The Mammy (6 page)

‘Me? I didn’t say anything.’

‘You must have said something,’ Agnes insisted.

‘I said, eh ... “Come on, Mark, me gick is comin’”, that’s all.‘

‘Then why is he depressed?’

‘It’s not me, it’s his willy,’ announced Dermot. The other children giggled.

‘Who? Who’s this Willie fella? Has Mark been fighting?’

With this the whole group erupted into laughter, and even Trevor joined in. Rory’s face turned crimson and Simon had tears in his eyes.

Agnes was furious. ‘Stop that!’ she screamed. The laughter died suddenly but the children were bursting to let it loose. However, seeing their mother so angry, they all held it admirably.

Agnes scanned their faces. When she felt she had everybody’s undivided attention, she went on with her train of thought. ‘Now one of youse is going to tell me where I’ll find this Willie.’

Cheeks were puffing, tongues were being bitten and tears were streaming down Simon’s face, who, even though not making a sound, was shaking with held laughter. The children thought they were going to hang on until Agnes announced: ‘When I find him, I’ll choke him.’

The burst of laughter could be heard on every floor and in every flat of that building in James Larkin Court. Dermot ran out of the building howling. Rory went into hysterics, so much so that Trevor began to cry with fright. Cathy followed Dermot out the door and Simon buried his face in a cushion on the settee.

Agnes swept Trevor into one arm. With the other, she picked up the spoon that Rory had been using to feed the baby and ‘boinked’ Rory on the head. Simon, who had nearly stopped laughing, roared again. Agnes went to the cupboard and pulled out the baby’s coat. After silencing his cries with the insertion of a soother, she put the coat on the child and turned to the other two.

‘Now, youse can take him for a walk. Rory, get the go-car down the steps and you, Simon, take him.’ She handed the child to Simon. She then went to her handbag and fished out her purse. She gave some money to Rory. ‘Bring me back some Tide and a pound of broken biscuits. Now, go on, off with yeh!’

The two boys scurried out the door, and as they made their way down to the ground floor, Rory said something to Simon and the laughter started again.

Agnes slammed the door. ‘Little bastards, havin’ a funny half-hour at my expense,’ she said aloud. The flat was now as quiet as a butcher’s shop on a Friday. Agnes went to the radiogram and put on an LP, Cliff Richard of course. She went to the bedroom door again and was about to knock, but decided to leave it; Mark would come out in his own good time. Instead, she began to tidy up and dust the little flat, sailing across the room on the musical waves provided by Cliffs voice. She opened the cupboard to return the duster just as Cliff began a soft, slow song. With the cupboard door open, she stood for a moment and imagined what it must be like to be married to Cliff - those twinkling bright eyes, that smile all of the time, his coal-black hair falling across his tanned face as she ruffled his quiff. Without realising it, she was running her hand through the dark grey strands of her upturned floor mop. When she noticed this, she giggled to herself and said to the mop, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Cliff,’ and with a swift brush of her hand cleared the ‘quiff’ out of the mop’s ’eyes‘. She took the mop from the cupboard and began slowly to ’lurch’ around the room. She closed her eyes. Suddenly, she was in the ballroom of the Savoy Hotel in London. Cliff had just collected yet another award, the one for being the most handsome, talented and loving singer in the universe. He had thanked the audience and stepped from the stage. He walked through the thronging crowd and stopped by the table where Agnes was sitting. Without speaking he placed the award on the table and extended his hand to Agnes. Coyly she stood, and as the flash bulbs popped and the lights swirled, Cliff began to sing softly into her ear. The crowd parted and, alone on the dance floor, Agnes and Cliff were the couple of the century, as they floated around the dance floor.

Had a stranger walked into the flat at that moment they would have seen an attractive, dark-haired, smiling woman moving in slow circles, hugging a damp shaggy mop. They could not be faulted for wondering if it might be a good idea to call the home for the demented. This is what Mark saw as he stood by the bedroom door. The music came to a halt and Agnes opened her eyes and noticed Mark. She was both startled and embarrassed at the same time. ‘My God, you gave me a scare,’ she muttered and quickly went to the cupboard, replaced the mop and closed the doors. Mark did not move.

Agnes sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Sit down, Mark,’ she said gently. He did so sullenly, sliding on to the chair. ‘Are you all right, love? You seem to be upset ... tell me what it is, and, sure, maybe I can help. Are you havin’ a problem?’

