The Mammy

by Brendan O'Carroll

  Agnes lifted her head to Monica who was sitting open-mouthed, not with shock, but asleep. Agnes chortled. She leaned over and gently touched Monica’s arm.

  ‘Monica, love ...’

  Monica jumped. ‘What? What! Oh Agnes, what was that? ... I missed the end of it ... what was it?’

  ‘Ah nothing, Monica, I was just shite-talkin’, listen, let me out, love, will yeh, and go on t‘your bed.’

  Agnes gathered her cigarettes and her handbag and put her coat on. Monica walked her to the side door, opened it, peered out first to make sure there were no police about, and quietly said goodnight to Agnes. When she stepped out into the night air Agnes took a deep breath. The door closed gently behind her, but when the bolt was pushed into place it banged like a gunshot!

  ‘Holy Jaysus - Monica!’ Agnes yelped, the words coming in bursts of steam from her mouth into the cold night air, Behind the door she heard Monica say, ‘Shh!’

  ‘Ah shush, me arse, yeh frightened the fuckin’ life outa me,’ Agnes replied gruffly and gathering herself together she started for home.

  It wasn’t as easy a journey as it usually was. The path had become somewhat uneven, causing Agnes to walk a zig-zag route. Another thing, the steps she was taking were a little unsteady. And the kerbs? Well, they were ridiculously high. Still, Agnes soldiered on. After about one hundred yards or so she began to feel ill. Must be something I ate, she thought, even though she had not eaten a real meal for days, just a couple of sandwiches here and there. She stopped and leaned against a building. Her stomach heaved and she knew it was coming up. She prepared for it, taking out the palate that held her two front teeth. She bent over and threw up with enthusiasm.

  ‘Are you all right, beeautiful Agnes Browne?’ a voice from behind asked, as a gentle hand was placed on her shoulder. The accent was clearly French. Agnes knew it was the Pierre fella from the pizza place. Where’s me fuckin’ teeth? she thought. They had been in her hand just seconds ago. She opened her hand and looked, but all it now contained was a tissue she had taken from her coat pocket. She must have put them in her pocket while taking out the tissue. She didn’t turn. She didn’t move.

  ‘Mademoiselle Agnes, with ze sparkle eyes! Are you okay?’

  Agnes was afraid to answer, for with the two teeth missing ‘Yes’ would have sounded like a sow breaking wind, so she grunted, ’Neh,‘ and nodded her head slowly. She put her hand into her pocket, and felt the teeth. She tried to drop the tissue and pick up the teeth in one gentle movement. She couldn’t. The teeth were now caught in the tissue.

  ‘Turn around! Let me gaze at you.’ He started to pull at her shoulder. Oh no! Agnes thought, without me two front teeth I look like a fuckin’ vampire! He had started to turn her. She swiftly pulled the teeth from her pocket and pretended to cough, while ramming the palate into her mouth. He turned her fully around. She tried to speak. She couldn’t. The tissue was sticking out of her mouth. She said: ‘I’m grand, thank you,’ but it came out as ‘Arf arf arf arf,’ and she turned and went to walk away. He ran in front of her.

  ‘I am fery new to Dooblin, would you show me around sometime?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sorry no, love,’ she replied.

  All he heard was: ‘Arf arf art!’

  ‘Oh marvelloose, what about next weekend? Friday?’

  ‘Arf arf art!’

  ‘Good. We meet in Foley’s at eight o’clock?‘

  ‘Arf arf art!’ Agnes was red with frustration.

  ‘Au revoir, then,’ and off he walked. Agnes was trying to roar after him that it was not a date! She stood shouting after him ‘Arf arf arf arf!!’ Two men walked past her, and one shouted, ‘Sit, Fido, sit!’ and they both laughed.

  Whether she liked it or not, Agnes Browne had a date for Friday night!

  Chapter 18

  ALTHOUGH WINTER WAS HERE, the Saturday-morning sun was still a little warm and welcoming as Mark pushed his cart out of the flat and headed through The Jarro. He had sent Dermot to Granny’s with Trevor and herded all the other children out of the flat so his Mother could have a ‘sleep in’. She needed it. She had come home drunk last night. He woke when he heard the front door open. She pottered around the flat muttering to herself. Mark got up to see that she was all right. He expected to find her in the kitchen, but she wasn’t there, though the kettle was on the lighted stove. The bathroom door was half-open so he peeped in. His mother was bent over the sink with her false teeth in her hand. She was picking pieces of tissue off them and muttering things like: ‘Cheeky French bastard’, the last word sending a spray of spittle onto the mirror. He quietly slipped back into bed.

