The Granny (23 page)

“Sit down, Agnes!” he invited. She thought
Oh, we’re on first names now, are we? I suppose it’s only to be expected from a man that has just had his rubber-clad finger up your rectum.
She sat. He closed the file he had been reading.

“Well, I’m sure you are anxious to hear the result. Sometimes this is the part of the whole process I hate. For I must sit across from a person filled with hope and disappoint them. I don’t like doing that.” He leaned back in his chair.

Agnes wasn’t sure what game he was playing, but she wasn’t having any part of it. “Did I fuckin’ pass or what?” she asked directly. Taking the wind out of his sails.

He leaned forward. “Yes. You passed, and with flying colors, I might add.” He smiled.

Agnes smiled too. She relaxed. “Thank you, doctor, can I go now?” she asked, anxious to get back to her stall.

“Of course, we are all finished here. I’ll send the results on to the visa section. I’m sorry the examination was so uncomfortable. It’s a demand of the Canadian Embassy, no stone left unturned and all that,” he apologized. He stood and opened the door.

Agnes reddened. “Yeh, no stone,” is all she could think to say, as she made for the door.

“Of course, it would have been helpful if you had told us at the start that you were pregnant,” he said as a side comment.

Agnes froze on the spot. She went pale and, still staring at the doctor, keeled over in a faint.

When she came to, Agnes was lying on the doctor’s couch. A nurse was calling her name. Agnes could see a glass of water in the nurse’s hand. She took it and gulped on it. The doctor was sitting at the end of the couch, he had a worried look on his face.

“Agnes?” he called. “Are you awake, Agnes?” he tried again. To Agnes he sounded like he was at the far end of a tunnel. Her head cleared some more, and she gulped on the water again.

“I’m okay!” she told them.

“Agnes, the pregnancy makes no difference. It will not affect your application in any way.” the doctor was trying to reassure her.

“No difference?” Agnes asked. “Then
you
have the fuckin’ baby! Of course it makes a difference!” she screamed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Agnes waited for Redser to say something, anything. He stood ten feet in front, facing away from her, so she couldn’t even see his expression. It was so quiet that she could hear the tiny
plip
sound the remains of the rainwater, from the shower earlier, was making as it dripped from the roof of the railway arch they stood under to the puddles on the ground. They were walking back from the dog track, where Redser had lost all his money and a good portion of Agnes’ too. She had no idea of how to break it gently, so she just said it: “I’m pregnant!” Now she waited for his reaction. When he spoke he did so without turning.

“We’d better get married so!” he said quietly.

“Really?” Agnes enthused.

“Yeh. Why not? I have a friend that gets rings, I’ll get you one tomorrow.” And it was set; well, nearly.

“I don’t want a ring. I want a bicycle. I’ll get some use out of that,” Agnes said, and in her own practical world, this made sense.

The next day, she told Marion about both the pregnancy and the wedding. Marion was more pleased about the pregnancy than the wedding.

“Are you sure, Agnes? You only know him a while.” Marion, truth be told, did not like Redser Browne.

“Of course I’m sure. He’s the father of me child. Of course I’m sure,” Agnes said. She didn’t sound it.

“What about the Canada plan?” Marion asked.

“I have it all worked out,” Agnes said. They lit up a cigarette, and Agnes went over her thoughts with Marion.

Redser was such a stupid oaf! Agnes had drummed it into him all the way as they had walked up to the church residence to see Father Pius. “Don’t mention the pregnancy, don’t mention the pregnancy!” How much clearer can you get?

Just ten minutes into the interview and Father Pius made the standard comment: “Are you both sure you do not want to wait a little longer to think about this? Marriage is a big step!”

As Agnes was smiling and shaking her head, Redser said, “We can’t, sure she’s due in November!”

A stunned silence followed. Father Pius looked at his fingers, waiting for an explanation. “Ow!” Redser exclaimed. “You’re hurting me.” He pulled his arm away from Agnes’ grip.

“So, then, Agnes, you are pregnant?” Father Pius asked.

“Yes,” she answered quietly.

Redser looked at Agnes with surprise. “What did you tell him for?” Redser asked. Agnes glared at him. “What? What?” He didn’t get it. He now turned his attention to Father Pius. “Does this mean we can’t get married in the church, Father?” he asked.

“No. It doesn’t mean that. You can be married in the church, just Agnes may not wear white,” he said.

Agnes’ eyes widened. “I am wearing white, Father,” she stated. “You can’t, Agnes. That’s the law. You can’t.” Father Pius was adamant.

“You don’t understand, Father. My wedding dress has been waiting for me since the day I was born. My mother wore it, her mother wore it, and I will be wearing it.” Agnes was just as adamant.

“Listen to me, Agnes . . .” Father Pius began.

“No, you listen to me, Father. My mother walked down that aisle in this dress to marry my father, and I will be walking down it to marry Redser. You stand there on that altar before God and refuse to marry us? Then on your head be it.” Agnes stood and took Redser by the hand. They were leaving.

“I was going to wear a herringbone suit, Father, would that be all right?” Redser just managed to say before Agnes dragged him through the door.

By the end of the next day, everybody in Moore Street knew of the upcoming marriage. And, thanks to the grapevine that was the Jarro, everybody knew about the white dress, and everybody had an opinion on it.

Agnes told Dolly on her next visit about everything, the pregnancy, the wedding, and the dress. It was a lot to get into a half-hour. Dolly was fully behind Agnes.

“I wish I could be there to support you,” Dolly said.

Now the good news. Agnes had waited for Dolly to say something like that, or she would have burst. “You will be,” she said simply.

“What?” Dolly’s eyes began to fill up.

“I brought a copy of the banns and the license to the governor. He has granted you two days’ parole to come to the wedding,” Agnes told her. It was hard to believe that this was good news, for they both just sat and cried for the ten minutes that remained of the visit.

