Ma, Jackser's Dyin Alone

by Martha Long

  ‘Oh, was it a classical school?’

  ‘Oh, indeed, very classic! In vino veritas,’ I lisp, waving the glass, slurping on the wine.

  ‘Hmm,’ then they wander off, delighted by the high circles they are now moving in after meeting me. Their aim of the game is to develop a network of powerful, influential friends. Help them get on in business, get their children into the best schools. Keep it in the club, darling! Keep it in the club, old boy, is the motto.

  Fuck, I don’t really need them. But the kids … These are the parents of the children that mine are now growing up with. This is their world. If this is the best it has to offer, so be it. Me? I’m wasted on these people. I should have been an actress. Jaysus, I could be running off with all the Oscars! Still, the Wallaces’ crowd are great for a laugh. They’re all legal eagles. She’s a solicitor and he’s a tribunal lawyer. That’s the latest jackpot to hit the country for that brigade. He’s charming, polite, but has nothing to say unless you’re in the business. He and the cronies sit huddled in a corner, plotting their latest wheeze on how to fist a few more millions out of the country. That’s each, mind! There must be dozens of them. At the minute he’s up in the tribunals court, strutting his stuff as a tribunal barrister. All the bent politicians are getting stretched on the rack.

  I turned up one day to watch Harold doing his stuff. Antonia got Harold to squeeze me in. Packed tight I was, sandwiched in among the solicitors and their huge bags. They were the donkeys carrying all the papers for their tribunal barristers. Otherwise I would have had to be there at the crack of dawn to get a seat. The place was jampacked – the world and his wife turned up for the entertainment. I enjoyed meself no end. Everyone had the same idea – we all brought sandwiches and flasks of tea, then sat out on the lawn enjoying it during the lunch interval while the millionaire lawyers went off to the pub for their nosh. We did that as none of us wanted to lose our seats, because as soon as we were all sandwiched back in, the doors were slammed shut and locked. Then they posted a big red-necked copper to stand at the door and keep order. One old man came rushing in from the toilet nearly having a coronary when he saw the doors getting slammed just as he was hobbling to the door. Jaysus, there was ructions! He nearly took the door off its hinges. The copper let him in, asking, ‘Is that a gun you have there or are you just happy to see me?’

  We all looked down seeing he hadn’t zipped up his fly! Oh, the craic was mighty! Then we all went quiet as proceedings began.

  ‘Ah, Minister! Do you recall …?’ Look down at notes. ‘Yes, Mister X – we can’t name him for legal reasons, m’lud.’ He bows to the judge (he’s doing the Times crossword puzzle under the bench!). ‘As we speak, he is presently attempting to get the high court to stop this tribunal from investigating his part in this affair.’

  ‘OBJECTION, M’LUD! PRESUMPTION OF GUILT BY ASSOCIATION ON THE PART OF MY CLIENT, M’LUD!’ screams his pal for the other side, dancing to his feet, slapping out the tails of his black gown.

  Silence while the judge wakes up.

  ‘So, I may continue, m’lud?’

  ‘What?! … Oh, yes, carry on!’

  ‘Minister, as I was saying, do you recall Mister X handing you a brown-paper bag containing seventy-five thousand pounds in cash, in the car park at the back of Dirty Nelly’s pub on Saturday the twenty-fifth of July, nineteen seventy-five?’

  ‘I do not! I never saw dhat fella in me life! Is he a constituent of mine? I do favours for all sorts and class a people! I get paid for it – it’s me job! I’m a busy man. I meet oceans of people! I’m a minister, a TD, I’m on the board of rakes a things! The bank board, the golden circle board, building society board – I’m chairman a that! I’m on more boards an collect more money than you’ve had hot dinners!’ he splutters, forgetting this is not free speech. In this place he’s not under the protection of the Dail Chamber.

  ‘Yes, I would not doubt that, Minister,’ bows the barrister, looking around to the packed gallery for applause.

  They’re staring with the mouth open, drinking in every word. Then it hits them – they’re getting a look-in, so they play it to the hilt. There’s cheers, roars and rumbles as the creaking floorboards erupt with the stamping boots. He bows again, after milking them enough, and turns back. He’s getting his cheers and claps all right! But who are they clapping for? The lot in the front look like a shower of culchies come up on the bus to support their pal, neighbour and minister all rolled in one. But, no, it’s Joe public sitting behind them. They’re here with the rotten tomatoes and eggs at the ready, waiting to see will the minister put his foot in his mouth again.

