Agnes sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Sit down, Mark,’ she said gently. He did so sullenly, sliding on to the chair. ‘Are you all right, love? You seem to be upset ... tell me what it is, and, sure, maybe I can help. Are you havin’ a problem?’
‘Yeh,’ he answered with his head bowed.
‘Well, tell your Mammy. Come on, love. What kind of problem?’
‘A willy one.’
‘And who’s Willie?’
‘My willy.’
‘What do you mean your Willie? Is he your pal?’
Mark looked up at his mother. Maybe she really was going potty. ‘Me willy! What I use to do me pee,’ he said, now pointing down at his pants.
Agnes panicked. She jumped up from the table and put the gas on under the kettle. Tea sounded like a good idea. It had never entered her head that she might have to explain to her sons what other uses a willy had. With her back to Mark, she calmly said, ‘I see.’ She sat down again. ‘And eh ... what’s the problem? Is it sore?’
‘No,’ Mark answered, without the elaboration that Agnes had hoped for.
‘Is it itchy?’ she asked, not knowing why she was asking such a stupid question, but probably in the hopes that Mark would take the initiative and begin to explain.
‘No.’ Again, no elaboration.
‘Well, tell me. Tell your mammy, what ... eh ... what’s wrong with your willy?’
‘There’s hair growin’ on it.’ Again Mark had lowered his head and actually looked as if he was talking to his willy.
‘Is that all? That’s all right, son.’ Agnes was relieved. A simple answer should put him right here. ‘That happens to all boys around your age. It’s the start of becoming a man. All young boys get hair on their willy.’ Agnes was smiling as she spoke and Mark was looking at her. His expression was one of relief. Agnes was pleased with herself, she was a ‘modem woman’ she thought. Her son had asked her a very personal question and she was able to answer it without a hitch. Then came the dreaded follow-up question: ’Why?‘
Agnes thought. The modern woman here would say: It’s called puberty ... soon your penis will be erect, and you will have dreams at night which will cause your penis to discharge a creamy thick fluid. This is called semen and is what fertilises the egg in the woman’s fallopian tubes and makes babies.
Agnes stared into the face of her eldest baby. His eyes awaited her answer. The modern woman went out the window. ‘That’s to keep your willy warm when you go swimming.’ She jumped up to the steaming kettle and over her shoulder she said, ‘Now, out with yeh!’
Chapter 8
IT WAS THE TOWN HALL. COMMUNITY CENTRE, entertainment complex and political debating arena, all rolled into one. To the sixteen thousand or so population of The Jarro, Foley’s Select Lounge and Bar was the centre of the universe. The Foleys themselves were a country family. PJ Foley had spent his childhood on his father’s dairy farm in County Meath. He and his brother JJ grew up with the smell of manure and the carbolic soap they used to wash the animals’ udders before the milking, implanted in their sinuses. Their father, old PJ, was known throughout the county as the ‘horniest whore to ever draw breath’. Everybody was surprised when Dolly Flannigan married him, but nobody was surprised when she started to walk like John Wayne. The entire village were speculating as to how long it would be before Dolly was walking like John Wayne’s horse.
But fate is a peculiar thing, and Dolly Foley, née Flanagan, had always had her fair share of luck. Shortly after Dolly gave birth to her second son JJ, old PJ was to find himself standing in the wrong place as one of his forty-strong dairy herd let fly with a back kick that would do Bruce Lee justice. In the operation that followed, old PJ lost both testicles and the use of his penis for anything other than relieving his bladder. Dolly described him, when stripped naked, as looking like ‘a woman minding a piece of chewing gum for someone’. Old PJ took to the drink, and Dolly and the boys ran the dairy farm. It was obvious to all that the younger boy, JJ, was a natural farmer and although PJ pulled his weight, his heart wasn’t in it. Five days after PJ’s twenty-second birthday, his father was found frozen to death in the middle of the pasture. He was stripped naked from the waist down and neighbours reported hearing cries during the night of ‘Is that a prick or what?’ as he ran through the herd of kicking cows. Foul play was not suspected!
