the Houses of Parliament are on the south, the Corporation Sanitary and Housing sections are on the north. In a café on the northside, you can purchase a cup of tea, a sandwich and a biscuit for the price of a coffee on the southside. The River Liffey is the dividing line and even she knows which side is which as she gathers the litter and effluent on her northern bank.
Just ten minutes’ walk eastwards from O‘Connell Bridge along the quays and another three minutes’ walk north, was St jarlath’s Street. The entire surrounding area for one square mile got its name, The Jarro, from this street.
Although housing some sixteen thousand people in the fifties and sixties, virtually everyone knew everyone in The Jarro. By day, the area bustled with the movement of hawkers, prams and carts, as the men and women who lived in The Jarro made up ninety percent of the dealers from Moore Street and George’s Hill. The Jarro also provided the labour force for both the fish and the vegetable markets, and the rest of the able-bodied men were either dockers, draymen, or on the dole.
Agnes Browne was one of the best-known and best-loved of the Moore Street dealers. She loved The jarro. Happily, at 5am each morning, she set off with her pram, on top of which sat her folded trestle table, from her tenement in James Larkin Court. As she rounded the corner at the top of her cut de sac, her face would crack into a smile as she met the colour of Jarlath’s Street, the washing hanging from a thousand windows on each side. She would pretend that this was bunting in all the colours of the rainbow, hung in her honour, for a variety of different reasons. She would invent a new one each day - one day she would be a film star, the next a war heroine, once she was even an astronaut, Ireland’s first, returning to the cheers and adulation of her friends and neighbours.
Five intersections down St Jarlath’s Street, where it joined with Ryder’s Row, Agnes would meet up with her best friend and fellow dealer, Marion Monks. Marion was tiny, with a round face, golden hair and round ‘clincher’ glasses, that made her eyes look like two little black peas. To make matters worse, Marion had not one, not two, but three dark brown moles in a straight line just under her chin. Each had a healthy tuft of hair growing from it, giving poor Marion the appearance of having a goatee beard. It was at bingo one night when Marion’s glasses broke at the bridge and she managed to finish the night only by holding one lens up to her left eye and writing with her right, that Marion earned her nickname Kaiser.
Together the two ‘girls’ would push their carts down St Jarlath’s Street, sharing the cigarette Agnes had sneaked from Redser’s packet. Agnes was married to Redser Browne for thirteen years, and never once had he offered her a fag. So, each morning for thirteen years, she had helped herself to one. Before reaching the end of the street, the two would cross the road so as to walk past St Jarlath’s church, the church in which Agnes had married Redser and in which Kaiser had married Tommo Monks, a man twice her height and a legend on the docks as a hard man. Nobody would dare go against him, and yet he could be seen some nights staggering home drunk and weeping, as every couple of yards he would receive a slap of Marion’s handbag, for inadvertently referring to Marion’s mother as ’good old heifer-arse!‘
When the women came to the front doors of the church, both prams would be stopped, and Marion would hand what was left of the fag to Agnes and climb the steps to the front door. She would gently push one door half-open and shout: ‘Good morning, God ... it’s me, Marion!’ Inside the church, five o‘clock Mass would be in full swing. Of the thirty or so congregation, only the strangers would turn their heads, the regulars were used to Marion’s early-morning cry. The celebrating priest would not bat an eyelid, as he knew that, for her own reasons, Marion never attended Sunday Mass. This was Marion’s way of praying, and that was that. The priest had seen it each morning for the eight years he had been in the parish and no doubt she would still be doing it when he was moved on. Marion would then descend the steps of the church and the two girls would round the comer and complete the ten-minute walk to the fruit markets where their twelve-hour working day would begin.
It is possible to buy almost anything in Moore Street with the collection of shops that are there, but on the stalls they concentrate mainly on fruit, flowers, vegetables and fish. Agnes and Marion sold vegetables and fruit. The two women would spend until half-past six at the wholesale fruit and vegetable market, getting their supplies. Of all the time they put in every morning in the wholesale market only a quarter of it would be spent picking fruit and vegetables, for by now the dealers knew well enough to give the two women the best of what they had — or pay the consequences. The rest of the time would be taken up in chatting, catching up on the local gossip and solving each other’s problems, for here in the early hours of a Dublin morning one could find the remedy for rickets, the secret of how to make a greyhound run faster by rubbing its legs with a bit of turpentine in a rag, or the cure for a cut that had gone septic. Then, after a hot cup of tea and a piece of toast in Rosie O‘Grady’s Market Café, the two ladies would push their prams, still empty, down to the market, empty because they wouldn’t take the fruit with them - Jacko, the box collector, would bring it down later on his horse and cart.
