The Mammy

by Brendan O'Carroll

  That night in his prayers Mark asked God to spare Frankie’s life. God answered his prayer. Six weeks later Frankie was home - and Mammy waited on him hand and foot from then on! Even now, years later, when Mammy would ask Mark to go down the stairs to the coal hole for a bucket of coal, if Mark dared suggest that Frankie should take his turn, he would be met with a scowl from his mother and the usual reply: ‘Remember the meningitis!’ Mark learned a valuable lesson from all of this - don’t be too hasty with your prayers!

  As the priest announced that the Mass had ended a line of people formed, and one by one they shook hands with Mrs Browne and Mark, and patted the heads of the children. Almost without exception they would say to Mrs Browne: ‘Sorry for your troubles’, and to Mark: ‘You’re the man of the house now, good lad.’ Mark understood this ... well, nearly understood it. It meant, he thought, that he would be expected to take his father’s place - bring in the money, protect the family, both of which he was prepared to do, and felt able to do. He worried, though. He hoped it didn’t also mean that he had to sleep with his mother ... he wasn’t into that. No way!

  The hearse pulled slowly away from the church. Behind it walked the funeral attendance, led by the Browne family. Mammy was flanked by her children, Cathy holding her left hand and Frankie linking her right arm. Mark walked behind her. He held Trevor’s hand and beside him walked Rory, holding a twin in each hand. It was about a mile to Ballybough cemetery. On the way, the hearse turned down James Larkin Court. All the curtains on all the windows in every flat were drawn. The hearse stopped outside the Browne’s front door. On the door a simple white card with a black border was pinned. It read: ‘Redser Browne RIP.’

  The hearse paused for a minute, then, with a growl, moved on again. They were within sight of the cemetery when Agnes first heard the hiss. She was puzzled initially, but then a huge puff of steam from the front of the Ford Zephyr - that was the hearse - announced that something was amiss with the vehicle. It stopped abruptly and the trailing crowd came to a ragged halt. The driver and his assistant jumped from the front of the vehicle. Some of the men went up to join them. There followed a communal staring into the engine, then a discussion about how far the cemetery was. The distance was a moot point. It seemed it was just too far to carry the coffin and yet the vehicle could not be driven for fear of damaging the engine. The decision was made to push the hearse to the gates and carry the coffin from there. More men were drafted from the cortege and, with a heave, the Zephyr lurched forward.

  ‘Mark, what’s in the box in the back of the car?’ Cathy asked suddenly.

  ‘Da,’ answered Mark.

  ‘Did he come back?’ she asked.

  ‘Come back? From where?’ Mark looked puzzled.

  ‘Mammy said Da was gone to heaven - he went after work. Did he come back?’

  ‘Yeh,’ Mark said.

  ‘Why?’ she pressed.

  ‘Cause he didn’t want to miss the funeral.’

  Cathy’s reply was a simple ‘Oh’, and on they walked, behind the now human-powered vehicle.

  Kevin Carmichael had been employed for twenty-five years by Solemn Sites Ltd., the owners of Ballybough cemetery. He started as a grave digger, and over the years had worked his way up to cemetery manager. He loved his job and ordinarily the cemetery ran like clockwork. Of course from time to time little hiccups would occur: during the strike of ‘63 graves had to be dug by the family members, and once a well-known Dublin prostitute who was supposed to be laid to rest in the family grave, ended up, because of a clerical error, joining the Sisters of Divine Revelation! The mistake was quickly rectified and the prostitute’s family thought it hilarious. Nobody ever told the sisters.

  Today had all the makings of a bad day at the cemetery. Kevin prided himself on planning the arrival of funerals to be at least fifteen minutes apart, so as to give a semblance of privacy to each family. But a mixture of errors and circumstances saw three of today’s burials arrive simultaneously. The Clarke funeral was running well behind schedule, due to the priest having had a heart attack mid-Mass. By the time an ambulance was called and a replacement priest found, Thomas Clarke (deceased) was indeed late for his own funeral, by one hour. The second funeral due in, the Browne family, was now arriving twenty minutes late - the reason for this was obvious as ten red-faced men pushed the huge Zephyr into the cemetery reception area. To top matters off, the O‘Brien party were spot on time. So Kevin now had three funerals arriving together, and bedlam for lunch!