  Mark was very proud of his cart. He had made it himself. The body was a strong wooden box that he’d picked up on the docks. Three lengths of two-by-two made up the handles and axle. It took about five hours of walking up and down the railway line to find two matching bearings for the wheels, but it was worth it. It was acknowledged by one and all that Mark Browne’s cart was the finest in The Jarro. Each Saturday morning Mark would push the cart down to the ‘turf depot’ in Sean McDermott Street. Since Redser’s death Agnes Browne was allowed two bags of turf per week, as part of her widow’s and orphan’s pension. This was a nice bonus, as the turf burnt well, and the two bags, along with a bag of coal and a half bag of slack would last the whole week. The catch was, you had to collect the turf from the depot, supplying your own sacks and cart. Mark was first in the queue every Saturday morning, arriving there half an hour before it opened. He would bring a football with him and play up against the depot wall until the ’turf man’ arrived at half-past eight.

  Mark did most of his thinking while tapping that ball against the wall. This morning his thoughts were about his future. It was nearing the end of October now, over eight weeks since his friends had gone back to school after the summer break. Mark had decided not to return but to go to work. But he had spent the time just looking, and not finding a job. The problem was his mother’s insistence on taking up a trade.

  ‘I don’t want you going from job to job and back to the dole like your father!’ she preached. ‘You’ll get a trade like your Uncle Gonzo.‘

  Uncle Gonzo’s name was actually Bismarck. The name had been picked by his father to rile the baptising priest, whom Uncle Gonzo’s father believed to have been a British spy in 1916. The gesture was met with hurrahs in the local pub, but Uncle Gonzo had to carry the can for his father’s heroism. Fortunately for him he was bom with a bright red nose which grew larger and redder as he fed it with Irish whiskey. Bismarck soon became Gonzo, after the popular vaudeville clown with the big red nose, though his was plastic. Uncle Gonzo was a plumber. He was a very good plumber. He was so successful that he became the first of the Browne family to buy his own home. Agnes Browne was very proud of Uncle Gonzo and it was clear to her that the road to success began with a signpost that said: Get a trade.

  Mark didn’t want to be a plumber. He continued to tap the ball up against the wall and consider his future. He was so engrossed that he didn’t see the elderly man coming across the road from one of the four large town houses that faced the turf depot. The man watched Mark for a few moments then spoke to him: ‘Little boy?’

  Mark, startled, took his eye off the ball. It came off the wall and past him. Mark ran after the ball and retrieved it. Slowly and reluctantly he walked back to the man. He looked at him suspiciously. It didn’t help that the man had a peculiar accent that made him sound like the villain in a Boris Karloff movie.

  The man gestured to the boy to come towards him. ‘Come here ... quickly.’

  ‘What d’yeh want, Mister?‘

  ‘Come closer, boy. You want that I should shout instead of talk?’

  Mark walked towards him, and gaped at this strange-speaking man. He was, Mark guessed, about a hundred years old. His hair was grey and bushy, with a bald track down the centre. His back was bent slightly. His face was tanned and looked as if it could be a kind face. He had grey eyes behind little
circular glasses, which were perched on a huge nose, shaped like a crow’s beak. He wore a striped shirt, but without its collar attached, over which he wore no less than three cardigans. To Mark’s young eyes, this was a strange creature indeed. When the man spoke his voice was gentle.

  ‘Every Saturday I see you here - always the same time, eight o’clock,‘ the man stated.

  ‘Yeh, so what?’

  ‘Never a Saturday do you miss. Rain or shine, you are here, always the same.’

  ‘Yeh already said that. So what?’

  ‘This tells me you are a reliable boy. Are you? Are you a reliable boy?’

  ‘No, I’m a Browne.’

  The little old man chuckled, and as he did he tapped his thigh lightly.

  ‘How would you like to earn two shillings, young Browne?’

  ‘Two bob?’

  ‘Yes, two bob.’