The farm passed to Dolly and her sons, and both PJ and JJ were happy with the arrangement that JJ should take over the farm and PJ would receive the sum of £10,000 as full and final settlement. So, with those immortal words ‘Fuck that, I’m off!’ PJ Foley boarded a bus to Dublin in 1958, in search of his fortune. He purchased the run-down premises on James Larkin Street in The Jarro for £4,500, spent another £1,500 on the furniture and new linoleum, and watched with pride as the painter put the finishing touches to the sign which read ‘PJ Foley - Select Lounge & Bar’. Over the following twelve years neither the custom nor the decor changed much. PJ Foley, thanks to the steady trade provided by the locals, prospered. His brother JJ went on to pioneer the Artificial Insemination Programme of the sixties and had such a keen eye for quality donor bulls that he became renowned as ‘the best bull-wanker in the country’ - a title his castrated father would have been proud of.
As well as a successful business, PJ Foley also found the love of his life in The Jarro - Monica Fitzsimons, a fiery, red-haired, befreckled girl from Limerick city. They courted for three years and married in Limerick. Among the locals that travelled down for the wedding were Agnes Browne and Marion Monks. Agnes was fond of both PJ and Monica, though a little wary of PJ. She wasn’t sure that he hadn’t inherited some of his father’s prowess, and was very careful not to encourage him.
Agnes would drop into Foley’s bar maybe three or four times a week, and always on a Friday night, when she and Marion would down a couple after the Bingo. PJ would pull and serve the first round each Friday night and this one was always on the house. This particular Friday was no exception.
‘Now, girls, a bottle of cider and a glass of Guinness with blackcurrant,’ he announced as he placed the glasses on the table in the snug.
‘God bless yeh, Mr Foley,’ Marion answered.
‘Well, any luck tonight?’ he asked.
‘Not a bit of it,’ Agnes cried. ‘If it was rainin’ soup, Mr Foley, I’d be the one out there with a fork!’
All three laughed.
‘Still, I suppose youse only go for the crack, eh?’
‘Me shite we do,’ Agnes answered, and again they all burst into laughter. PJ wiped the table, from habit rather than to clean it, and left the two woman to their chat.
The Friday night chats were important to the women. The subjects were many and varied, ranging from how Agnes’s children were progressing in school to who was bonking whom in the area. Tonight they began with a discussion as to whether or not the priests down in St Anthony’s Hall were fiddling the Bingo. After some probing statements, the women decided that they were just having a run of bad luck.
‘So much for your morning ritual,’ Agnes said.
‘Whatcha mean?’
‘You ... every morning shoutin’ in the church doors ... “Good mornin’, God, it’s me, Marion”,‘ Agnes moaned.
‘Ah now, Agnes, that’s nothing to do with Bingo.’
‘Still, you’d think with you shoutin’ to Him every mornin’, He’d give you the odd full house!‘
‘Ah now, Agnes, God has much more important things to be doin’ than worryin’ about my Bingo numbers.’
‘Ah I know, Marion, I’m only jokin’ yeh!’
There was a lull in the conversation. Both women took a sup of drink and glanced around the bar. Marion produced two cigarettes and they lit up. Agnes spotted a couple of lads from the fish market and gave them a wave.
‘Who are they?’ Marion asked.
‘Nipper and Herrin’ from the fisher,’ Agnes replied.
‘Seem nice enough,’ Marion commented.
‘Ah they
are. Nice lads - a bit wild, but all right.’
‘Do none of them ever ask you out?’
‘Will yeh go away with yourself, Marion, do you want me to be charged with baby snatchin’?‘
‘I don’t mean them ... any of the fellas down there.’
‘Some of them do ... but Jaysus, Marion, I wouldn’t be bothered, I wouldn’t.’
‘Well, you’re mad. For God’s sake, Agnes, you’re only young. You could marry again - you should.’
‘Marion, would you feck off. What hero would take on seven childer? And anyway, I’m not sure I’d want to. Lord rest him, but I swear I’ve had a better life since Redser died, I have!’
‘Ah, yeh need a man.’
‘I don’t!‘
‘We all do.’
‘Well I don’t - organisms or no organisms, I don’t!‘
That statement brought another lull to the conversation. It was Agnes who broke the silence.
‘Did you have any more?’
‘I knew you were goin’ to ask me that. I shouldn’t have told yeh.’
‘I’m only askin’. I don’t want the sordid details of your love life. I was ... interested, that’s all.‘
There followed another lull, a puff on a fag, a glance around, a sup of drink, and then Agnes looked into Marion’s face.
‘Well, did yen?’
‘No. I’m giving them up.’
