My Mother Wore a Yellow Dress (2 page)

With this thought a light snaps on in a new world, lighting up the house that she has planned; a home of her own at last. She imagines moving through its coloured landscape, making the contours of it fit the shape of things to come. She sees the sky leaning in at spotless windowpanes, sun-plated surfaces that shine, a washed floor drying without trespass, floral curtains, scented rooms, potted plants on sills.

She longs for the space that was pulled from her as she grew up and sees it now unfurling in the parlour she will sit in, the garden she'll look out on. The urge to stay in this other world is strong; she lets her thoughts roam through the quiet spaces of her dream house, not wanting to return to the noise and bustle of the café.

But return she does, grafting her dream onto the man at her side, her newly acquired husband. She looks at him now and all he offered her: a handsome face, a promise of money, a gold wedding band and – perhaps most important of all – a ready escape.

So for your face I have exchanged all faces,

For your few properties bargained the brisk

Baggage, the mask-and-magic-man's-regalia.

She allows herself a rueful smile and looks out of the café window, to the trams and carts of the homeward bound – a film with the sound turned down.

Spent cigarettes still fume in the ashtray. The brothers are talking but have made no attempt to include her; a
river of words running past her, leaving her stranded. A woman is a foreigner in their company. It is hot and humid in the café and cigarette smoke hangs like a great amorphous witness over the three of them. Robert steals covert glances at the bride's perfect profile and marvels at her beauty. He regrets that he couldn't have made a shape himself and resents his brother for having achieved the elevated status of the married man. After all he, Robert, is a man of letters, has been out in the world; educated at college in London – qualified with honours – and is blessed with all the concomitant aspirations and awareness that go with these things. A flame of resentment flares up in him now, a flame that will flicker and burn in him for the rest of his days. He tries now to contemplate the implications of the married state, but his mind contracts. He cannot, or rather will not, envisage such intimacy and suddenly cancels the reverie with a comment.

‘Grand place this, asay.' He gazes up at the ceiling as he speaks.

But father isn't listening. He's parted one of the sandwiches and is examining the contents.

‘What sorta schaghey's that?' he asks.

Mother, being a woman, feels moved to respond to this culinary query.

‘It's salad. Y'know: lettuce and tomato and stuff …' she trails off uneasily.

‘I don't care what it is!' the bridegroom snaps. ‘Wouldn't fill a bloody rabbit, let alone a man.'

He closes the sandwich, returns it to the plate, and selects another for examination. Robert can no longer ignore his brother's crude antics and glares at him.

‘Are ye gonna do that with evirything on the plate, are ye? We have to ate too, y'know. Could ye not conduct yirself when yir outtamong the people?'

‘Sappy lotta people,' says father, looking around. ‘Pack of oul' pukes. And thir's no need for you to be gettin' so carnaptious.'

He wolfs the sandwich and takes a noisy slurp of the tea. Several patrons cast glances at their table. Mother, somewhat embarrassed and sensing a dispute between the brothers, rushes in to keep the peace.

‘It doesn't matter, Robert,' she says. ‘I'm finished anyway.'

Father, to the relief of all concerned, decides that he too has eaten enough, and throws back his head to drain the dregs in the teacup. He puts it down with a clatter on the saucer and announces, ‘Quare tay that … better than that bloody British dishwater you get up in the North. They know how to do things in the Free State, I'm tellin' ye.'

He now turns in his seat to have a good gape around. He will never be one to observe the refinement and dignity certain situations demand, being more prone to the cock-up and the clanger. His discourtesy invites some strange looks but he assumes not to notice. ‘Not used out, just up for the day' is probably the consensus that ripples through the onlookers.

Father's hobby is carpentry and when it comes to furniture he shows an obsessive interest in how things are put together. He now thumps the back of the chair, gives it a right good shake and announces to the gathering that it's about an inch off true and made of plywood – ‘only oul' rubbish.'

A waiter hovers nervously, faces strain with astonishment; a tide of pink creeps up my mother's neck. She's shocked, but sooner rather than later will have to get used to her husband's idiosyncrasies. Robert goes looking for the toilet.

