My Mother Wore a Yellow Dress by Christina McKenna Page B

he’d be back the following year without fail, having survived the onslaughts to tell us yet more of his grisly tales. My brothers looked forward to Eddie’s visits in the same way we sisters looked forward to seeing the Yankees. To them that motorbike was the embodiment of masculinity, just as those elegant stilettos were the epitome of womanhood for me.
    Sadly, all good things come to an end; in the case of Eddie’s visits the end came as abruptly as those of the Yankees. The circumstances were, however, far less traumatic.
    It all started when two of my sisters landed jobs in the great city of Belfast and went to live there. They discovered to their bemusement that it was not the fearful war zone Eddie had painted. In fact they could live in relative safety. There was the occasional bomb in the city centre. There were also isolated pockets or flash-point areas where violence erupted more frequently, but you avoided those places if you could.
    Eddie had also claimed that he worked as a civil servant in Stormont Castle. This had really impressed the parents, Stormont being the seat of the Unionist government.
    For a wee Taig like Eddie from the Falls Road to actually get a job at the very heart of the Establishment was no mean feat. My mother claimed that it was a miracle in itself and proof – if proof were needed – that her humble relative could climb the career ladder without missing a step.
    One fateful day mother decided to pay Eddie a surprise visit at his place of work. To her astonishment she bumped into him emerging from the ladies toilet, steering a trolley laden with cleaning agents and a mop bucket. The embarrassment of this unexpected meeting proved too much for poor Eddie, and sadly we never saw him or his mighty BSA again.

O NE F RIEND , M ANY S TRANGERS
    T hroughout the trials of raising us virtually single-handedly and putting up with the mood swings and demands of an uncaring husband, my mother attempted to achieve some sense of dignity and balance in her life. But it was extremely difficult. Father could sulk for hours over a trivial matter: at the dinner not being hot enough – even though he had delayed coming to the table when called. Whatever she cooked was never right; it was too hot, too cold, overcooked, underdone. ‘You’d swear that man had been raised in Kensington Palace, so you would,’ my mother used to complain to a neighbour.
    His behaviour was that of a truculent child. When he was out doing the farm work, there was a tenuous kind of peace indoors, but on his return the air would darken and our talking cease. Whatever elation we had been experiencing we’d gather in again, and we’d trim our sails before the coming tempest.
    Father did not like to see us happy; he found displays of happiness offensive. Consequently we learned to modify our behaviour to suit his moods. For him life was for enduring, not enjoying. In father’s presence hope receded, intention died, ambition cracked. He liked to show the underside, forever turning up the fissures and the faults as if to say: Look, this is how you really are, all frayed and flawed just like me, so don’t even try.
    One day he came into the bedroom I shared with my sister Rosaleen and tore down all our posters. It hadtaken us quite a while to collect and display all our favourite pop stars, yet he could not afford us this very minor indulgence. We dared not ask why he’d done it. So we remained quiet while he vandalised our little treasures and cried silently when he’d gone.
    He’d interrogate mother over the amount she’d spent on an outfit she’d bought. She therefore learned to adjust prices for his benefit in order to keep the peace. She knew from experience that honesty meant a sullen silence that could last for hours. Often she’d end up hiding her purchases rather than face the inquisition.
    My mother had one ally during these trying years. She was something of