‘After two? Why?’
‘I’m not feeling well since I had them ... and I’m after gettin’ a lump.’
‘A lump? What kind of a lump? Where?’
Marion blushed slightly. She glanced around the room furtively, to check that nobody was paying any undue attention to their table. When she was sure, she opened her coat and placed her left finger on a spot between her right breast and her armpit.
‘Just there.’
She closed her coat quickly, picked up her glass of stout, and as she supped it she glanced around the room again to be sure nobody was watching.
‘On your diddy?’ Agnes was aghast.
‘Shhh, for fuck’s sake, Agnes, do yeh want to take an advert in the bleedin’ paper?’
‘Sorry ... on your diddy?’ Agnes’s voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper.
‘Yep.’
‘What did Dr Clegg say it was?’
‘I didn’t go yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because if this lump is caused by me havin’ them organisms ... I’d be scarlet, that’s the why.’
‘Don’t be stupid, he’s a doctor, he knows all about organisms. It wouldn’t bother him.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I’m sure of it. We’ll get Fat Annie to mind the two stalls, and I’ll go down with yeh.’
‘Would yeh, Agnes? Ah, you’re a pal! I’ll tell yeh, it’s sore. Some days I can hardly lift me arm.’
‘It’s probably a cyst - that’s it!’ Agnes sounded sure.
‘Yeh, probably.’ Marion was relieved.
‘Mr Foley? Same again, please, and two packets of nuts.’
Chapter 9
LIFE WAS TAKING AN UPSWING FOR MARK and his interest in girls was beginning to dominate his waking and sleeping hours. Rory’s interest, however, was confusing for him. What he liked most about girls was their clothes, the feel of nylons and he longed to try out their make-up. In school the other boys called him ‘sissy’, but not to his face. All of the other boys knew that Rory, ‘sissy’ or not, was still a Browne, and you didn’t take on the Brownes.
This protection was not afforded, not directly anyway, to Cathy, being the only Browne girl in the girls’ school. She attended the Mother of Divine Providence Girls’ School in Ryder’s Row. It was a strict school run by nuns. For ten years of age, Cathy was a bright child. She was also well liked by her classmates. Cathy was very pretty. Her shoulder-length, raven-black hair always had a shine, as did her large brown eyes that were barely visible beneath the fringe that always needed to be brushed aside. Indeed it was this hairstyle that was to lead to the incident that would later be referred to as ‘the case of the fringe and the nun’.
That day, Monday, had started badly for Cathy. She awoke to Mark’s call that it was eight o‘clock. The warm June sun exploded into the room when Mark pulled the curtains back.
‘Get up, Cathy,’ Mark yelled.
‘I’m up, I’m up,’ she replied sleepily, trying to bury herself beneath the blankets.
‘You’re not up - now, get up!’ he said as he yanked the blankets off her, leaving her lying on the bare bed in her nightdress.
‘Ah Marko,’ cried Cathy.
‘Ah nothin’! Now c‘mon, Cathy, get up.’
Mark made sure everyone was up before he left the house for school. He had been up himself since five o‘clock with his mother, as he was every morning. He would do his milk round with Larry Boyle from quarter-past five to half-six, then it was around to McCabe’s shop. He’d pick up fifty papers and run on his paper round, arriving back to the flat at about half-seven or so, have a porridge breakfast and get the others up, before he left for school at quarter-past eight. Although the school was only ten minutes away, he had to leave early to drop Trevor to his Granny Reddin in Sean McDermott Street. Granny Reddin would mind the three-year-old until Mrs Browne picked him up that evening.
Cathy rummaged through the underwear drawer. No knickers! She rummaged through the boys’ drawer, Mammy often threw knickers in there by mistake. Nope! No knickers. She wandered out to the bathroom. The clothes-horse was full and, right enough, there was a pair of knickers on it, but they were damp. She stood for a moment, scratching her head. It’s a pair of pinnies today, she thought. Pinnies were a pair of her mother’s knickers, the slack gathered to the front and tied together with a nappy-pin. This kept the knickers from falling down or drooping. It looked awful but it worked, and they kept her arse warm.
