The Mammy

by Brendan O'Carroll

  She went there next morning and spent at least an hour picking them out. The shop assistant was very helpful, advising and telling her all the pluses and minuses. When the tools were selected, he parcelled them up for her. She had intended taking them with her until she got the bill. It totalled fifteen pounds and twelve shillings. He asked for ‘fifteen and ten’, giving her a little discount.

  ‘I don’t have enough with me,’ she said.

  ‘That’s no problem. If you give me a deposit I can put them away for you,’ he smiled.

  Agnes fished in her purse. She took out a ten-shilling note.

  ‘Would ten bob be all right for a deposit?’

  ‘Absolutely, love.’ He took the note and wrote out a receipt, then he wrote ‘Browne’ on the parcel, and went out back to store it.

  Agnes left the shop a bit worried. Fifteen pounds was a lot to find between now and Christmas Eve - eight days. But she’d find it, somehow she’d find it. She checked the Herald clock in Abbey Street. Time to go up to Buddha and collect the tricycle for Trevor. As she turned into O‘Connell Street she saw four men out on top of the Capitol theatre porch erecting a giant sign with Cliff’s picture on it. A white band across the sign with red letters on it read ’Sold out‘.

  She put her head down and walked past. Her mind turned back to money matters. She had three pounds in her slipper at home. The following week was Christmas week but it was never a busy one for her stall, all that sold were potatoes and sprouts. So she couldn’t count on more than three pound ten off that. Mark was handing up a pound, that was seven pounds ten shillings. She had made the last payment on her hamper the previous week, so that was all the Christmas food paid for. Buddha owed her seven pounds and ten shillings, the tricycle was two pounds, that meant he had to give her five pound ten. That was thirteen pounds. She could really do with another ten pounds to get her over Christmas, buy the tools and see her into the New Year. She looked to heaven and smiling said aloud, ‘Marion, lend us a tenner, will ya?’ Heaven was the right place to look, she thought to herself, for she could do with a minor miracle.

  When she arrived back at the flat, she had the tricycle with her. Yellow and red, it would make Trevor’s eyes glow with joy when he woke to find it waiting under the tree on Christmas morning. The trick was to make sure that neither Trevor nor the other children found it until then. Agnes tiptoed up the stairs. When she arrived at her landing she opened the door to the water tank for the toilet in the flat below hers. Gently she slid the bike in beside the tank. Mark stored his turf sacks on the other side. She lifted one of the sacks and used it to cover the bike. She closed the door quietly and went up to her own flat.

  There was great excitement when she came in. Charlie Bennett, the coalman, had delivered the Christmas tree, and the kids were waiting to decorate it. Agnes calmed them all down and promised them they would all do it, but after tea. Tea first, tree later, she pronounced. Agnes made the tea and they were all sitting around the kitchen table when Mark tapped his fork off his cup, like he had seen a best man do at a wedding. Everybody stopped talking and looked at him.

  ‘What’s that for?’ Agnes asked.

  ‘I’m goin’ to make a speech, Ma!’ he answered.

  ‘Oh, I see. Quiet, youse, listen to your brother - the man of the house.’

  Mark puffed out his chest. ‘Ahem! I have a surprise for everyone!’ he began.

  ‘The hairs are after fallin’ off your willy!’ Dermot said and all the children laughed. Agnes gave Dermot a clip on the ear, but gave a little laugh herself as well.

  ‘Don’t mind him, son, you go on, you have a surprise for us all? What is it?’

  ‘Today I put a five-shilling deposit on a television set,’ Mark announced proudly.

  The cheers and whoops could be heard in Cork! Cathy took Trevor’s hands and danced in a circle, singing, ‘We’re gettin’ a tell-ee! We’re gettin’ a tell-ee!’

  Agnes shushed everybody. ‘You what?’ she asked Mark.

  ‘I put a deposit on a telly,’ Mark repeated.

  ‘How much is this ... telly ... going to cost?’

  ‘Fifteen shillings a month. It has a slot at the back and you put two bob in it for five hours. Every month the man comes to empty the meter. He takes fifteen bob out of what’s in it and gives you back the rest.’

  Agnes thought about this. The children waited on her thoughts in silence. Agnes rested her head on her hands and looked down at the table as she deliberated. After what seemed like an hour to the children, she slowly raised her head. You could hear the damp slack as it hissed on the fire.