  ‘For what? What do I have to do?’

  ‘What you have to do is come into my home and light my fire for me.’

  ‘Light your fire?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Two bob - to light your fire?’

  ‘That’s it!’ The man nodded and clasped his hands together as he said this.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Why what?’

  ‘Why would you give me two bob to light your fire?’

  The little man walked to Mark’s cart and sat on the edge of it. He had not anticipated being questioned. He assumed that two shillings would be taken, ‘no questions asked’. With a crooked finger he pushed his glasses up his nose.

  ‘I am Jewish and today is my Sabbath.’

  ‘You’re a Jewman? From the pawn shop?’

  Again the man chuckled. ‘I do not own the pawn shop, although I believe the man that does is indeed Jewish - and that’s how you say it, jewisb, not “Jewinan”!’

  ‘And what’s a Sabbich?’

  ‘A ... eh ... a holy day. Saturday is to me what Sunday is to you.’ The man gesticulated with his hands while he spoke. They moved gracefully. They reminded Mark of a magician.

  ‘What has that got to do with your fire?’

  ‘Well, in my religion we cannot do certain things on a Saturday. Lighting a fire is one of them.’

  ‘Then how are you supposed to keep warm?’

  ‘My faith in God keeps me warm.’

  ‘Yeh, but it won’t light your fire, Mister.’

  This time the man laughed. It was a bright laugh, and as Mark would describe later, ‘All of him laughed’, his eyes, his chin, his eyebrows, and he opened his arms wide as he laughed.

  ‘Perhaps you are right, young Browne. But tell me, will two shillings light my fire?’

  ‘Flippin’ right it will!’ Mark smiled at the man for the first time. He dropped the ball into the cart and the two walked to the house. As they strolled across the road the elderly man put his hand on Mark’s shoulder.

  ‘So let’s introduce ourselves properly; you can call me Mr Wise.’

  ‘Why, what’s wrong with your real name?’ Mark asked.

  ‘That is my name - Henry Wise; and what goes along with Browne?’

  ‘Mark.’

  ‘My word! Look at this! I get a prophet!’

  ‘At two shillings for lighting your fire, so do I.’

  Mr Wise laughed heartily and ushered Mark into the house. Mark was gobsmacked by the interior. Every inch was carpeted. There was lace on the table, pictures on the walls. In the room where the fireplace was there was a piano, and a china cabinet full of gleaming and sparkling things. But the thing that caught Mark’s eye most pleasingly was sitting in the corner all alone. It was a television set!

  ‘Wow!’ Mark exclaimed, running his hand over the walnut cabinet that held the magic tube.

  ‘What?’ Mr Wise enquired.

  ‘A television! I’ve never seen one up close, only in Foley’s pub. Can I turn it on?’

  ‘No, not today. Sabbath.’

  ‘Oh yeh, I forgot. Right, where’s the coal hole?’

  Within minutes Mark had a fire blazing in the hearth, the coal bucket full, and the ashes put in the bin outside. Mr Wise arrived into the room carrying a tray with a glass of orange squash and a solitary biscuit on it.

  ‘Ah beautiful, Mark. A good fire! Well done. Here, this is for you.’ Mr Wise proffered the tray. Mark looked at the orange and biscuit. He made to take them, but stopped and looked at Mr Wise suspiciously.

  ‘I still get me two bob as well?’ Mark wanted everything to be quite clear.

  Mr Wise smiled. ‘With all of my thanks you do indeed.’ Mark smiled, and took the goodies. He devoured the biscuit and orange, wiped his mouth with his sleeve and put his hand out. Mr Wise placed the coin in Mark’s palm.

  ‘Thanks, Mr Wise.’

  ‘No, it is I that thank you, Mark Browne. Same time next week?’

  ‘Yeh sure. See yeh next week, Mr Wise.’

  Mark closed the front door behind him and trotted across the road. A queue had formed behind his cart. Even though Mark was not with the cart, the others knew whose cart it was - the boy who was always first on the queue. Mark loaded up with turf and on this Saturday morning brought his mother home two sacks of turf and two shillings.

  After carrying the turf up to his landing and then the cart, Mark went into the flat. He found Agnes looking drawn, sitting at the kitchen table nursing a cup of tea. He marched over and placed the two-shilling piece on the table in front of her.

