by Martha Long
Alice Walker, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of The Color Purple, on publication of Ma, He Sold Me for a Few Cigarettes in the US (Seven Stories Press, September 2012)
‘Ma, He Sold Me for a Few Cigarettes, by Martha Long, is without question the most harrowing tale I have ever read. Even Charles Dickens, whom we appreciate for being the voice of so many abused children, is left in the dust. Why? Because Dickens was writing about abused children, while Martha Long was herself abused, horribly, unbelievably, by her mother’s ‘man’ and by her own mother. Managing to stay alive, only just, by her own wits, in a world determined to erase her life and to make her believe, in her very soul, that she is nothing. It is a hair-raising read.
‘That it is a bestseller in Ireland and England gives me hope. Martha Long is not being abandoned again. Still, it is so difficult a read one might ask: Why should we bother? We must bother because it begins to show us the deeper, perhaps most elemental source of our world’s despair: the chronic, horrific, sustained abuse of children. Especially those children who, unwittingly, inherit the brutalities of colonialism, whether in Ireland, where this story is set, or the rest of the globe. I was amazed to feel some of the English, Irish, Scottish ancestors of both enslaved Africans and indentured Europeans (in the Americas) showing up in the characters of the Dubliners Martha Long depicts. There they are, in a Dublin slum in the 1950s, yes (Martha Long’s childhood city), but recognisable as the same twisted beings who made life hell on earth for millions of people over the course of numerous centuries. And who, some of them, unfortunately, still walk among us.
‘As I read this book I thought: This is exactly why they’ve kept women ignorant for so long; why they haven’t wanted us to learn to read and write. “They” (you can fill this in) knew we would tell our stories from our point of view and that all the terrible things done to us against our will would be exposed, and that we would free ourselves from controlling pretensions, half-truths and lies.
‘The destruction of our common humanity through the manipulation of imposed poverty, misogyny, alcoholism and drug abuse is a major source of our misery, worldwide, and has been for a long time. Reading this startling testament to one child’s valiant attempts to live until the age of sixteen (four years to go!) is a worthy reminder that we can do better as adults if we turn to embrace the children who are suffering, anywhere on earth, who are coming toward us, their numbers increasing daily, for help.’
Table of Contents
Title Page
Also by Martha Long
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Copyright
MA, I’VE REACHED
FOR THE MOON AN
I’M HITTIN THE STARS
Martha Long
Also by Martha Long
Ma, He Sold Me for a Few Cigarettes
Ma, I’m Gettin Meself a New Mammy
Ma, It’s a Cold Aul Night an I’m Lookin for a Bed
Ma, Now I’m Goin Up in the World
Ma, I’ve Got Meself Locked Up in the Mad House
Who is that woman staring back at me?
Only yesterday she was a young girl staring into the future!
Now she knows yesterday is gone and tomorrow may never come.
I am grateful this day belongs to me. I can make happy memories.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
’Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all.
To my readers, who have faithfully followed me through every footstep back along this journey, I say a quiet and humble thank you.
The first step I took with Ma, He Sold Me for a Few Cigarettes was the loneliest journey I have ever taken.
Even then, when the little ‘Martha’ came back to life, I wasn’t sure how you would take it. She, I, could never be sure what kind of world we would be stepping into. This was my life; I had exposed myself. I was now left naked, shivering with the terror: I had let it go for publication! Oh, sweet Jesus! What will happen? Would you ridicule me or my children? Would the people I know turn away from me? Never mind me, have I destroyed their lives?
Well, I did find out! I cried when the response came pouring in. Unbelievable! My God, you cared. Not just that, but you understood, you accepted me warts and all. What a world we live in. You gave me courage to write the next step, you cheered me on. ‘Go on! Keep going,’ you said. So I looked back at you, I checked what you were saying, then started into a run!
Oh, the snots, the tears, the laughing, but I wasn’t alone. I felt you all leaning over my shoulder, whispering, ‘Here, wipe them snots, dry your tears, you are not alone. We’re all here now behind you. Not just that, but we’ve all felt the same pain hurting, because some of us have gone through what you have. So, go on! Hurry! You’re the one doing the writing. Let’s all see it, then we can remember and talk about it. For some of us, it’s our story too.’
What a wonderful world! And you and me, we all make it happen!
To Bill Campbell, my publisher: without him, I wouldn’t be writing and you wouldn’t be talking. To Peter McKenzie, the great man behind Bill the genius. To my poor, long-suffering editor, Ailsa Bathgate! The woman one day should be awarded the MBE for surviving under fire and prevailing to bring you these works! All done in the line of duty as an editor. I am an impossible cow to work with. I cherish, protect and hold these works clutched very covetously to my skinny chest. ‘Get yer hands off! Ye’re not changing one word a this!’ was the constant roar through Ma, He Sold Me. Now we have a truce. She knows me and I know her.
So, it’s all quiet on the Western front as we settle down to bring you these steps I have taken in my journey, now nearly reaching their final end.
My love to you all.