  ‘All right,’ she said simply and the mayhem broke out again. Agnes poured herself another cup of tea and sat back at the table. She stared at the face of her eldest boy. It glowed with joy as he watched Cathy and Trevor dance and sing. Agnes leaned over to him and squeezed his arm. He turned and looked at her questioningly.

  ‘You’re a very good boy,’ she said with pride.

  He got embarrassed and dropped his eyes. ‘Thanks, Mammy.’

  The telly man installed the telly that night at seven o‘clock. It took some time to fix up the rabbit’s ears, but when they were sorted the entire family sat in front of the set, enthralled. There was one problem - if anybody got up to go to the toilet the movement affected the reception. So nobody moved and the ad-breaks now became piss- breaks.

  Agnes had a fitful weekend, between the pleasure of the new television and the worry about whether or not she could find the money to get Mark his set of tools. So when she arrived in from work on the following Monday night and Rory handed her the letter that had arrived that day, it might just as well have had the words ‘minor miracle’ printed on it. It was addressed to ’Mrs Browne‘. She opened it and read:

  I.T.G.W.U.

  Liberty Hall,

  Dublin

  Number 4 Branch.

  Re: Christmas Benefit.

  Dear Mrs Browne,

  As the widow of a deceased member of this Branch you become entitled to a death benefit. This is a once-off payment of £12 paid on the Christmas of the year of our member’s demise. As your husband worked in the Gresham Hotel, the payment will be available for collection there from the shop steward, Eamonn Doyle, on the morning of the 22nd of December. May I take this opportunity to offer the condolences of the Branch on your loss and wish you and yours a very peaceful Christmas.

  Michael Mullen,

  Branch Secretary.

  ‘God Bless the Union, and God bless Mickey Mullen!’ Agnes exclaimed. ‘And thanks, Marion,’ she said, smiling and looking up to heaven.

  Chapter 22

  MARK KNOCKED ON THE DOOR. It was cold, freezing cold. His duffel coat hood was pulled as far up as it would go, and he had a scarf wrapped several times around his neck, but still the cold got through. He knocked again. He heard the movement behind the door, then a click and the door opened a little. Mr Wise’s eyes peered out and then the door opened wide.

  ‘Mark! Come in, boy, before you freeze.’

  Mark stepped in and Mr Wise closed the door quietly to keep the heat in. They went into the front room where the fire was burning.

  ‘Take off your coat, son.’

  ‘Ah it’s okay, Mr Wise, I only called for a minute.’

  ‘Still, take it off or you lose the benefit of it when you go back out.’ Mark took it off.

  ‘So, what brings you knocking on my door during the holidays?’ Mr Wise sat into his armchair. Mark sat too, but on a hard dining chair.

  ‘Mr Wise - you know loads of people, important people, don’t yeh?’

  ‘I do. Some important, some who think they are.’

  ‘Yeh ... well ... I want to get me Mammy a ticket for the Cliff Richard concert and I was wondering do you know anyone that could get me one?’

  ‘Who is Cliff Richard?’

  ‘Yeh don’t know Cliff? Yeh must be the only person in Ireland that doesn’t. He’s a singer.’

  ‘Oh! Well, I’m not go
od at names. Now, let me think! Who would I know?’ Mr Wise closed his eyes and with thumb and middle finger held his temple. After a few moments he took his hand away and shrugged. ‘No! I cannot think of anyone, Mark, I am sorry,’ and he looked it.

  ‘That’s all right. I just thought you might, that’s all.’

  Mark started to put his coat on. Mr Wise stood and pointed a finger in the air.

  ‘I have an idea, though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why not get his autograph for your mother?’

  ‘He’s auto-graft? What’s that?’

  ‘If you go to the theatre, say during the day, with a notepad, he will sign his name on it. I dare say that if you tell him the story, he may even write a little note to your mother too.’

  ‘Would he do that?’

  ‘It’s worth a try, isn’t it?’

  Mark smiled at last. ‘Yeh, it is, Mr Wise, thanks a lot.’

  Mark buttoned up his coat and Mr Wise went with him to the door. Before he left, Mark took something from his pocket. He handed the colourfully-wrapped parcel to Mr Wise.

  ‘Look, I know you don’t believe in it, but here, happy Christmas anyway.’