  ‘What’s that for?’ Agnes asked.

  ‘For you. I earned it,’ Mark beamed.

  ‘Earned it? How?’

  ‘I lit a fire for a Jewman. He couldn’t do it ’cause it’s a “savage” day, so he paid me to do it for him.‘

  ‘What are you talkin’ about?’ Agnes was confused, her head not entirely in one piece. Mark related his morning’s adventure to her in detail, finishing with ‘and now he wants me to do it every Saturday.’

  Agnes mulled all this over in her mind. She was bothered that Mark might mistake this for a job.

  ‘Lighting fires is not a trade, Mark.’

  ‘I know that, Ma, but it’s good isn’t it?’ Agnes looked at the boy. With his milk round and paper round, and now his lighting fires on a Saturday the boy was handing up a pound a week. He was so willing, and so hard-working. She was proud, but worried about his future. There’s a time to worry and a time to be proud, she thought. This was a time to be proud.

  ‘It’s better than good, love, it’s great,’ she smiled.

  The boy was thrilled. He went to the sink and took a cup from the draining board.

  ‘Ah, sure,’ he spoke like an adult, ‘I’ll have a cup of tea with yeh.’

  Agnes poured his tea and he sat down. ‘You don’t look the best, Ma. Is it the drink?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Kind of ... I ... wasn’t well last night, love.’

  ‘I know, I heard yeh,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I’ll be all right ... It’s just ... I miss Marion, love, but I’ll be grand, you’ll see, I will. Drink makes you do stupid things.’

  ‘Yeh! Like gettin’ sick!’ Mark stated.

  ‘Oh worse than that, love. Like makin’ dates with Frenchmen!’

  ‘What, Ma?’

  ‘Nothing ... it doesn’t matter ... have we any painkillers?’

  Chapter 19

  THE LAST ‘DATE’ AGNES BROWNE HAD BEEN ON was when Redser had taken her to the dog-racing in Shelbourne Park. It had cost her a fortune. As soon as Redser lost all his money - and that took only four races - he began to ’borrow’ hers. By the night’s end they were both penniless, and had to walk home. That was the night Redser proposed - well ‘proposed’ is a bit strong! What had happened was they were walking along the canal towards Pearse Street, but not into Pearse Street - Redser couldn’t go near Pearse Street as he was a marked man following an incident involving some ’Teds’ from there and a cut-throat razor - so that night they had turned off the canal and walked down by the Meath Hospital. As they strol
led past the back of the biscuit factory, Agnes felt the moment was right.

  ‘Redser?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘D’yeh love me?‘

  ‘Don’t be stupid, a’course I do!‘

  Agnes took a deep breath. ‘Well, I’m pregnant.’

  She waited for a reaction.

  He didn’t look at her, he didn’t stop walking, he simply said, ‘Are yeh?’

  ‘Yeh,’ Agnes answered softly.

  There was silence for the next fifty yards. Then he said, ‘We better get married so.’

  Agnes was thrilled. She stopped, glowing inside. ‘Will we? Really, Redser?’

  ‘Yeh, I said so, didn’t I?’

  Agnes threw her arms around him. ‘Oh, Redser!’

  ‘Hey will yeh fuck off — give over.’ Redser was embarrassed by any overt affection unless there was a lot of drink taken. ‘I’ll get yeh a ring at the weekend,’ he said. Redser knew a man who had access to these things.

  ‘I don’t want a ring,’ Agnes said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s a waste of money. Yeh can’t do anything with a ring. I want a bike!’

  ‘A fuckin’ bike?’

  ‘Yeh, a bike, but a good wan!’

  ‘An engagement bike!’ Redser was confounded.

  Agnes knew what she was doing. Firstly, with a bike she could have a bit of independence, and secondly, she knew that any engagement ring from Redser would eventually end up in the pawn. She lost on both counts, for when they were only two weeks married Redser sold the bike anyway to get money for the bookies.

  But the point is, Redser never asked her out again. He ‘took’ her out, but every girl knows that there’s a huge difference between being ’asked out’ and being ‘took out’.

  And so with Friday looming, Agnes felt like a teenager going on a first date. One minute she was going, next she wasn’t. She told the children about her date with the Frenchman. There was some resistance.