My father's forensic interest in joinery and his habit of attacking unsuspecting pieces of furniture in public will
not diminish with the years. Once, while staying in a B&B in Donegal, my sister and I were summoned from our bedroom by an almighty thundering on the stairs. We found him hammering away on the banister, testing the firmness of its anchorage. He concluded aloud that it was only ‘an oul' rickle', oblivious to the fact that the lady of the house had appeared behind him in a speechless state, clutching at her nightdress and on the verge of collapse. No doubt she'd thought she was being burgled – or worse. We mumbled our apologies, backed father into his room and took the precaution of locking him in.

But that was later.

For now, for my mother, these things are a portent of what is to come. She is aware of a chink in the armour of her chosen prince. She wonders at this coarse betrayal – that inconsiderate display. Robert, ever the schoolmaster, sees her distress and takes control. He beckons the waiter with a nod and very soon they are out of there.

Robert now realises that his brother cannot be trusted in reputable establishments, and swiftly aborts a plan for alcoholic refreshment at the Gresham Hotel. Something needs to be done, he thinks, and duly adjusts his itinerary. So he forgoes the genteel tea shops and hotels in favour of the less salubrious cafés and much frequented hostelries. There are many pubs in Dublin and he now heads for the dingiest one he can think of: The Mizzen Mast, near Amiens Street train station.

Robert finds its atmosphere ideal: a nexus of Mickies and Paddies from the mountains and bogs, with their flat caps, stubble and toothless talk. Once inside, the schoolmaster can relax, content in the knowledge that his brother will blend seamlessly with this rough assemblage. His sister-in-law is not so content; what
with her new pink suit and newly acquired airs, she certainly has no wish to spend time in this dive. But on an intellectual level she understands the logic of Robert's choice. The men drink whiskey, the lady a sweet sherry. The bridegroom drinks for courage and Robert drinks to forget. And the bride, well, she drinks for luck. She really feels she's going to need it.

One year later my mother was pregnant with her first child. She would give birth to nine more, her once youthful body collapsing and thickening under the strain. I came in as number seven. My youngest brother was born in 1963, and we as a family were complete.

L
ESSONS IN
H
EAVEN

W
hich of us can bear witness to their earliest years? As I roll out the map of my life and look at that used-up part of it, viewing my past through the present, one region remains tightly closed, unable to surrender its mysteries and proceedings: my infancy.

My mother told me that my birth had been easy, and that the tiles had slid off the roof in the 80-degree heat of that midsummer's day. She neglected to tell me, however, that 1957 witnessed more notable events. The Russians sent the first dog into space on Sputnik 2 and women were admitted to the House of Lords for the first time. I doubt if these milestones impacted in any way on her busy life.

My life only begins to assume definition and colour for me when I turn four. I am standing on the kitchen floor, looking up at three pictures on a wall: the Sacred Heart with its burning candle and a portrait on either side: those of President John F Kennedy and Pope JohnXXIII. My mother is tying my shoelaces. I sense her unhappiness. She shouts at my brother Mark to hurry up with his porridge. She admonishes my older sister Rosaleen for not having her hair combed. My baby brother John screams in his cot.

I stand there silent and scared amid the mayhem. I hear mother's voice rise by turns with annoyance and fall to a whisper in my ear.

‘You're going to love school,' she tells me.

But I am not convinced. I do not understand what ‘school' means. What I do know and experience for the first time is fear: fear of leaving home and fear of leaving
her
.

When I see her produce a small cardboard suitcase with brass corners I sense danger and my pulse quickens. Inside it she puts a pencil, a jotter and a Paris bun wrapped in loaf paper. She then takes my hand and, with my brother and sister in tow, we set out for school.

I am escorted unwillingly through that still September morning. The sun stretches across the flat fields and roaming hedges. I gaze at the ragwort that abounds left and right; it slows with my reluctance and speeds up with my mother's impatience as she tugs me along. The trees whisper above me as I walk.

Calmly a cloud stands, calmly a bird sings

Crossing the Forgetown bridge I hear the river clattering over the stones. These are the sounds and scenes I'd come to know so well.