On arrival at Moore Street, the girls would go to the ‘Corporation sheds’. These were gerry-built sheds, put up specifically for the use of the Moore Street dealers, to store overnight any fruit or veg that would go on sale next morning. The cost of a shed was five shillings a month. Agnes and Marion shared a single shed and chipped in two-and-six each a month. Between seven o‘clock and half-past, Moore Street would be a hive of -activity, with stalls being set up all along the street. If the weather was inclement, canvas canopies would be erected to keep the dealers and the vegetables reasonably dry. Vegetables would b
e unbagged, fruit unboxed and apples polished, yesterday’s flowers would be clipped again to give them fresh stems and the fishmongers would be scrubbing down their marble tops awaiting the arrival of the truck from Howth. By half-past seven Moore Street was like a country garden, beginning at the fashionable Henry Street end with a burst of posies from all over the world - roses, chrysanthemums, carnations and lilies, moving down towards the Pamell end with the various fruits and vegetables - anything from an avocado pear to a strawberry, in season, and finally, tucked away right at the end of the street, the fishmongers, where everyone could see them but no-one could smell them. This was the ritual each and every day, as dependable as a Swiss watch, as colourful as an American election, as noisy as an Italian wedding and as sure as a ride in the National Ballroom!
Not today! Agnes Browne would not be there today. Her stall in Moore Street would be bare, except for the wreaths laid around the bottom, placed there by long-time friends, Winnie the Mackerel, Bridie Barnes, Doreen Dowdall, Catherine Keena, Sandra Coleman, Liam the Sweeper, Jacko the Box Collector, Mrs Robinson and her twin stuttering daughters - affectionately called Splish and Splash. Today, Agnes Browne would be burying her husband. The grave was ready in Ballybough cemetery, the three pounds and ten shillings it cost thankfully being paid by the Hotel and Caterers’ branch of the Irish Transport and General Workers’ Union.
The children were all dressed up, the boys in grey corduroy pants provided by the Vincent de Paul, and white shirts and grey jumpers Agnes had bought in Guiney‘s, along with new underwear and seven pairs of plastic sandals. The money for this had been sent around by the hotel staff, along with a full breadboard of sandwiches and tiny little sausages. Cathy, the only girl, wore a black skirt and top, again sent down from Ozram House by the Vincent de Paul. Agnes was surprised to find she herself had a black dress at all ... but it was drab and old-fashioned, so it was with great relief that she found that the one sent up, on loan from a neighbour, fitted her perfectly. She cut up her own dress into little black diamonds which she sewed on to the sleeves of each of the boys’ jumpers. These black diamonds of death would be removed only after the first anniversary Mass for the children’s father.
Since Redser’s death, Agnes hadn’t had a moment to herself. The previous night, the house seemed to be invaded by callers. Quietly and efficiently she entertained each caller, constantly making tea, offering a bottle of Guinness from the six cases sent down as a gift from Foley’s Bar - Mr Foley had liked Redser, and Agnes. It seemed to go on and on. The younger children were taken down to Marion’s house to be bathed, and although Agnes had intended that Mark, Francis and the twins should have a bath at home, it was two o‘clock in the morning before she knew it. The children had gone to bed, and she was exhausted. She tidied around the house, collecting the beer bottles and putting them back in their cases. She wondered if Mr Foley would like the empties back; if not she would send the boys down to the Black Lion with them and collect the three shillings per case on them herself.
Before going to her own bed, she checked on the kids. The younger ones, Cathy, Rory and Trevor, were in the single bed - Rory and Trevor at one end and Cathy’s little face peeping out the other, flanked by two feet on each side. Their faces glowed from the scrubbing Marion had given them, and they smelled of carbolic soap. One of the overcoats that served as blankets had slipped to the floor and Agnes gently picked it up and placed it across the three children. The other bed, a double, had a huge eiderdown spread across it, one of Agnes’s bargain finds at the Saturday market on George’s Hill - only seven and sixpence. It had been torn, and leaked feathers all the way home, but a few stitches and it was as good as second-hand! At the bottom end of the bed the twins slept side-by-side. She stared at them in wonderment as usual, for they always slept sucking each other’s thumbs, spending their nights as Siamese twins. They had done this from birth and Agnes did not know if she could, or even if she should, try to stop them. They were not identical. Simon was taller that Dermot, and where Dermot had his father’s mousey Browne hair, Simon was blond, with freckles in abundance. At the other end the large frame of Mark, the eldest, was sprawled across the bed. For fourteen he was big, big enough to be taken for sixteen. He looked rough and tough, a strong square chin, wiry muscular body and the beginnings of teenage pimples breaking out on his forehead - a forehead that Agnes could not see at this moment for Mark had his back to her, facing the wall. On the other hand, Francis’s face was fully visible, the face of an angel. Pale-skinned and with fiery red hair, he lay on his back, his mouth half-open and a gentle hiss coming from his lips as he slept soundly. Agnes ran her fingers through the boy’s hair and gently kissed him on the forehead. As she turned to leave, Mark’s voice stopped her.
‘Mammy.’
She turned, but he didn’t.
‘Yes, love?’ she whispered.
‘Don’t worry, Ma, I’ll be here.’