  Fresh men were needed to carry Redser’s coffin. Those who had pushed the hearse were knackered. Four barmen from Foley’s pub were appointed pall bearers along with the two men from the funeral home. As the pall bearers moved through the now huge crowd, they joined the other two coffins, also being carried shoulder-high. With all three coffins in a row the procession began and everything went well for a while, the huge crowd following the three coffins - it looked like a mass funeral. Suddenly, one of the coffins broke ranks and took off down a side route. The crowd now rumbled with questions - ‘Which one was that?’ they all wanted to know. It was turning into a gigantic version of the Shell game. A decision was made by someone and a large portion of the crowd broke away in pursuit of the stray coffin. The children looked to Agnes for guidance, and, decisive as always, Agnes said: ‘Follow the one on the left ... that’s your Da!’ The words ‘the one on the left’ went through the crowd like Chinese whispers. At the next junction ’the one on the left’ veered to the left again and up a small hill. Agnes and the children followed, so did the crowd.

  After some five hundred yards or so the coffin was laid across two planks on top of the grave. The crowd milled around this spot and when everybody was in position, there was a deathly quiet. ‘Our father who art in heaven ...’ the priest began, like the first singer at a singsong. The huge crowd joined in and Agnes wiped a tear from her eye. The children huddled close to her, and this made her feel a little less lonely. She glanced around at the crowd. Old friends were there and there were also a good few she didn’t recognise, but Redser was a popular man. On the far side of the grave she picked out an attractive-looking woman who, like herself, was dressed in black, and was sobbing. Agnes didn’t recognise her. At first she was puzzled, then slowly it began to creep in - the suspicion for the first time in her life that Redser Browne might have been having an affair. As the prayer ended, and the coffin was lowered into the grave, Agnes muttered under her breath: ‘Yeh dirty bastard.’

  Meanwhile, only four hundred yards away, the real Redser Browne was buried with just four men in attendance. Fittingly, they were all barmen from Foley’s pub.

  Chapter 4

  AGNES BROWNE COULD TAKE A LOT OF ABUSE. She’d had a lot of practice. She was beaten regularly by her father, she was beaten in school and of course Redser beat her, but at least he only beat her when he felt he had a good reason!

  She never told anyone about the beatings from Redser. She tried once - the very first time, it was. They had just moved into the flat in Larkin Court and she was as happy as a lark. They got a bed from Redser’s granny in Ringsend (she’d had it in the attic) and they had ordered a new formica-topped table, four chairs and a settee from Cavendish’s in Grafton Street - two pounds and fifty pence a week over three years with a week free every Christmas. The table and chairs arrived on a Friday and although Agnes was disappointed that the van man hadn’t brought the settee as well, he promised he would bring it the next day, Saturday. Redser ate his dinner off the new table that night. He hardly noticed it and his only comment before he pushed his plate away and went to dress for his darts match, was: ‘It doesn’t make the dinner taste any better.’

  Agnes always rose early on a Saturday. She didn’t have to work because she had an arrangement with Marion - Agnes looked after both stalls on a Friday and Marion did both on a Saturday, but still she would be up at 7am. That Saturday she boiled a pot of water and filled the trough to make a warm, bubbly bath. She bathed Mark and dressed him.
Then at exactly half-past eight, she carried Mark and his go-car down the stairs, strapped him in and headed for the second-hand market on George’s Hill. The highlight of Agnes’s week was her Saturday rummage through the mountains of clothes, shoes and bric-a-brac of this market. She knew all the dealers’ nicknames and why they had them. For instance, ‘Bungalow’ was a retarded man that ran and fetched for the dealers. They sent him for chips or cigarettes or whatever. He got his name because, like a bungalow, he had nothing upstairs. On the other hand, Buddha, who sold bedsteads, buckets and sewing machines, was very smart and got his name from the way he spoke, every sentence beginning with ’But eh ...‘

  This Saturday, Agnes just skimmed around the dealers instead of stopping, rooting and chatting, because she wanted to be back in time to meet the van man with her new, her brand new, settee. She arrived back to the flat at about eleven o‘clock. As she entered the building old Mrs Ward, who lived in the ground-floor flat, met her on the landing.