  ‘I collect me pensions, me salaries! As I said, I do a job of work, I get paid for it! Sure, why wouldn’t I?’ he shouts. ‘They give it to me in brown-paper bags, Oxo boxes, plastic carrier bags! I don’t care how they pay me so long as I get me money for doing a favour … I mean a job of work! I’m entitled!’ he shouts, banging his ham fist down on the judge’s bench, making him shit himself with the sudden fright. He had just managed to work out a missing word that was killing him for the last hour!

  ‘Minister! Contain yourself, please!’ gasps the judge, staring down from under his bushy eyebrows, then dropping his magnifying glass. Where is it? He searches, groping around to dig himself under the bench. He needs that for the Times newspaper – very small print. He appears back up with the wig twisted. His clerk gives a point with the little pinky finger and dances the eyebrows up and down, trying to warn him. Then we’re all ready and heads spin back to the minister.

  ‘Sorry, your honour! But I’m a man of honour meself, as everyone can testify to that! I never took a bribe in me life,’ he cries.

  ‘You tell hem, Mickey boy,’ come the roars screaming from the gallery as the rowdy lot start banging and shouting.

  ‘ORDER!’ shouts the judge. ‘I will clear the court if there is any more misconduct!’ he snorts, glaring down red-faced at the shower of culchie rowdies, all sniffing and shuffling, mumbling about Dublin cowboys.

  ‘Continue, Minister,’ he then says quietly, looking at the crying minister wiping his snots in a big red hankie he shakes and flops around the place, then shoves it back in the top pocket of his Armani suit.

  ‘No! I have no recollection of been handed any brown-paper bag,’ he sniffs tragically, speaking gravely and quietly. ‘I wouldn’t even have a mature recollection about it if I was to recollect about it till the cows came home!’

  ‘But, Minister! Did you not just tell this court … Please allow … if I may beg the court’s indulgence,’ the tormenting barrister mutters, searching for that bit written down on his notes.

  He can’t find it! The court goes quiet, leaving room for the coughing, scratching, quick rub at the nose, then we all watch as he turns to his junior barrister, who turns to his assistant, then he turns to a solicitor, who turns to his assistant! A big sigh of relief when they finally find that missing damning bit of admission.

  The judge mutters something to his clerk. He nods and stands. ‘WE WILL RECESS FOR LUNCH! COURT WILL RESUME AT TWO-THIRTY!’

  The judge happily agrees, banging his gavel. He’s now fully awake, delighted at the thought of escaping for a long lunch and an even longer cool drink to quench his thirst. He needs that after rooting through all them dusty affidavits! Or he would have been perusing the affidavits if he didn’t have to do the Times crossword puzzle first!

  Right, best foot forward for the kids. Behave yourself when you get there, Martha! Now, get moving. I moved fast for the fridge, opening it and bending down, me eyes scanning up and around. ‘Chicken – smashing. That’s cooked. They must have had that for their lunch. They even left a bit of breast. What else? Eggs, cheese, ham … Yep! Just what the doctor ordered,’ I hummed, bending down and grabbing the lot.

  OK, it’s toast and chicken, with a bit of melted cheese on the toast, even a poached egg, and I know I have some spinach. Don’t be ridiculous! It’s not eggs benedict you’re making. It’s �
� I lost track of me first exciting idea. Yeah! Hot chicken sandwich, then a toasted one with melted cheese and a poached egg on top with a bit of mayonnaise for extra flavour. How about a can of Baxter’s chicken soup with a little cream … no! A lot of cream! Right, get going.

  I was just taking the bread out of the toaster when the phone started shrilling, demanding my instant attention. Ahh! For the love a gawd! Is there no peace for the wicked? No! No phone calls tonight. I am going to sit and eat in peace.

  I ignored it, letting it ring, and continued eating my grub, feeling it stick in my gut. My stomach was going rigid and I couldn’t let go of me breath. It was the listening to it ringing, demanding I answer forthwith, or else you will wonder for the rest of your life …

  I jumped up, reaching for it just as it stopped ringing. Fuck! Who was that? Now you’ll be left wondering, I thought, getting a picture of what I might have missed.