Her reply caught in her throat, and for a moment she closed her mouth and breathed deeply through her nose, then she whispered ‘I know love, I know ... goodnight.’
He did not reply and she left the room. This short exchange upset her, so instead of going to bed, she went downstairs and made tea. She had then slept fitfully in the armchair beside the dying embers.
Agnes regretted that now, as she stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom. There were bags under her eyes. People would think she had been crying! She hadn‘t, she didn’t have time for it. She stood back from the mirror.
‘Agnes Browne, look at you, a ragged auld wan!’ she said aloud to her reflection. She was being hard on herself, for although she had given birth seven times in fourteen years, at thirty-four she looked thirty-four! Medium height with full lips and a button nose, she was pretty, her outstanding features being her raven black hair and chestnut-brown complexion around almond-shaped brown eyes, a legacy of her grandfather’s visit to Spain ... he returned minus a leg but plus a wife! A beautiful wife, for which most men in The Jarro would have given both legs for the chance to use the remaining one! She had died young, at only twenty four, of TB, but not before leaving behind three daughters, the loveliest of them being Maria, who became Agnes’s mother. Agnes looked like her mother.
She heard a radio announcer say it was ten o‘clock. She hurried down the stairs and gathered the children together. As she herded them out the door she noticed Mark was missing.
‘Where’s Mark?’ she asked no one in particular.
It was Cathy who answered. ‘He’s in the toilet, he said he’s not coming to Da’s funeral.’
Agnes did not reply. She looked into Marion’s face and in an effort to make a puzzled face, Marion turned the edges of her mouth downwards, gathering all the mole hairs together.
‘Marion love, you go ahead with these,’ suggested Agnes, ‘I’ll go up and see what’s wrong with the little cur.’
She quietly climbed the stairs calling him, ‘Mark, Mark Browne ... get out here now!’ By the time she had reached the toilet door there was still no reply. She banged on the door.
‘Mark Browne, I haven’t time for this messin’. You’re going to Mass whether you like it or not. Get out of that fuckin’ toilet now!‘
The bolt clicked back and Mark emerged.
‘What do you think you’re up to?’
Mark did not look up. ‘Nothin’,‘ he mumbled.
‘Then get down them fuckin’ stairs and up to that church ... and listen, don’t you carry on today or I’m tellin’ yeh, I’ll swing for yeh! Do yeh hear me?’ she was screaming.
Mark was already halfway down the stairs when he said ‘Yeh’. They caught up with the rest of the family before they reached the church. Agnes straightened hair, pulled up pants and tucked in shirts, then the new widow and seven orphans entered the church as a pale and frightened family.
Chapter 3
IF THERE CAN BE SUCH A THING, it was a great funeral. Agnes sat in the front pew during the Mass, flanked by Marion on one side and her seven
orphans on the other. The children were pale from a mixture of fear, because they did not really understand what was going on, and excitement, because people kept coming to them and rubbing their hair and mumbling‘God bless you’ or ’God love you, child‘, at the same time pressing money into their hands. The younger children would stare at the shining silver coins, wide-eyed. Not that they would have them for long, for after what he regarded as a respectable period, Mark gathered the coins from the children to give later to Mammy. The younger children would hand the money over without question, and Rory after some soul-searching, but Frankie would not hand his over under any circumstances. What Frankie had, Frankie kept - for Frankie! Mark hated his younger brother. Of all the children Frankie was the most selfish. He would never share anything he brought home with any of the others, yet if Mark got sweets from Mr McCabe, the local shopkeeper and the supplier of Mark’s newspapers for his paper round, Frankie would sit there long-faced until Mammy insisted that Mark gave him some of them. Mark had often wished Frankie wasn’t his brother. Frankie was Mammy’s favourite. Mark understood that Mammies have to have favourites and he didn’t mind that he wasn’t it, but he couldn’t understand that with children as cute as Trevor and Cathy, or even Denno - cheeky but lovable - Mammy had picked the only selfish bastard in the family to be her favourite, her pet. Mammies are blind, he supposed.
It was the meningitis that had started it. Mark recalled vividly the panic in the flat that night. The ambulance at the door, Frankie vomiting vile-smelling brown stuff. He could still see Frankie, eyes closed and beads of sweat all over his face, as the two ambulance men carried him down the steps of the building to the waiting ambulance. His mother was distraught, his father pale and shaking, not knowing what to do. They were taking Frankie to the fever hospital. Well, thought Mark, that’s that. Mark had seen two of his uncles go into the fever hospital with TB, and they never came out again. The fever hospital, as every kid in The Jarro knew, was where you went to wait for God to collect you. He would never see Frankie again. As the ambulance pulled away, Mark remembered a kid coming up to him and asking, ‘Who is it?’ ‘Me brother Frankie,’ he had said. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ the boy had asked. Unable to remember or pronounce meningitis, Mark simply said, ‘He’s fucked’, and went back into the flat.
The Mammy Page 2