  ‘Your fella’s gone out,’ she announced. Mrs Ward fancied herself as the ‘Keeper of the Castle’ and the residents of the building used to say ’you couldn’t fart but she knew about it and by the time she was finished telling someone else about it, it was a shite!‘ Agnes didn’t even look at her as she struggled up the stairs with child and go-car. She just replied, ’I know.‘

  ‘Overtime, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Gone up to his mother’s?’

  Agnes didn’t reply, half because she was nearly breathless and half because she didn’t want to. Failure to reply never stopped Mrs Ward, for even as Agnes was opening her door two floors up, she could hear the old bat carry on below: ‘Hard to get them away from their mothers, these young bucks.’ Agnes closed the door to a muffled: ‘Oh yes, they love their mothers ... love them!’

  She plonked the go-car down and took off her headscarf. As she was unwrapping the baby she glanced over at her new table and chairs ... lovely! The table was in a mess from the remains of Redser’s breakfast. A dirty mug, the sugar bowl, a bottle of milk and the teapot scattered around, the butter with the wrapping wide open like a greaseproof butterfly, and half a loaf of bread. Agnes decided she would put young Mark down for his nap before tackling the mess on the table. Once the child was asleep she would have the whole afternoon to herself. Redser never came back from the bookies on a Saturday before the last race was over.

  The fresh air had done Mark the world of good, and he went to sleep quickly, his rosy cheeks puffing contentedly. Agnes came back into the only other room of the flat and went over to her radiogram - a bargain she’d got from Buddha for three quid. She selected six records from her pile, all Cliff Richard of course, and loaded them on the spindle, set the speed to 45 and flicked the Play button. The arm lifted, and a record made a little ‘plap’ sound as it hit the deck. Agnes began to pin her hair up as Cliff went into ’English Summer Garden‘. She loved Cliff, and so did Redser. In fact, Agnes had noticed the letters C.L.I.F.F. tattooed across Redser’s knuckles before she’d even seen his face on the night they had met.

  Her hair tied up, Agnes attacked the mess on her new table. When the table was cleared, butter in the scullery, loaf in the bread bin, Agnes took a damp cloth to the table. On her first wipe she noticed them - four long straight gouges. They were made by the bread knife as it cut through the loaf ... they were made by Redser. Her heart dropped. She sat down and ran her fingers over the cuts slowly, as if somehow this might heal the wounds in her brand new formica-topped table. But it didn’t. As Cliff belted out ‘In The Country’, Agnes wept quietly. Her table was no longer new.

  When Redser came home Agnes was sitting on her new settee. Mark was by the fireplace, a cushion under his head, and one of his cot blankets over him. He was awake, but contented to lie there in the heat of the fire watching the flickering flames dance from coal to coal. Usually Agnes would have noticed that Redser was in a foul mood, but today she didn’t care. He didn’t say hello, or talk to the baby, but took off his coat, threw it over one of the new kitchen chairs and opened the oven. It was cold and empty.

  ‘Where’s me dinner?’ He spoke into the oven.

  ‘Yeh cut me table,’ Agnes said quietly.

  ‘What?’ The oven door slammed.

  ‘Yeh cut me table.’ Agnes’s voice now went up a notch. ‘Look at it!’

  ‘Fuck the table. Where’s me dinner, woman?’

  ‘It can’t be fixed, yeh know. Yeh can’t fix formica!’

  ‘Are you goin’ deaf ... Where’s me fuckin’ dinner?’

  ‘I didn’t cook yer fuckin’ dinner. Now will yeh look at me table?’