  Mr Wise took the parcel and shook Mark’s hand. ‘And a very happy Christmas to you, son, thank you.’

  Mark stepped out and the door closed. It was just a fifteen-minute walk to the Capitol from Mr Wise’s house. Mark walked quickly to keep warm. He was glad he gave the aftershave to Mr Wise - his mother had never used it even once! In Eason’s he bought a small notepad, then briskly walked the few steps from there to the Capitol box office. The same girl that had greeted Agnes ten days earlier was there. Mark’s head was just visible over the counter.

  ‘Hey, young wan!’ he called.

  The girl, who had been engrossed in a magazine, looked up. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Tell Mr Richard I want him.’

  ‘What? I will in me shite!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s not goin’ to just drop everythin’ and come out to see a little shit like you!’

  ‘Well, all right then, which door is it? I’ll go into him.’

  ‘Get yourself away t’be fucked, go on, get lost!‘

  ‘Here, all I want is his auto-graft on that.’ Mark pushed the little notebook towards her. The girl had gone back to her magazine and she ignored him. Mark persisted.

  ‘Hey! Here, tell him it’s for me Mammy, her name is Agnes. Tell him to write a note.’

  The girl leaned forward and called: ‘ARTHUR! Arthur, come out here!’ The double doors of the stalls area opened, and a huge fat man in a military-style uniform marched out.

  ‘What’s up, Gillian?’ he asked in a gravelly voice.

  ‘This little fucker ... he won’t go away, he’s annoyin’ me.’

  Mark smiled up at the usher. ‘Howye! I need to get Mr Richard to sign this.’ Again he held out the notebook. In one swift movement the usher snatched the book, tore it in half, and tossed it into a litter bin in the lobby, and in the time-honoured tradition of the doorman, said: ‘Right, son! Fuck off! Go on!’

  Mark stared aghast at the litter bin. The usher moved to him and pushed him towards the door. Mark squared up to the man.

  The big usher stood legs apart and put his hands on his hips. He saw the anger in Mark’s face, and smiled. ‘Don’t fuckin’ annoy me, son, now move!’

  Mark’s right foot moved quicker than the usher expected. It made contact, on target, between the big man’s legs - Mark could only see his ankle sock as his foot vanished into the man’s crotch.

  ‘Ahh ... yeh little bollix!’ the man screamed as his face turned a crimson red. Mark ran to the doors, and into his first problem. Like many theatres, the Capitol had six glass entrance doors, and, like many theatres, only one of these was left unlocked during office hours. Mark could not remember quick enough which one he had come in. He made a choice, the one on the far left. Wrong! The next one - locked! The next one down was the door to freedom, but the usher got there first.

  ‘Right, mister fuckin’ hard man, try that again.’

  Mark had met his second problem.

  By the time Mark reached home his left eye was just about fully closed and had started to change colour from purple to black. The eye had gone with the man’s first blow. Mark went down on the cold, tiled surface. The gleaming black leather shoes of the usher had put in the bruises that now covered Mark’s back and chest. Mark had limped home. Agnes yelped when she saw the state of him.

  ‘What happened to you?’ She ran to him.

  ‘A fight ... it’s nothing.’

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, I’m grand, Ma,’ he lied.

  Dermot jumped from the chair in front of the telly. ‘Jaysus, that’s a beauty. Who won?’

  ‘It was a draw.’

  ‘Who was it, Marko? Was it Mallet Maguire?’ Dermot knew these things.

  ‘No, some fella from Pearse Street.’

  Agnes spun towards him. ‘You stay away from Pearse Street, they use razors over there, diyeh hear me?’

  ‘Yeh, Ma, I hear yeh.’

  Mark went to his bedroom and lay down. Dermot followed him in, and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at Mark and smiled. ‘So, Marko, what really happened? Who gave yeh the hidin’?‘

  Mark laughed and told Dermot the whole story.

  Chapter 23

  IT WAS DECEMBER TWENTY-SECOND, and Agnes had lots of jobs for the boys to do. However, Mark and Dermot had an errand of their own to take care of first. They waited in the archway of the GPO. The Garda was standing by the main entrance, where he always stood. The boys waited.

  ‘This’d better not backfire on us, Dermo,’ Mark said. He was worried.

  ‘It won’t, leave it to me.‘

  ‘Make sure you’re right beside the copper - right?’