Over the next few weeks, Father Pius made several approaches to Agnes in an effort to get her to abandon the dress. But to no avail. He wrote to the bishop for guidance and received just orders. He spoke to the other priests in the parish about it; to a man, they refused to be drawn into it. He was alone.

Soon the day arrived.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

St. Jarlath’s Parish House, 3:00 a.m.

The priest’s staring eyes darted away from the candle flame for just an instant. It was a reaction to the sound of the grandfather clock’s first chime. The following two chimes, just like the first, were barely audible, for the clock was downstairs, in the hallway at the bottom of the great oak stairway, two floors below Father Pius’ bedroom in the parish residence. The bedroom was small, but cozy. This was thanks to the furnishings Father Pius had installed there. The room was now very different from when he had arrived into it on his first day at the residence. Then the room had looked more like a cell. That had been just two years earlier. He had been so delighted to come home. Africa is a beautiful continent and his mission had been greatly rewarding, but six years was enough. Now he was home, in Dublin, beautiful Dublin.

Father Pius knew he would not sleep that night. Instead he would sit in silent, agonizing debate with his God, whom he loved so much. He sat by his bed and stared once again as the steady flame burned. In his right hand he held a Bible. As he sat there in the early hours, staring at the flame, the thumb of his left hand flicked the pages of the Bible like the poker player concentrating would do to an idle deck of cards. It made a ripping sound. In his mind he cursed his God for entrusting the mission of His Word to mere mortal men. Then he apologized. Slowly his head bowed down, and as he exhaled he muttered, “Christ!” He opened the cover of the Bible, for no reason. This particular Bible had been given to him, a gift from the children of the mud-hut village where his mission had been based. It was a farewell gift. He came upon the inscription, written on the day of his departure by the village chief. It was in Urdu, but he read it aloud in English:

“The journey of life is a circle, from which, once embarked upon, no man can return unchanged.”

He closed the cover.

“Well, that’s fuck-all use,” he said aloud, and he tossed it onto the bed. He closed his eyes, and in his mind he went over the possible scenario yet again.

(1) The young Agnes would walk down the aisle and stand before him.

(2) Her intended husband, Redser, would take her hand.

(3) They would probably smile.

(4) Now he, Father Pius would . . . would . . .

Would
what?
Ask her was she pregnant? No. He
knew
she was pregnant, the entire parish knew she was pregnant, the bishop knew she was pregnant. So
what,
then? What was he to do?

He stood and walked to the window, which looked out over the tenement buildings of the parish. From his pocket he took a packet of cigarettes. He lit one up and slowly blew the match out. He leaned against the window frame. From the corner of his eye he saw the letter lying open on the dressing table. He leaned over and picked it up. It bore the crest of the bishop and the address of the bishop’s palace, and it was very, very clear. If the girl wore white he was instructed to refuse her the sacrament of marriage, end of story. If not he would be defrocked. He placed the letter back on the dressing table and returned to his chair. Again he picked up the Bible and opened the page to the inscription, and again he read the inscription inside aloud.

“No, still don’t fucking get it.” He went back to his candle and his thoughts.

It was going to be a long night.

Agnes’ home, 3:00 a.m.

Agnes sat smoking at the only table in the room. She was on her fifth cup of tea and her tenth smoke. Along with the two bedrooms, the room Agnes sat in made up the entire accommodation of the flat. Agnes had lived here since her birth twenty years ago. A lot of water had passed beneath the Ha’penny Bridge since then, and tomorrow her wedding day would be a tidal wave. She sucked on her cigarette. The glowing white wedding dress hung from the lintel over the hall door. She rubbed her tummy as she looked the dress over once again.

“I hope both of us can fit into this bloody dress,” she spoke to her embryo.

She had not even tried the dress on for size. She didn’t need to. It was
her
wedding dress. It had been waiting for her for twenty years.

Agnes heard some movement from the bedrooms. It drew her attention from the dress. Slowly her mother’s bedroom door opened, and an ancient-looking woman shuffled out. The woman was wearing a full-length cotton nightgown, and her tiny head was covered with a red satin scarf that Agnes had tied around it earlier to keep her mother’s curlers in. The woman did not speak to Agnes; she just shuffled to the kitchenette and began opening cupboards.

“What are you doing, Mammy?” Agnes asked.

“I slept late,” the woman answered, a bit of panic in her voice.

“No, you didn’t. It’s not morning yet, Mammy, go back to bed.”

“I can’t, I have to prepare your father’s lunchbox.” The woman had already taken bread from the cupboard, the butter dish was on the counter, and she was rummaging in a drawer for a knife. Agnes stood and went to her mother. She replaced the bread and butter dish in the larder and took her mother’s hand gently from the door.

“Daddy’s dead, Mammy. A long time now,” Agnes said, and began to guide her mother to a chair by the table. When the older woman was seated, Agnes went back to the cooker and turned the heat up under the stewing pot of tea.

“I’ll pour you a cup of tea, Mammy.”

“That’s nice,” was the reply.

“I had a maidservant, you know,” Agnes’ mother said to nobody in particular.

“Yes, Mammy, I know.” Agnes stirred the sugar into the tea and carried it to the table. She placed the mug in front of her mother and went to sit, but her mother, in a surprisingly rapid movement, gripped Agnes’ arm. She pulled her daughter toward her until their faces were just inches apart, then, with her wrinkled hand, her wedding ring barely hanging on, she stroked her daughter’s cheek.

“I love you, dear,” she whispered.

“I love you too, Mammy,” Agnes whispered back and gently kissed her mother on the forehead. She sat.

“Drink up that tea now, Mammy, and go back to bed.”

“Yes, I must. Big day tomorrow. The wedding.”