  ‘You didn’t cook the dinner? Yeh didn’t cook me dinner?’ Redser advanced towards Agnes and she saw the warning signs. His bottom lip went white and began to quiver, his forehead began to redden and his temples to pulsate. She stood. He stopped. There was a madness in his eyes, they seemed to jump about. She went to speak. The slap, when it came, seemed vaguely familiar. He used the back of his right hand, the one with C.L.I.F.F. across the knuckles. It met the right side of her face full on, her head spun to the left towards the fireplace and her now wide-eyed and frightened son. She remembered. It was familiar. It was identical to her father’s slap. She wondered if her Da had taken Redser aside and shown him how it was done, or did young boys get taught it in school? She tasted the blood in her mouth. She didn’t cry. A man’s slap had long since ceased to be a reason for Agnes to cry. She just slowly brought her face back to his. He was half-smiling, just like Daddy.

  ‘I don’t want to hear another fuckin’ word out of your mouth until there’s a dinner on that fuckin’ table.’ He walked to the table quickly. He slapped his hand on it. ‘Here! Right here ... on this table ... my fuckin’ table. Right?’

  She didn’t speak. She went to the cooker and prepared a fry. He turned on the radio and fiddled with the knob until the racing and football results were coming through loud and clear.

  That night Agnes went around to her mother. She had to tell someone. She recounted the story as her mother was ironing her father’s shirts. Throughout the story her mother barely looked up. When Agnes had finished, she awaited some gem of advice or even sympathy from her Ma. Slowly her mother looked up, and in her Ma’s eyes Agnes saw a surrendered spirit.

  ‘Well, love, you’ve made your bed - now lie in it!’ said her Ma.

  Agnes never told anyone again, but over time she learned how to avoid the beatings and she also established an unspoken but well-understood law with Redser. She did this with a look, the way only a woman can, and the look said: ‘I can take it ... but don’t ever touch my children.’ Redser never did.

  Chapter 5

  THE MAY SUNSHINE CUT LIKE A BLADE down Dublin’s Moore Street, the fishwives cursed the swarming flies, and Agnes Browne sat by her stall and reflected on the three months that had passed since Redser’s death. Her first Easter as a widow had come and gone. She now collected her weekly pension along with her fuel voucher for two free bags of turf. The children had settled a bit, although Mark seemed to be uneasy, fidgety - ‘a bee up his arse’ her mother would have called it, maybe it was the ...

  ‘Penny for your thoughts,’ a voice cut across her reflection. It was Marion, carrying two mugs of bovril.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your thoughts, a penny for them ... you were miles away.’

  ‘Yeh ... Mark!’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s not himself.’

  ‘Is he sick? Has he a temperature?’

  ‘Ah no, he’s as healthy as a pup. No, it’s somethin’ else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m tellin’ yeh. If I knew I wouldn’t be worried, would P Look grab yer woman, she’s lookin’ at your bananas!’

  ‘Here, hold me mug.’ Marion hurried over to her stall where a ‘lady’ was indeed examining Marion’s wares.

  ‘Can I help you, love?’

  ‘Just looking, thanks.’<
br />
  ‘Oh they love that, they do.’

  The woman looked at Marion who was barely visible on the other side of the stall.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ she asked.

  ‘Bananas, they love it when you look at them.’

  The woman held the stare, not knowing how to answer Marion’s statement. She blinked and went back to the bananas. She picked up a bunch of six, turned them this way and that, and then replaced them.

  ‘They look a bit pale,’ she remarked.

  ‘Yeh,’ answered Marion. ‘Ah they’re probably dizzy, they had a rough crossing from Jamaica.’

  The woman stared again at Marion, then moved on awkwardly. Marion scurried back to Agnes and took her bovril back.

  ‘You do scare them off!’ said Agnes.

  ‘Ah me arse! Either she wants bananas or she doesn’t, I’m not going to play twenty bleedin’ questions! She was pokin’ them and squeezin’ them - they’re bananas not mickeys, they don’t get any better if you squeeze them!‘

  The two woman erupted in laughter.

  ‘Ah Marion, you’re a tonic!’

  They both sipped their bovril and watched the passing shoppers. Marion turned to Agnes and was about to speak, but stopped, as if she was trying to find the words.

  Agnes waited. ‘What is it?’ she blurted out finally.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Marion asked innocently.