‘Yeh,’ he answered with his head bowed.

‘Well, tell your Mammy. Come on, love. What kind of problem?’

‘A willy one.’

‘And who’s Willie?’

‘My willy.’

‘What do you mean
your
Willie? Is he your pal?’

Mark looked up at his mother. Maybe she really was going potty. ‘Me willy! What I use to do me pee,’ he said, now pointing down at his pants.

Agnes panicked. She jumped up from the table and put the gas on under the kettle. Tea sounded like a good idea. It had never entered her head that she might have to explain to her sons what other uses a willy had. With her back to Mark, she calmly said, ‘I see.’ She sat down again. ‘And eh ... what’s the problem? Is it sore?’

‘No,’ Mark answered, without the elaboration that Agnes had hoped for.

‘Is it itchy?’ she asked, not knowing why she was asking such a stupid question, but probably in the hopes that Mark would take the initiative and begin to explain.

‘No.’ Again, no elaboration.

‘Well, tell me. Tell your mammy, what ... eh ... what’s wrong with your willy?’

‘There’s hair growin’ on it.’ Again Mark had lowered his head and actually looked as if he was talking to his willy.

‘Is that all? That’s all right, son.’ Agnes was relieved. A simple answer should put him right here. ‘That happens to all boys around your age. It’s the start of becoming a man. All young boys get hair on their willy.’ Agnes was smiling as she spoke and Mark was looking at her. His expression was one of relief. Agnes was pleased with herself, she was a ‘modem woman’ she thought. Her son had asked her a very personal question and she was able to answer it without a hitch. Then came the dreaded follow-up question: ’Why?‘

Agnes thought. The modern woman here would say: It’s called puberty ... soon your penis will be erect, and you will have dreams at night which will cause your penis to discharge a creamy thick fluid. This is called semen and is what fertilises the egg in the woman’s fallopian tubes and makes babies.

Agnes stared into the face of her eldest baby. His eyes awaited her answer. The modern woman went out the window. ‘That’s to keep your willy warm when you go swimming.’ She jumped up to the steaming kettle and over her shoulder she said, ‘Now, out with yeh!’

Chapter 8

IT WAS THE TOWN HALL. COMMUNITY CENTRE, entertainment complex and political debating arena, all rolled into one. To the sixteen thousand or so population of The Jarro, Foley’s Select Lounge and Bar was the centre of the universe. The Foleys themselves were a country family. PJ Foley had spent his childhood on his father’s dairy farm in County Meath. He and his brother JJ grew up with the smell of manure and the carbolic soap they used to wash the animals’ udders before the milking, implanted in their sinuses. Their father, old PJ, was known throughout the county as the ‘horniest whore to ever draw breath’. Everybody was surprised when Dolly Flannigan married him, but nobody was surprised when she started to walk like John Wayne. The entire village were speculating as to how long it would be before Dolly was walking like John Wayne’s horse.

But fate is a peculiar thing, and Dolly Foley, née Flanagan, had always had her fair share of luck. Shortly after Dolly gave birth to her second son JJ, old PJ was to find himself standing in the wrong place as one of his forty-strong dairy herd let fly with a back kick that would do Bruce Lee justice. In the operation that followed, old PJ lost both testicles and the use of his penis for anything other than relieving his bladder. Dolly described him, when stripped naked, as looking like ‘a woman minding a piece of chewing gum for someone’. Old PJ took to the drink, and Dolly and the boys ran the dairy farm. It was obvious to all that the younger boy, JJ, was a natural farmer and although PJ pulled his weight, his heart wasn’t in it. Five days after PJ’s twenty-second birthday, his father was found frozen to death in the middle of the pasture. He was stripped naked from the waist down and neighbours reported hearing cries during the night of ‘Is that a prick or what?’ as he ran through the herd of kicking cows. Foul play was not suspected!

The farm passed to Dolly and her sons, and both PJ and JJ were happy with the arrangement that JJ should take over the farm and PJ would receive the sum of £10,000 as full and final settlement. So, with those immortal words ‘Fuck that, I’m off!’ PJ Foley boarded a bus to Dublin in 1958, in search of his fortune. He purchased the run-down premises on James Larkin Street in The Jarro for £4,500, spent another £1,500 on the furniture and new linoleum, and watched with pride as the painter put the finishing touches to the sign which read ‘PJ Foley - Select Lounge & Bar’. Over the following twelve years neither the custom nor the decor changed much. PJ Foley, thanks to the steady trade provided by the locals, prospered. His brother JJ went on to pioneer the Artificial Insemination Programme of the sixties and had such a keen eye for quality donor bulls that he became renowned as ‘the best bull-wanker in the country’ - a title his castrated father would have been proud of.