In my childhood trees were green

And there was plenty to be seen.

As our destination draws closer I struggle to keep my tears at bay. My fear and bewilderment increase.

Letting go of my hand at the end of that journey is a significant betrayal on my mother's part. I tighten my fist round the hook of her thumb and bawl and wail. My tears are hot and blinding. My heart hammering at the infamy of such a desertion.

It is not an abandonment, I soon learn, but a handing over into the care of an angel: my new teacher. Miss McKeague strokes my hand with a gentle ‘Now, now,
dear', and so eases my passage from one blurry world into another. …

Lisnamuck Primary, some three miles from the town of Maghera, was housed in the typical rural school building of the time. It was a simple, two-roomed structure built on a slight incline, whitewashed and drably lifted with a coat of fading blue on windows and doors. A low wall and gate shielded us from the roadway. To one side was a playing field where we were let loose at lunchtime for that necessary respite from the daily grind.

In Miss's room there were four rows of miniature desks and chairs, each row representing a year-group from P1 to P4. As each year passed I would be informed and altered, progressing from row to row, from start to finish, from the front to the back of the room.

The most prominent feature was a large fat-bellied stove, kept burning all winter. There was an ominous guardrail around it which warned us of its danger and kept our childish inquisitiveness in check. The blackboard stood to the right of the fire and faced us accusingly. The only remaining items of furniture were Miss's desk and several cupboards, bloated with layers of shiny, pink paint. The cupboards contained the tricks of her trade, for our instruction and play. There were books and pencils, paint sets and brushes, toys and skipping ropes. All this equipment would help me engage with a whole new world and tease my brain down new pathways of learning.

Miss McKeague was the enchantress who would make this paraphernalia live. She was the omniscient presence that would keep an attentive vigil for the next four years and represent all a child desired from a teacher and adult: calmness, stability, gentleness and grace.

Looking back now I can see that she was a cliché of her time – a model of rectitude and fine breeding, with that dedication to duty that only the selfless spinster can lay claim to. She was the quintessential teacher, who had flattened all her ambitions to fit the classroom – in a drift of ruled lines, squeaking chalk and red comments in margins.

There was nothing fussy or complicated about her. She wore serviceable tweed suits in blue or grey, and dependable low-heeled shoes in black or brown. Her silver hair was always gathered into a bun. Often some strands would slip their moorings to frame her kindly, unpainted face and watchful, sympathetic eyes. Those eyes were her finest, most distinctive feature. Her only artificial adornments were a pearl brooch and a simple watch that served the dual purpose of telling the time and securing a forever pristine handkerchief at her wrist.

There was little deviation from routine with Miss. We lined up every morning to await her ever-punctual arrival. She would park her Hillman Minx in the same careful spot by the school gate, then crunch down the hill with her little tan suitcase and her smile. Her singsong greeting seldom varied and we'd respond in kind.

‘Good morning, children.'

‘Good morning, Miss McKeague.'

‘Very cold this morning, children, isn't it?'

‘Yes, Miss McKeague.'

She would then appoint someone to hold the case while she fished for the keys. Offering up our little arms as supports, we all jostled for this privilege. But we needn't have: everyone got their turn in due course. Once she'd found the key she'd turn it in the lock, yank open the swollen door, causing the tongued latch to rattle its objection. We would file in obediently, shrug off our coats, and so our day would begin.

I was never at ease in school and not even Miss's love could change this. I looked at others with fear and longing: those girls with bouncy ringlets and shiny shoes who could talk and laugh easily and got all the answers right. By comparison I was not a pretty child – or should I say that little attempt was made to prettify me? I was the seventh child born to a harassed mother, and I can well understand that she had probably given up caring too much at that stage. My little podgy face was marred by a pair of round pink spectacles and a blunt, chin-length haircut, that looked as though mother had used a pair of hedge clippers. She topped off the look with a white ribbon, tied in an enormous bow. The bow seemed like a rueful afterthought, some kind of vain attempt at glamorising the dull little package that was me.