Martha.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Here I am again, down but not out. Let’s take this journey. It marks my first tentative steps back into the land of the living after trying to take an almighty plunge on the fast express out of this world. There I was, holding a glass of orange juice laced with half a bottle of vodka, snots, tears and a few regrets. On the table, a couple of bottles of something lined up that was sure to give you rigor mortis and get you planted pronto! Bloody hell! It is hard to kill a bad thing.
When I woke in the land of the living, there was nothing for it but to dust myself down and give up suicide as a bad job. After, of course, I got loose from the loony bin! (The authorities are very interfering in this country! ‘Tut, tut,’ they said. ‘Lock her up!’)
Anyway, in this book I am now on the march again, heading straight for France, looking to meet the one and only great love of my life. The bold priest and medical doctor Father Ralph Fitzgerald. The man who broke my bloody heart when I was only a young one of eighteen years. Now he has written to me after all these long years. Anyway, you know all this, those of you who read the last book, and the previous ones!
So here we g
o! Forget death, I’m now a woman on a mission, taking the fastest route out of Dublin.
1
We drove up the incline, then slowed down to cruise in behind a line of taxis, all waiting to spit out their cargo of early-morning passengers. One moved off, leaving three businessmen standing on the footpath wearing coats of different designs but the same navy-blue colour. You could see the pristine pinstripe trousers, with the razor-sharp crease down the front, and you knew they were wearing a very expensive business suit under their top coats. They picked up their matching slim brown-leather briefcases – well, nearly the same! The design crest was maybe different. Then lifted their overnight black-leather bags and swung them over their shoulders, then looked up, facing into the Departures, and took off, ready to do a day’s business in London, France, Belgium or even Zurich.
We eased forward, then finally we were along the footpath, and the taxi glided to a stop. I opened my bag, looking at the meter as it finally stopped rolling. Now I could see how much the taxi was going to cost me.
‘There you are,’ I said, handing him the notes.
‘Thanks very much. You just wait now and I’ll get your suitcase from the boot,’ he said, opening the door and rushing around to the back of the car.
I took the small note he gave me in change and shoved it into the back of the purse. I won’t be needing that once I get to France. I will then have to start using my French francs.
I put the bag over my shoulder and stepped out onto the footpath, immediately feeling the cold, frosty air bite into my face, making me catch my breath. I pulled up my fur collar and held it around my neck as I took up the handle of the big suitcase, saying, ‘Thank you very much.’
‘Yes, and thanks again,’ he said. ‘Have a nice journey, and a Happy New Year to you.’
‘Yeah, a very Happy New Year to you too,’ I smiled, waving as he got back into his taxi and I headed off into Departures.
I pushed in through the doors and immediately the warm air hit me. It wasn’t that warm, though. Not with the draught blowing in behind me as the doors were getting pushed in and out with people constantly on the move.
The place was nearly empty. A policeman with a well-fed belly on him stood staring out into the cold early morning. He looked like he wasn’t in any hurry to move himself, trouble or no trouble. There was no life in him, with him standing there looking like a statue. Then he shifted, trying to wake himself up. I watched as he jammed the eyes shut tight, letting a noise rip from his tonsils as he took in a huge yawn. Then he opened the eyes wide, hoping to see better as he smacked his lips, getting a taste of his mouth. Finally he was nearly ready as he scratched himself, cocking the leg to pull out the trousers caught up inside his arse.
I made for the stairs, seeing the sign saying Departures, then looked around for the Aer Lingus desk. There were only two people, both businessmen, in the queue. I got in line behind them, opening my bag to pull out my ticket and passport. I dropped the passport just as a man came up behind me, and he bent down, beating me to it as he picked it up.
‘Thank you,’ I said, looking into the face of a smiling businessman wearing the coat and suit with the leather overnight bag on his shoulder and holding his briefcase. Jaysus, another one, I thought. A high financial flyer saying, ‘You may speak to God, but make an appointment to speak to me!’
‘Pleasure,’ he beamed, then straightened himself as he stood in behind me, waiting his turn at the desk.
‘Thank you, Miss Long. Have a nice flight,’ the Aer Lingus woman said in her best posh accent, wearing her green hat with the wings brooch, the suit and the scarf fitted around the neck. She had her hair swept up and sitting on the back of her neck, with the hat looking crooked on the side of her head.
Jaysus, they must clone them, they all look the same, I thought. Like milk bottles on an assembly line at a milk factory. Even the businessmen. No, we don’t go in much for variety, not like the Continentals, I thought.
‘Thank you,’ I said, walking off leaving her with the suitcase, feeling delighted to get it off my hands.
Right, I have one hour before the plane takes off. I might as well go and get a cup of tea. I headed into a pub serving coffee, wondering do they do tea, then sat myself down at a table nearest to the door, where I could see all the comings and goings.