After a slice of toast, Cathy left for school, in her pinnies. She skipped through the early-morning inner-city traffic and at the comer of Cathedral Street met up with Ann Reddin, her cousin. The two then headed up to Moore Street and Agnes’s stall. Cathy liked to call there every morning on her way to school. Agnes had her daughter’s ‘lunch’ ready for her - a sandwich of strawberry jam and a piece of fruit. She gave her the once-over and then sent her on her way. Cathy would eat the fruit at her first break and the sandwich for her ’big’ break, when she would be given the tiny free bottle of milk, provided by the State, to drink with it.
With the little bit of sunshine, the sisters had turned off the heating, and the classroom was a bit chilly as Cathy and her thirty-two classmates stood to recite the ‘Hail Mary’ in Irish. After the ’Amen‘, they all said the ’Sign of the Cross’ aloud and sat down. The teacher, Sister Magdalen, began to clean the blackboard. The chalk dust rose, and for a few moments was caught in the streaks of sunlight that came through the four long, sixteen-paned windows. Sister Magdalen started to write on the board.
Cathy, as was her way, held her head in one hand and glanced dreamily around the class. The framed Proclamation of Irish Independence was surrounded by the photographs of the signatories. They died for us, Cathy thought. Then there was a huge crucifix, upon which hung a sad Jesus, with blood streaming from his speared side. He died for us as well, she thought, wondering if anybody lived for ‘us’. There were four pictures along the windowless east wall. Nearest the light switch was John F. Kennedy. He died. She wondered if it was for ‘us’ or did he just die? Next to him was Pope John the twenty-third, who was, according to Sister Magdalen, a good man who meant well. The first of the living was next: Éamon de Valera, President of Ireland. Cathy often thought that being President of Ireland must be an awful job, because Mr de Valera always looked so unhappy. She was glad she was a girl and never had to worry about becoming president! The final picture was of Archbishop McQuaid, a man to be feared, a man who held the keys of heaven and the power of hell. A shudder ran through Cathy. In two weeks she would make her confirmation and c
ome face-to-face with Archbishop McQuaid. She was dreading it. If he asked her a question from the Catechism and she didn’t know the answer, he would put her out of the church, and she would be damned forever. She pushed the thought from her mind and looked to the blackboard. The word ’doctor’ was written there in large capital letters. Sister Magdalen spoke.
‘The doctor will be giving all of you a general examination today. However, we shall not let that interfere with our lessons, or our preparation of you all for the Holy Sacrament of Confirmation. You will leave the classroom in groups of five. You may strip in the cloakroom down to your knickers, and then wait quietly on the seats outside the Tea Room until you are called. There is to be no ... listen carefully! ... NO talking. When you are finished with the doctor, dress and return to class quickly and quietly, is that clear?’
There was a chorus of ‘Yes, Sister Magdalen.’ Cathy, however, was not one of the chorus. She had gone pale. Strip! she thought in a panic, strip to the knickers? She was lightheaded. The nappy-pin holding up her mother’s knickers felt like an anchor. She began to blush. Her hands began to shake. She stared at the crucifix: Please, Jesus, help me, don’t make me take off my clothes ... please, Jesus, do something.
Sister Magdalen was speaking again. ‘You five will go first, and we shall go anti-clockwise from then on.’ She was pointing to the row of desks nearest the door. Cathy counted the seats in groups of five up to where she was sitting. She would be in the fourth group. She had to buy time - she had to get a seat that would put her in the last group. She would then have a chance to sneak out during ‘big’ break, which lasted thirty-five minutes. This would be enough time to get home, dump the pinnies and change into her own knickers, which would be dry by now. Even if they weren’t, better a damp pair than to be called ‘Droopy Drawers’ for the rest of her school days, and beyond!
At the eleven o‘clock break, she went into action. During the ten-minute break she had approached all thirteen girls who would be in the final three groups. She offered her fruit, her sandwich and milk, but to no avail. By quarter-past eleven she was back in class, in the same seat where she had begun the day. Sister Magdalen had instructed the girls to take out their Catechism, and the learning of answers to Archbishop McQuaid’s questions began in earnest. At twenty-past eleven there was a gentle rap at the door. Sister Magdalen crossed the room, her crucifix dangling from her waist, and opened the door. There followed a murmuring through the half-opened door and the good sister re-entered the room and announced, ’All right, girls, the doctor is ready for you. The first group - off you go!‘ The first five victims rose slowly. It was as if they were bound for execution. They huddled together and trooped out the door. The lessons continued.
The Mammy Page 5
