softer than she should be. Play pat-a-cake with him, she said.
What’s pat-a-cake? her daughter asked.
Oh you know, Mary-Meg. Reach over and I’ll show you, then you can show the wean.
Mary-Margaret shuffled closer, on her knees. She put her hands up to her mother’s. Her fingers were thicker than Fidelma’s, despite Fidelma’s size; the skin of them red and roughened, but the tips peculiarly smooth, as ifwashing had rubbed away the whorls. The bandage round her wrist was getting dirty. Fidelma clapped her hands together first and then gently against her daughter’s. Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man. Bake me a cake as fast as you can . . .
Shamso laughed at the sight and sound of the women clapping. Never have I heard that before, said Mary-Margaret.
Liar, said her mother, with a stab of guilt. It could be true, of course. When Mary-Margaret was a baby, life was far too hard for games. To keep a roof over the child’s head and put food into her mouth was about as much as Fidelma could ever do. Or more, from time to time. No one could expect her to play at patting too. Although, it must be said, her own mammy had somehow managed it, even with all those other mouths to fill. How else would Fidelma know the actions and the words? Perhaps it had been easier for her, because there were so many. She had only to teach the firstborn and he could pass it to the next like an inheritance, or a birthright, or a spell. Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop off your head. How many miles to Babylon? Three-score miles and ten. Can I get there by candlelight? Yes, and back again.
Back again the words came, from the buried horde. Mary-Margaret showed Shamso. He understood the patting but not the alternating hands; in any case he chuckled, and Fidelma saw his perfect teeth, his contagious, gummy smile.
There were songs too, that her mother sang. And those she had sung, in her turn, to Mary-Margaret; sad songs forthe most part but when you came to think of it, was there any other kind of song that would be worth the singing? Even the songs you would suppose were intended to be funny were melancholy really when you looked deep down. In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty, I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone. Now her ghost wheels her barrow through the streets broad and narrow, crying . . .
Crying. Fidelma’s mother sang sad songs to lull her babes to sleep. All the small girls in one bed, Fidelma too, nestled warm and wriggling like a basketful of puppies. Fidelma’s little sisters: Bridget, Maeve and Mary, Deirdre and Siobhan. Twelve kicking feet and twelve poking hands and somewhere in the room their mammy, sitting in the darkness, singing her sad songs. Oh mother, oh mother go dig my grave. Make it both long and narrow. Sweet William died on yester eve, and I will die tomorrow.
Fidelma might not have played with Mary-Margaret, nor read to her, nor even maybe talked, but she had sung, and that she did remember. She had sung those lullabies at night to banish darkness and will the light to come, to fill the silence which would not be filled by any spoken words within her power. And Mary-Margaret, her fat and pink and unlooked-for baby, had cooed and gurgled and tried to woo her mother into love. She had never been much trouble in herself, that at least Fidelma must admit. A placid, peaceful baby with a great capacity for sleep. Truth be told, the lullabies were never needful. As long as she was reasonably warm and reasonably fed, Mary-Margaret would fall asleep and sleep for hours, the sleep of the dead, while her solitary mother sang sad songs in the nighttime to herself.
Until she, along with Bridget, Maeve and Mary, was sentenced to the sisters, Fidelma had never heard of silence. In the cottage by the strand there were always voices. Even in the night there were children murmuring in sleep or breathing so loudly their breath itself was like a song. A memory of early
What’s pat-a-cake? her daughter asked.
Oh you know, Mary-Meg. Reach over and I’ll show you, then you can show the wean.
Mary-Margaret shuffled closer, on her knees. She put her hands up to her mother’s. Her fingers were thicker than Fidelma’s, despite Fidelma’s size; the skin of them red and roughened, but the tips peculiarly smooth, as ifwashing had rubbed away the whorls. The bandage round her wrist was getting dirty. Fidelma clapped her hands together first and then gently against her daughter’s. Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man. Bake me a cake as fast as you can . . .
Shamso laughed at the sight and sound of the women clapping. Never have I heard that before, said Mary-Margaret.
Liar, said her mother, with a stab of guilt. It could be true, of course. When Mary-Margaret was a baby, life was far too hard for games. To keep a roof over the child’s head and put food into her mouth was about as much as Fidelma could ever do. Or more, from time to time. No one could expect her to play at patting too. Although, it must be said, her own mammy had somehow managed it, even with all those other mouths to fill. How else would Fidelma know the actions and the words? Perhaps it had been easier for her, because there were so many. She had only to teach the firstborn and he could pass it to the next like an inheritance, or a birthright, or a spell. Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop off your head. How many miles to Babylon? Three-score miles and ten. Can I get there by candlelight? Yes, and back again.
Back again the words came, from the buried horde. Mary-Margaret showed Shamso. He understood the patting but not the alternating hands; in any case he chuckled, and Fidelma saw his perfect teeth, his contagious, gummy smile.
There were songs too, that her mother sang. And those she had sung, in her turn, to Mary-Margaret; sad songs forthe most part but when you came to think of it, was there any other kind of song that would be worth the singing? Even the songs you would suppose were intended to be funny were melancholy really when you looked deep down. In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty, I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone. Now her ghost wheels her barrow through the streets broad and narrow, crying . . .
Crying. Fidelma’s mother sang sad songs to lull her babes to sleep. All the small girls in one bed, Fidelma too, nestled warm and wriggling like a basketful of puppies. Fidelma’s little sisters: Bridget, Maeve and Mary, Deirdre and Siobhan. Twelve kicking feet and twelve poking hands and somewhere in the room their mammy, sitting in the darkness, singing her sad songs. Oh mother, oh mother go dig my grave. Make it both long and narrow. Sweet William died on yester eve, and I will die tomorrow.
Fidelma might not have played with Mary-Margaret, nor read to her, nor even maybe talked, but she had sung, and that she did remember. She had sung those lullabies at night to banish darkness and will the light to come, to fill the silence which would not be filled by any spoken words within her power. And Mary-Margaret, her fat and pink and unlooked-for baby, had cooed and gurgled and tried to woo her mother into love. She had never been much trouble in herself, that at least Fidelma must admit. A placid, peaceful baby with a great capacity for sleep. Truth be told, the lullabies were never needful. As long as she was reasonably warm and reasonably fed, Mary-Margaret would fall asleep and sleep for hours, the sleep of the dead, while her solitary mother sang sad songs in the nighttime to herself.
Until she, along with Bridget, Maeve and Mary, was sentenced to the sisters, Fidelma had never heard of silence. In the cottage by the strand there were always voices. Even in the night there were children murmuring in sleep or breathing so loudly their breath itself was like a song. A memory of early
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