‘A pot of tea for one, please,’ I said, looking up into the face of a fella who looks like he never gets any rest. He’d washed and shaved, but you could see the red shaving marks scattered around the white-grey, scurvy-looking skin. That’s probably from a blunt blade, I thought, feeling sorry for him. Jaysus, they mustn’t pay well here, that poor fella is in threadbare order, I thought, looking at the arse out of his uniform trousers. Jaysus, he could fit himself and two more into them trousers. My eyes peeled down to the shoes. Ah, Jaysus, that’s criminal, look at the state a them! They’re so worn down at the sides the poor unfortunate is having to walk bokety, I thought, peeling my eyes back up the length of him, seeing him studying me.
‘Can I get ye anythin else?’
‘No, thanks, that’s lovely,’ I said, giving him a big smile. It was wasted – the fucker rambled off mouthing, ‘Jaysus! The last a te big spenders.’
Then I heard the announcement. I listened, hearing them mention my flight. ‘Will all passengers wishing to travel to Charles De Gaulle, Paris, please make your way to the departure gate immediately. The flight is now ready to board.’
OK, here we go, I thought, standing up and making my way over to the passport man, then headed on as he barely nodded at me, not bothering to check my passport.
‘Welcome aboard,’ the smiling stewardess beamed, delighted to see a few passengers as we climbed up and made our way down row after row of empty seats. Not bleedin surprised. You could buy a car for the price they charge for the ticket! I thought, wondering where I would sit. At the back. No, the wing. That’s the safest! I can hang onta that if the plane crashes. It won’t, Martha, you’re on board. You have ninety-nine lives! Yeah, true, I smiled happily, losing the run of meself there for a minute. I nearly always go everywhere by ship, never on a plane. It’s too expensive.
I sat just down from the top, where I could see the goings-on of the stewardesses. There was nothing else to look at.
‘Hello, we meet again,’ said the tall businessman who’d picked up my passport, as he stopped in the empty seats just across from me. Then he reached up, landing his briefcase inside the luggage rack, and took off his coat, folding it, and put that sitting next to the case. Then he sat down at the aisle seat and looked across, saying, ‘Are you heading to Paris?’
‘I am,’ I said, giving him a half-smile. He looked a bit gamey. On the mooch for an opportunity – maybe squeeze me in between his meetings or hold me for his dinner hour.
I looked down the plane, seeing there were five of us on board altogether, plus two air hostesses. They pulled up the steps, then the lights blinked and the engines started up. Then we eased away, heading for the runway. Suddenly the speed increased and we were tearing down, then it lifted, soaring into the air, and we were away. I sighed, taking me ease back in the seat as I looked out, seeing Dublin vanishing into little dots as we whipped away, flying above the clouds.
‘This is Captain Robert Martin, your flight captain for the journey. We should be arriving at Charles De Gaulle, Paris, in approximately an hour and a half. Please remember to set your watches one hour forward, French time. Weather conditions are unstable over Paris, with strong winds and torrential rain, so please be prepared for some turbulence.’ Then the microphone was switched off.
I looked over to see Mister Gamey giving me a look with a grin on his face.
‘Turbulence!’ he said. ‘That means hang on to your hat, we’re in for a bumpy landing,’ he laughed, then raised his eyes to Heaven, saying, ‘French weather – we’re lucky it’s not a blizzard!’
‘Yeah, at least we will be able to land, not having to circle around or even divert,’ I said, giv
ing him a generous smile, deciding maybe he’s not too bad after all.
‘Are you going to Paris? Going into the city?’ he asked, standing up and mooching over to sit next to me. I shoved in, wanting to have my own space, then letting my arm drop on the armrest, grabbing territorial rights, giving him the message, Don’t crowd me!
‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ he said, already shifting in the seat, making himself comfortable.
‘No, feel free,’ I sighed, turning my head to the window. Yeah, I was right first time. He’s on the mooch for a woman. He obviously wants me for dessert, after his big French dinner along the tourist strip somewhere. Probably along the Rue St Denis. Or if I’m lucky, dinner on board one of the cruising restaurants down the Seine.
‘Is it business or pleasure?’ he said, smiling at me.
I stood up, ignoring him, and took off my coat, then handed it to him, with his hands already waiting. ‘Would you mind?’ I asked.
‘Delighted,’ he said, giving the fur a quick feel as he turned it inside out, deciding I was worth a few bob. ‘Would you like a lift into the city? I can give you a lift in my car. I have one waiting at the airport,’ he said, not wasting time on trying to chat me up.
‘It’s not really necessary, there’s good transport to the city,’ I said, smiling at him.
‘Where are you heading? What district will you be staying in?’
I shook my head. ‘My final destination is not Paris. I am heading to the Gare du Nord, or Lyon, have to check which. From there, then I have to travel down nearly the length and breadth of France. It’s at the foot of the Alps.’
‘Where?’
‘Bordering with Spain and the Pyrenees, not close!’ I said, looking back out the window.
‘Pity,’ he mused, staring ahead, letting his voice drop and the smile slip, showing his disappointment.
‘Yeah, it is, isn’t it?’ I said, giving a grin, delighted to see the bloody chancer get a let-down.
