Sins of the Mother (16 page)

Before long, Agatha left school and started working in a sweet factory with Frances. Peter had left school at the age of twelve but he didn’t have a job; more often than not he went out
stealing to bring in money for our mother. She didn’t mind – Peter was her blue-eyed boy. Now I was drafted in to do her jobs in the house – the washing, cooking and cleaning.
When I wasn’t doing the housework, I usually had my head in a magazine or a comic. I loved reading and I devoured anything and everything I could get my hands on. My teachers never thought
much of me because I wasn’t very well behaved in class but that didn’t mean I was stupid. In fact, I loved reading and I was good at writing too. I found the work we were given in class
quite easy and usually finished quickly and mucked around the rest of the time. The teacher said I didn’t apply myself and lacked self-discipline but I had an idea of what I wanted to do with
my life.

Over the years I’d decided that I wanted to work for a living. I wanted to make something of my life. I knew that if I got into secondary school I had the chance of learning a profession
and getting a good job. But none of my siblings had been to secondary school, at least none of those that lived with us. Our eldest brother Aidan had gone to secondary school but then my granny on
my father’s side had brought him up and he didn’t have much to do with us. I had always wondered about Aidan and why he didn’t live with Mammy. One day I asked Agatha.

‘He got took away from Mammy and Daddy,’ she said confidentially. ‘He was just a baby and Mammy and Daddy were young and didn’t really know much about babies. They went
out one night and they left him in their flat all alone for hours and hours until a neighbour called the police. They broke in and found Aidan there on his own crying his little eyes out. Anyways,
he got took off them because they weren’t looking after him right and he went to live with Granny.’

He’d been there ever since, though none of us envied him – after all, Granny could be a difficult woman and hard to please. We usually saw her once a week after Mass on Sunday and
that was enough. But at least he’d never spent a day in an orphanage. And he’d got a good education, which meant that by the time I was twelve, Aidan was nineteen years old and a bus
driver.

‘The fact is, Irene, you won’t pass so there’s no point even going along,’ my teacher said in her most disdainful voice when I asked her about taking the exam for
secondary school. ‘You’re just not bright enough. Think about a factory job or staying home to help your mother. Hmmm? I think you might be more useful to your family if you were
earning your keep.’

I didn’t reply – I just nodded and left the classroom. The following week, and without my teacher’s knowledge, I went along with Debbie to sit the exam – and two weeks
later, I was sent my results. I had passed with flying colours! It gave me no end of satisfaction to take my results letter into school that day and flaunt it in front of her. She was too shocked
to say anything. What could she say? I’d hoped my mother would be pleased for me but she seemed less than impressed.

‘What do you want to go to secondary school for?’ she sneered. ‘How’s that going to help me feed and clothe you all?’

‘I’ll get a good job at the end of it,’ I insisted. ‘Then I’ll have loads of money to give yous.’

‘Hmmm . . . fat chance,’ she grumbled, and we left it there, but she didn’t stop me. My granny was proud of me. None of my siblings had been to secondary school except for
Aidan. Granny even bought me a new outfit to start the new school year – it was a navy smock. I loved it – it felt very grown up and smart.

‘That’s for getting yourself an education,’ she said as she smoothed down the collar of my new dress. ‘You stick with it, Irene. I’ve got a feeling you’re a
bright one.’

So aged thirteen, full of hope and excitement, I started at the secondary tech school. I had two specialist classes – tailoring and bookkeeping – as well as the
usual classes in English, maths, history and religion. I loved it all – well, everything apart from religion. By now I had lost my faith in the Catholic Church. As far as I could see it was
full of hypocrites and bullies, and whatever they did was just for show. Underneath, they were corrupt, nasty and evil, and all their ‘holiness’ and ‘goodness’ was just on
the surface. It was an opinion I kept firmly to myself, though, since all the people I knew loved the nuns and the priests and wouldn’t hear a word against them.

