The Granny by Brendan O'Carroll

Bosco. You calm down and lower your voice before you talk to anyone in this house.” The slap was so rapid and made such a crack of a noise that it startled Connie before she knew she had even been slapped. Her head spun. She froze. She put her hand to her glowing red cheek. Without a word she went to her bedroom. Agnes was now standing in front of her father screaming at him.
     
    “I didn’t even have anything to drink,” she squealed, “not a drop.”
     
    “Don’t you lie to me, young wan,” Bosco screamed.
     
    At the table Dolly’s eyes widened as she saw it happen. It was as if it were in slow motion. Her father’s right hand came across from his left hip, the back of the hand striking Agnes square across her cheek. Her head swung slightly, and the child staggered backward. Dolly began to cry. Agnes ran to the armchair and buried her face in the cushion.
     
    Bosco stomped around the room yelling, and then stepped up behind Agnes. He bent over her; there was still fury in his voice. “Now, young wan, I hope you’re happy. Look what you’ve caused. Your sister’s upset, your mother’s upset. I hope your little drinking binge was worth it. Jesus Christ, little did I know I was rearing a”—he searched—“tramp.” Bosco, now at a loss for words, angrily paced the room twice and then left the flat, slamming the door behind him. And then there was silence.
     
    Dolly, sobbing, got down from her chair and walked to the armchair where her older sister was sobbing. She slapped Agnes on the back and cried.
     
    “You made Daddy angry and you made Mammy cry. Bitch!”
     
     
     
    Two hours later, the two young girls were lying awake in their beds when they heard the front door open and close.
     
    “Daddy’s back,” Dolly whispered.
     
    “Shut up,” Agnes said.
     
    “Don’t make him angry again, Agnes,” Dolly whispered.
     
    “I didn’t make him angry. Now, shut up.” Agnes had long finished her cry. “Anyway,” she continued, “he’ll be sorry when I’m gone away.”
     
    “I won’t,” Dolly said as she pulled the blanket up under her chin.
     
    They lay there in silence for a while. Listening. There was no sound coming from outside. So the girls spoke in whispers.
     
    “Where are you going away to?” Dolly asked Agnes.
     
    “Canada. I told you before, I’m going to Canada. Now, shut up.”
     
    “Oh yeh, Canada. Is Canada far away, Agnes?” Dolly asked.
     
    “I don’t know, more than a hundred miles, I think.”
     
    “Daddy won’t let you go, I betcha.”
     
    “He can’t stop me once I’m eighteen,” Agnes answered with authority.
     
    “And when you’re eighteen, Agnes, what age will I be?” Dolly asked, and Agnes thought about this for a moment, counting the years in her head.
     
    “Thirteen.” Agnes gave Dolly the answer. Dolly lay thinking about this for some moments.
     
    “When you’re eighteen, you can come to Canada after me, if you want.”
     
    “Nah. I better stay here and look after Daddy,” Dolly quietly said, and she pulled the covers even tighter under her chin.
     
     
     
    Bosco stood in the center of the room. Connie, who had been sitting in the armchair when he entered, rose and walked passed him toward the cooker.
     
    “I’ll heat your dinner. Sit down,” she said. Bosco removed his cap and his jacket and tossed them onto the armchair.
     
    “Thanks,” he said simply, and sat. When the stew was reheated, Connie filled a bowl and buttered two slices of bread to accompany it. She placed the bowl and bread in front of Bosco along with the spoon. Instead of returning to the armchair, she sat at the table facing her husband. She didn’t speak. Bosco began to eat, uncomfortably. After a couple of mouthfuls he put the spoon down, slowly.
     
    “She was drinking, Agnes was. Twelve years of age and she was drinking. Down a lane with those tramp friends of hers.”
     
    “Was she?” Connie simply asked.
     
    “ Yes, she was. Mrs. Brady