  ‘I will. It’ll be all right, just wait and see.’ Dermot was confident. Around the comer, at the same time as yesterday when the two boys followed him, came the big usher from the Capitol, strutting along as if the city belonged to him, a newspaper under his arm.

  ‘Go — now!’ Mark pushed Dermot. Dermot ran up to the usher and tugged at his coat. The big man stopped and looked down at the boy.

  ‘What do you want?’ the man asked gruffly.

  ‘Is this yours, mister?’ Dermot held out a sixpenny coin. The man bent to look at what was in the boy’s hand. As he did Dermot slapped him as hard as he could with his right fist. The blow caught the giant right in the eye. He instinctively grabbed Dermot. Now it was Mark’s turn to kick into action. As planned, he ran for the Garda. Dermot began to scream.

  ‘No! No! Me Mammy told me not to talk to men like you. Let me go ... I don’t want to!’

  ‘You little bastard ... I’ll break your fuckin’ neck!’ the giant roared, holding on to his now-swelling eye with one hand whilst clutching Dermot firmly in the other. The policeman intervened.

  ‘Unhand that boy!’ the Garda said with authority. ‘Let him go, now!’

  The giant pushed the policeman away. ‘Go away, I’ll take care of this little fucker meself.’

  The Garda drew his baton, and waved it menacingly. ‘Release him right now, boyo!’

  The usher dropped the boy. Dermot, in an Oscar-winning performance, hugged the Garda’s leg: ‘Please, Garda, please don’t make me do it. Please keep him away from me!’

  ‘It’s all right, son, calm down, nobody’s going to hurt you. What’s going on here?’

  Dermot sniffled and wiped his eyes. A crowd had now gathered around the group and ears were being cocked to catch the whole story.

  Dermot began: ‘This man asked me to go down the lane with him for a wee-wee!’ Dermot cried like a baby. The crowd were not pleased, they began to mutter, and the policeman could envisage an ugly scene on his hands.

  ‘That’s a lie!’ the usher protested.

  ‘No, it’s not, I heard him sayin’ it!’ Mark came in now.

 
The usher turned towards the voice and saw Mark. ‘You? You little bastard!’ He lunged at Mark.

  Without a moment’s hesitation the Garda brought the baton down full strength between the big man’s shoulder blades. He dropped like a sack of potatoes. One or two of the crowd poked a bit of boot in here and there. The Garda put a knee into the man’s back and handcuffed him with his arms behind his back. In the mayhem, Mark and Dermot slipped away.

  The two boys skipped up O‘Connell Street, elated with the success of their plan.

  ‘That showed him!’ Dermot yelped with delight.

  ‘Yeh! Don’t fuck with Mrs Browne’s boys!’ added Mark, and they both laughed heartily.

  They were still abuzz when they came into the flat.

  Agnes smiled at them. ‘Youse are full of the joys,’ she remarked.

  ‘Yeh,’ Mark said as he flopped onto the couch. Dermot of course went straight to the telly.

  ‘Yeh needn’t think yis are goin’ to sit in front of that,’ announced Agnes. ‘I have work for yis. Turn it off.’ Dermot turned the television set off.

  ‘Now, Mark, put Trevor’s coat on him and the three of yis go round to the Gresham and pick up a message for me off Mr Eamonn Doyle.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ Mark asked.

  ‘He’s a steward in the shop, I think. Just ask for him.’

  Mark wrapped Trevor up like a bag of rags and the trio set off for the Gresham Hotel. In the streets people were in good festive mood, shouting ‘Hello’ and ’Happy Christmas’ to each other. Christmas is a nice time, Mark thought. Trevor swung like a pendulum between his two brothers, and smiled broadly as he told all who would listen to ‘Fuck off.’

  The Gresham was a wondrous place. The boys climbed spotless white marble steps and went into the lobby. The massive expanse of royal blue carpet, the gigantic Water-ford crystal chandelier, and deep, buttoned leather seating were all things the boys had only ever seen on the movie screen. People were milling through the lobby in fur coats, three piece suits and fancy hats. Mark felt dirty. They stood awkwardly for a moment, and then a woman came out from behind a desk to them. Mark was expecting a tongue-lashing, but instead she was nice. ‘Hello, boys. Can I help you?’ she asked with a smile.