  ‘Hello! Can I speak to Martha Long?’

  ‘Speaking!’

  ‘Are you the daughter of Sally Long?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘I am Joe Soft, of “Soft As Grease Ball”, attorney at law here in Dallas, Texas. We are trying to find the heirs to the estate of one Joseph Malcolm Rich Long, late deceased of Dallas, Texas, and Dublin, Ireland. We believe he has two heirs, a mother and daughter.’

  ‘Oh!’ I gasp, holding me breath.

  ‘Are you Martha Long, born yakety-yak in the city of Dublin?’

  ‘I am!’ I nod, eyes bulging, ears flapping.

  ‘Are you the daughter of Sally Long?’

  ‘I am,’ gasping to get it out.

  ‘Well, Martha! You and your mother are the inheritors of a multimillion-dollar estate. Now, according to our records here, he met your sweet dear mother … Is she still alive, by the way?’

  ‘Yes,’ I croak, giving the ear a quick poke to hear better, then settle meself down for the good news.

  ‘Well, Martha! It seems the deceased came over here from the old sod, back home. But first I think you want to hear how you both came to be his heirs!’

  ‘Well! Not …’ is all I could get out before he rushes on.

  ‘Now I can tell you. Well, he came over here back in nineteen hundred and blot. He went west! Got there before the land rush took off again – in ahead of the posse, you might say he was! Staked his claim, bought a couple of hundred acres of land – turned out to be worth its weight in gold nuggets. Sold out and came on down to Texas. Here he bought shares in oil fields, then made a takeover when shares were dropping – took ’em over he did! Lock, stock and caboodle. Yes, sireee! The rest is history. He made J.D. Rockefeller look like a pauper! Then he disappeared – nobody knew where he’d gone! Just up and vanished, leaving behind a multimillion-dollar industry that carried on without him. It ran like oil-greased wheels, you might say!

  ‘Then, some time around the nineteen-fifties mark, he turned up in Dublin and wandered around that city like a lost soul. Then, here it comes! He was no destitute, but he was living like one when he met your mother. I think all the big business lost its draw for him. He just up and quit, deciding money had no further value for him. He couldn’t spend it even if he wanted to – there was just too much of it! We have been searching for you, going on … ohh, nigh on fifteen years, ever since his death! You and your mother are the sole heirs, Martha, to forty billion, nineteen hundred million, seventeen thousand and fifty-seven dollars and twenty-one cents, give or take a few million. The clock keeps ticking on the interest, Martha! Every day that passes, you are both one hundred thousand dollars richer!’

  Then I ask, ‘But who was this man? How did he know me?’

  ‘Oh, well, Martha, that’s an easy question to answer. He was your father! We now have your whole history, I would say. So, we will need you to answer these questions, just to be doubly sure you are the person we are seeking, then with clarification of both your identities we can get the ball rolling.

  ‘Now, so far we have established you have the right name, date and place of birth.’

  ‘Yes,’ I nod.

  ‘Now your mother is Sally Long, maiden name Sally Josephine Patricia Harrison, born in the city of Cork in nineteen blot. Married in Cork City, nineteen …’

  ‘No, me ma is not married,’ I interrupt. ‘She’s from Dublin and her maiden name is Long,’ I say, with my mind crashing and me heart stopping. ‘Hello! Are you there?’ I shout into the silence, hearing a barely audible, ‘Oh …’

  I listen to the long pause, then croak. ‘Does that mean I’m not going to get the money?’ I say, hoping I might be wrong.

  ‘That is correct, ma’am. Afraid the search goes on,’ he moans, sounding as disappointed as meself.

  ‘But can we still not get the money if he’s a Long? We must be related!’ I croak, desperate not to let go. The phone goes dead, leaving only the dialling tone.

  I blinked, coming back to me chicken sandwich! I stared at it, suddenly not feeling very hungry. Yeah, very funny, Martha! Where did that come out of? I haven’t thought like that since I was a young child. No, not since then have I wondered who my father was. I accepted the ma was never going to tell me. So, suddenly why now? I suppose I’m feeling back in the thick of it. The same old ma, same old problems, then facing into Jackser.