A very nice teacher called Mr Franklin ran my tailoring class. He had black hair and a fussy manner but he really cared about the students, you could tell that from the start. For our first
project we had to make a skirt, based around a pattern of our choice and using our own fabric. I bit my nails and fretted anxiously at the back of the class as Mr Franklin explained the different
techniques we would be using to cut and sew our skirts. Then, after the bell had gone, and all the other girls had left the classroom, I approached his desk.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Franklin,’ I told him. ‘But I can’t get the material, I’ve got no money.’

‘Don’t worry, Miss Coogan,’ Mr Franklin said to me respectfully. ‘I have an account with one of the haberdasheries in town and if you go there and give them my name, you
can order your fabric and they’ll put it on my bill.’

‘Are you sure, Mr Franklin?’ I was overwhelmed with his kindness.

‘Of course! We can’t have you falling behind in class, can we?’

So I collected my black-and-white houndstooth fabric from Mr Franklin’s haberdashers and used it to make a mid-calf pencil skirt. I put my heart and soul into it, and when it was done I
was pleased with the result. The seams were neat, the cut was elegant and sharp, and the skirt fitted me really well. Mr Franklin seemed delighted with my work.

‘That’s excellent!’ he said when I had finished. I blushed at his fulsome praise – I wasn’t used to it. ‘You work well with the material, like you’ve
always been doing it. Keep it up and I think you’re going to do very well in this class.’

I was thrilled! I’d never been complimented in this way before. For the first time it felt like there was somebody who saw a future for me and wanted to give me a chance. That Friday
afternoon, I came home from school with a spring in my step.

‘Irene!’ Mammy greeted me with a shout when I came in the front door. ‘Will ya come in here a minute?’

‘Sure, Mammy.’ I walked into the living room where Mammy sat on the settee, thick plumes of cigarette smoke curling out of her nostrils.

‘Irene, you’re starting work on Monday,’ she said, tapping the end of the cigarette on her plastic orange ashtray.

‘What? What do you mean, Mammy?’

‘I mean, you’ve got a job and it starts on Monday. So no more school.’

I couldn’t believe it. My good mood evaporated in an instant – and with it, all my hopes and dreams.

‘But . . . but I’m doing really well, Mammy,’ I objected in a small voice. ‘Mr Franklin, my tailoring teacher, he says I’m a natural. I want to stay at school, do
my exams . . .’

‘Yes, well, exams don’t put food on our table.’

‘I’ve just made a skirt, Mammy,’ I offered limply. ‘Can’t I go for a little longer?’

‘No! Now stop your arguing. You’re going to work and there’s an end to it.’

I was devastated. That weekend I hid myself away in the bedroom and cried for hours on end. There was no point arguing with my mother; I knew I could never change her mind and
bringing it up again would only make her cross. Also, I knew in my heart I had a duty to my family to make sure there was enough money in the house for food and clothes. But I couldn’t help
it – I’d only been at school for around six months and I felt wretched about leaving. The worst part was that I didn’t even have time to say goodbye to Mr Franklin or thank him
for all his help and encouragement. The following Monday I started work at a paintbrush factory.

12

IRENE

Growing Up, Growing Strong

The smell from the chippy made me weak at the knees! As I stood outside, stamping my feet against the cold, I breathed in the heady aroma of deep-frying potatoes mingled with
salt and vinegar. It carried down the street, and out here, right outside the shop, the scent was intoxicating.

‘I’m getting meself some of those chips!’ I burst out when my sisters joined me five minutes later. Fran and Aggie worked in a sweet factory up the road from the paintbrush
factory, so every day we walked to work and back together. Today was Friday so each of us clutched a small wage packet. It had been a tough week, but not terrible. Each morning I was up at 6 a.m.
to help out with the younger ones before leaving at 7 a.m. to walk half an hour to work, and we finished each day at 5 p.m. There was no breakfast and no money for the bus – I had to walk to
work every day on an empty stomach.