As well as a successful business, PJ Foley also found the love of his life in The Jarro - Monica Fitzsimons, a fiery, red-haired, befreckled girl from Limerick city. They courted for three years and married in Limerick. Among the locals that travelled down for the wedding were Agnes Browne and Marion Monks. Agnes was fond of both PJ and Monica, though a little wary of PJ. She wasn’t sure that he hadn’t inherited some of his father’s prowess, and was very careful not to encourage him.

Agnes would drop into Foley’s bar maybe three or four times a week, and always on a Friday night, when she and Marion would down a couple after the Bingo. PJ would pull and serve the first round each Friday night and this one was always on the house. This particular Friday was no exception.

‘Now, girls, a bottle of cider and a glass of Guinness with blackcurrant,’ he announced as he placed the glasses on the table in the snug.

‘God bless yeh, Mr Foley,’ Marion answered.

‘Well, any luck tonight?’ he asked.

‘Not a bit of it,’ Agnes cried. ‘If it was rainin’ soup, Mr Foley, I’d be the one out there with a fork!’

All three laughed.

‘Still, I suppose youse only go for the crack, eh?’

‘Me shite we do,’ Agnes answered, and again they all burst into laughter. PJ wiped the table, from habit rather than to clean it, and left the two woman to their chat.

The Friday night chats were important to the women. The subjects were many and varied, ranging from how Agnes’s children were progressing in school to who was bonking whom in the area. Tonight they began with a discussion as to whether or not the priests down in St Anthony’s Hall were fiddling the Bingo. After some probing statements, the women decided that they were just having a run of bad luck.

‘So much for your morning ritual,’ Agnes said.

‘Whatcha mean?’

‘You ... every morning shoutin’ in the church doors ... “Good mornin’, God, it’s me, Marion”,‘ Agnes moaned.

‘Ah now, Agnes, that’s nothing to do with Bingo.’

‘Still, you’d think with you shoutin’ to Him every mornin’, He’d give you the odd full house!‘

‘Ah now, Agnes, God has much more important things to be doin’ than worryin’ about my Bingo numbers.’

‘Ah I know, Marion, I’m only jokin’ yeh!’

There was a lull in the conversation. Both women took a sup of drink and glanced around the bar. Marion produced two cigarettes and they lit up. Agnes spotted a couple of lads from the fish market and gave them a wave.

‘Who are they?’ Marion asked.

‘Nipper and Herrin’ from the fisher,’ Agnes replied.

‘Seem nice enough,’ Marion commented.

‘Ah they are. Nice lads - a bit wild, but all right.’

‘Do none of them ever ask you out?’

‘Will yeh go away with yourself, Marion, do you want me to be charged with baby snatchin’?‘

‘I don’t mean them ... any of the fellas down there.’

‘Some of them do ... but Jaysus, Marion, I wouldn’t be bothered, I wouldn’t.’

‘Well, you’re mad. For God’s sake, Agnes, you’re only young. You could marry again - you should.’

‘Marion, would you feck off. What hero would take on seven childer? And anyway, I’m not sure I’d want to. Lord rest him, but I swear I’ve had a better life since Redser died, I have!’

‘Ah, yeh need a man.’

‘I don’t!‘

‘We all do.’

‘Well
I
don’t - organisms or no organisms, I don’t!‘

That statement brought another lull to the conversation. It was Agnes who broke the silence.

‘Did you have any more?’

‘I knew you were goin’ to ask me that. I shouldn’t have told yeh.’

‘I’m only askin’. I don’t want the sordid details of your love life. I was ... interested, that’s all.‘

There followed another lull, a puff on a fag, a glance around, a sup of drink, and then Agnes looked into Marion’s face.

‘Well, did yen?’

‘No. I’m giving them up.’

‘After two? Why?’

‘I’m not feeling well since I had them ... and I’m after gettin’ a lump.’

‘A lump? What kind of a lump? Where?’

Marion blushed slightly. She glanced around the room furtively, to check that nobody was paying any undue attention to their table. When she was sure, she opened her coat and placed her left finger on a spot between her right breast and her armpit.