  It shook me today, I think, sitting in the car talking to Charlie. I was back at them steps where Jackser first sat and met the ma. I could taste the stale chunk of bread and feel the burning hot tea in the tin mug. I looked up, moaning in a whisper, ‘I’m thirsty! I want me own bread an tea, Ma. Where’s mine?’

  ‘They didn’t give anythin fer you,’ she said, looking back at the queue slowly making its way towards the hatch.

  ‘Here, take the rest a me bread,’ she said, trying to sup on the boiling tea as the shouts went up to get moving out – they are locking the doors.

  I was smelling, tasting and breathing in that very same air again. I was one of the desperate homeless drunks with the lost, lonely, hopeless look on their face. I was them, looking out at the respectable woman sitting in her big car, but she was from a world that had passed me by. It was like seeing her through a big thick pane of glass window. I am on the outside, only looking in. I felt empty for Charlie, sitting in the seat beside me. I felt a rage with him. I was frustrated I couldn’t get him out and away from that homeless place. No, he got left behind, now he is forever trapped there.

  The ma had an opportunity today, but she turned her back on him. There he was, waiting patiently for her and me to turn up and everything seems grand. She lets him come home with her, thinking he was welcome, then treats him like dirt when the other one shows up. I saw the way she gave that devious, malicious look at me and Charlie when they were talking behind our back. It was like she knew she had the power to hurt us and it gave her an evil sense of satisfaction. Yeah! She knew what she was doing all right. But she doesn’t connect to us as being feeling human beings. I think the silly bitch blames us for being in her way – we caused all her problems. Even with Jackser – we were his weapon to use against her, the evidence she had been leading the life of a whore in his eyes, and hers. So she blamed us for letting out her secrets.

  Right, I’m not letting her upset me. So, she thinks she can control me? We will see. She knows she can’t control Charlie – he never let her. He took away her power by seeing her for what she was, then blanking her. No wonder she hates him! She’s the kind who uses any tenderness you give her as a weapon to hurt you. Worse, she let him walk out that door on an empty belly after me buying all that fucking food. Jesus, she could have called him back. I know he was hurt, but it was so deep he just fell into apathy. He just shrugged, like he couldn’t feel it any more. That was fucking cruel! Normally, I take her behaviour as I find her, but she’s overstepped the mark this time. I think she may now have lost an opportunity with me too.

  Right, eat up, have a quick shower, then get some sleep. I think that’s exactly what I need now – just wash off the dust t
rying to settle in my head. I’ve had enough of the ma for one day.

  I was just heading up the stairs after tidying the kitchen when the phone rang again. I paused, listening to it, hesitating – no! Get down fast and find out who it is this time. It has to be important – they have rung back.

  I tore into the kitchen, grabbing it up before it stopped. ‘Hello!’ I gasped, hearing a sudden intake of breath, then the voice spoke.

  ‘Hello, this is Hector, the undertaker. Look, I have been trying to contact you. I do apologise for disturbing you this time of night. In fact, I was trying to get you earlier.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I am not too long in, Hector,’ I said, wondering what the problem could be.

  ‘Well, early on in the evening I had a phone call from your mother. She asked for more cars. I asked how many people she needed to organise. She wasn’t sure, but she insisted on two more cars. I thought it best to put you in the picture, as you are both dealing with the arrangements.’

  ‘Yes! You are right. Thanks for ringing me, Hector. But … She did say two more cars?’

  ‘Yes, that is what she asked for.’

  ‘Listen, Hector. I think it best you stick to our original plan – one car for the family is enough. I will discuss this with my mother. But I don’t think you need bother yourself further with this. You can take it that nothing has changed.’

  ‘Very good,’ he said, sounding polite, but knowing this is par for the course. Family politics! Rows nearly always break out at family events, especially when there is emotion involved. Christmas, weddings, christenings and, of course, the funerals. There’s bound to be a bit of bother. So, he is obviously experienced. He knows the ma can’t afford it. He wanted to check where the money was coming from.

  ‘OK, I’ll wish you goodnight. Sorry again to disturb.’

  ‘Oh, no problem, Hector!’ I said, liking the idea of his name rolling off my tongue. ‘Thank you again for letting me know.’