The work wasn’t hard – in fact, I quite enjoyed putting the glue and then the hair into the silver part of the brush head and then attaching that to the wooden handle. It was
engrossing and not too difficult, and I found that the harder I worked, the less troubled I was by my thoughts. I was quicker than most of the other girls on my line so even if I finished my brush
heads early, I was keen to help out the others or find more work to do. The harder I worked, the happier I was.

But holding that little brown envelope in my hand and standing outside the chippy, I could only think of one thing – buying some of those gorgeous chips!

‘Oh no, you can’t do that!’ Agatha exclaimed.

‘Mammy’ll kill you if you spend your wages,’ Frances echoed.

‘But it’s my money!’ I reasoned. ‘I earned it and if I want chips, I’ll get chips.’ I had earned myself £7 this week and a packet of chips only cost a
few pennies so I couldn’t see the harm. Defiantly, I marched into the chip shop and when I came out with a newspaper cone filled with chips my sisters both burst out crying. It was so daft, I
couldn’t help grinning at them as I dug in my wooden fork and took a mouthful. Oh, they were marvellous! Crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside, scalding hot, salty and tangy with
vinegar, I just had to have more.

‘For heaven’s sake,’ Agatha sobbed, wiping away her tears with her threadbare gloves. ‘You’re going to be in so much trouble, Irene. Mammy’ll beat you black
and blue for this.’

‘I’d like to see her try!’ I smiled back. ‘Now look, don’t get upset. Here, have a chip!’

As we walked home, I shared the lovely chips with my sisters, though they were crying so hard I didn’t think they appreciated them as much as I did. By the time we were home, we’d
polished off the lot.

As we walked in, Mammy jumped up from the settee and strode towards us, her hand outstretched. Obediently, Frances handed over her wage packet – Mammy peered inside, took
out ten shillings and handed that back to Frances. Ten shillings from seven punts? Was that all she got for a week’s work? We were sent out to the factories with no food in our bellies, no
money for bus fares, nothing, and ten shillings was our reward? My blood boiled.

Next, Agatha did the same – she handed over her wages and was given ten shillings in return. I wasn’t going to stand for that. So instead of giving Mammy my wage packet, I emptied it
out onto my hand and put half the money in my pocket. The rest I gave to her – three punts and ten shillings.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she asked sharply.

‘I’m giving you your wages,’ I replied calmly.

‘That’s my wage packet!’ she snapped.

‘No,’ I said patiently, though my heart was pounding. This was the first time I had stood up to my mother. ‘That’s
my
wage packet. You’re not having it. I
earned that money. You will get what I feel you’re entitled to and that is all.’

Though I could feel the blood surging in my ears, I braced myself against the fear, determined not to shake, not to give myself away. I’d had enough of Mammy’s bullying and her
beatings. She had stopped me going to school so that I could work in the factory but I was damned if I was going to simply hand over everything I’d worked for that week. For the first time, I
realized I had some power over her. If she wanted my money, if she wanted me to work for her, she had to accept it on my terms.

‘I’ll beat you till you’re black and blue,’ she growled.

‘I don’t care,’ I shot back. ‘I don’t care, Mammy. I don’t feel the beatings no more. I don’t care what you do, you’re not getting all my
money.’

She stared at me for what felt like an eternity but it couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds. Then she turned away. That was it! We were all standing there, holding our breaths,
waiting for her to launch herself at me but no, nothing. It was like she accepted it. And as she walked away, I breathed out with relief. I had won an important battle. I knew that, from now on,
Mammy would never ask me for my wage packet again. I had wrested back a tiny bit of control and it felt good.

I didn’t know how it happened but it seems, over the years, I had grown quite strong. Though I was still very thin and frail, I had an inner strength and I dared to look
Mammy square in the eyes now and fight my corner. I discovered that instead of crying when people tried to hurt me, it made them angrier if I laughed. I had to show them they couldn’t hurt me
and then I had the upper hand.