love,’ she says, putting the milk and sugar on the table with the tea, ‘the three essentials.’
***
My mother spent the summer of nineteen forty seven commuting between the shop in the Liberties and the house in Rathfarnham. Many of her old friends from Jacob’s ( Jacob’s mice, as they were called) were now either laden down with children or had emigrated. She felt a sense of isolation; she was a woman wandering between two worlds, a displaced person.
When September arrived, the weather had turned very cold. It did not augur well for the winter.
I went to the house – Patrick, we should put a name on this house, but I suppose it is waiting for us to fill it, as a family. We are waiting a long time now, but we must continue to live in hope. A woman who lives near Mrs Chaigneau has just given birth to a baby girl after an eleven year interval. Isn’t that wonderful? I want to try again so much. There are things that I know now that I didn’t know before. I long to see you, to tell you. Anyway, when I got to the house I got a bit of a land to find a pile of dirty dishes in the sink in the kitchen. And in the master bedroom the bedclothes were ruffled. The bathroom contained an unknown toothbrush almost worn away like the second-hand ones for sale in Madrid, and a very sharp shaving knife, not at all like your little blade, and there was a residue of soap on the side of the trough. It was only when I returned to the kitchen that I noticed on the pine table the sprig of white heather, and I knew I was safe.
I lit the paraffin heater first, and then I lit a log fire. When it was blazing I snuggled into the settee and started reading Forever Amber. I know you think I’m a brazen hussy reading such a book, but it’s not dirty at all. I don’t know what all the hullabaloo was about.
Outside I heard the wind rise in the trees. I felt so safe and warm here, especially knowing Gearóid was not far away. Despite his indiscretions, I know he’d never let anything happen to me. There was so much upheaval in Spain, Patrick, I could never feel secure there. Hopefully, with the war over, things will be more settled when I go back. I really miss you. Our little differences heal themselves in absence, don’t you think?
It was just after midnight when I heard knocks on the drawing-room window – I knew it had to be Gearóid; everyone else would have knocked on the door; besides, it was the three familiar knocks that we always used as children.
When I opened the door, I saw no one at first; then a hand appeared with the middle finger curled around a trigger; and slowly his face became visible, as if it were hanging from a black canopy without a body attached to it. He saw the house light on, he said in Irish, but he wanted to be sure it was me. He seemed very troubled. He said he had been up North, but he wouldn’t tell me any more except that he wished Tomás were alive. There was a smell of drink off him. He had been hiding here for a few days and hoped I didn’t mind. He asked if he could hide out for a little while longer. I never saw him looking so worried before. How could I refuse him?
Just a few days, he said, and he would be out of my hair.
***
My mother did tell me some things – distant things, neutered by time. She told me when she was born – 1904. (I was able to confirm this when I found her baptismal certificate in a biscuit tin). Her people had a shop on Bride Street in the Liberties across from Saint Patrick’s Park, the park attached to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. I was often brought to the park as a baby in a pram. Around the corner from the shop was Jacob’s biscuit factory.
On the mantelpiece in Muddy’s drawing-room over the shop there was a photograph (without a frame) of two young men, one of whom was my uncle Tomás. The other man’s face was hidden by his hands. Mam said she couldn’t remember the concealed man’s name. He was someone from the Liberties who was obviously camera-shy.
***
My mother spent the summer of nineteen forty seven commuting between the shop in the Liberties and the house in Rathfarnham. Many of her old friends from Jacob’s ( Jacob’s mice, as they were called) were now either laden down with children or had emigrated. She felt a sense of isolation; she was a woman wandering between two worlds, a displaced person.
When September arrived, the weather had turned very cold. It did not augur well for the winter.
I went to the house – Patrick, we should put a name on this house, but I suppose it is waiting for us to fill it, as a family. We are waiting a long time now, but we must continue to live in hope. A woman who lives near Mrs Chaigneau has just given birth to a baby girl after an eleven year interval. Isn’t that wonderful? I want to try again so much. There are things that I know now that I didn’t know before. I long to see you, to tell you. Anyway, when I got to the house I got a bit of a land to find a pile of dirty dishes in the sink in the kitchen. And in the master bedroom the bedclothes were ruffled. The bathroom contained an unknown toothbrush almost worn away like the second-hand ones for sale in Madrid, and a very sharp shaving knife, not at all like your little blade, and there was a residue of soap on the side of the trough. It was only when I returned to the kitchen that I noticed on the pine table the sprig of white heather, and I knew I was safe.
I lit the paraffin heater first, and then I lit a log fire. When it was blazing I snuggled into the settee and started reading Forever Amber. I know you think I’m a brazen hussy reading such a book, but it’s not dirty at all. I don’t know what all the hullabaloo was about.
Outside I heard the wind rise in the trees. I felt so safe and warm here, especially knowing Gearóid was not far away. Despite his indiscretions, I know he’d never let anything happen to me. There was so much upheaval in Spain, Patrick, I could never feel secure there. Hopefully, with the war over, things will be more settled when I go back. I really miss you. Our little differences heal themselves in absence, don’t you think?
It was just after midnight when I heard knocks on the drawing-room window – I knew it had to be Gearóid; everyone else would have knocked on the door; besides, it was the three familiar knocks that we always used as children.
When I opened the door, I saw no one at first; then a hand appeared with the middle finger curled around a trigger; and slowly his face became visible, as if it were hanging from a black canopy without a body attached to it. He saw the house light on, he said in Irish, but he wanted to be sure it was me. He seemed very troubled. He said he had been up North, but he wouldn’t tell me any more except that he wished Tomás were alive. There was a smell of drink off him. He had been hiding here for a few days and hoped I didn’t mind. He asked if he could hide out for a little while longer. I never saw him looking so worried before. How could I refuse him?
Just a few days, he said, and he would be out of my hair.
***
My mother did tell me some things – distant things, neutered by time. She told me when she was born – 1904. (I was able to confirm this when I found her baptismal certificate in a biscuit tin). Her people had a shop on Bride Street in the Liberties across from Saint Patrick’s Park, the park attached to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. I was often brought to the park as a baby in a pram. Around the corner from the shop was Jacob’s biscuit factory.
On the mantelpiece in Muddy’s drawing-room over the shop there was a photograph (without a frame) of two young men, one of whom was my uncle Tomás. The other man’s face was hidden by his hands. Mam said she couldn’t remember the concealed man’s name. He was someone from the Liberties who was obviously camera-shy.
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