Look at the state of
the place. And look at the state of him, leaning on the shovel, borrowed no
doubt, gawking at the plane playing hide and seek with the clouds. The shirt
clinging to his back. That’ll be last night’s drink trying to escape. He’s not
what I expected in a son-in-law. The pneumatic drill will be thumping in his
head. Serves him right. I’ve a good mind to yell in his earhole.
Every
weed known to man has found its way to that mountain of topsoil where I thought
he’d have a lawn laid. Legions of nettle, thistle, and dandelions. It’s like
the word’s gone out–’Come on over, yer man’s an eejit.’
What
would the girls at bridge think if they saw this eyesore? I hope those bramble
tendrils cut the legs off him.
‘’Morning, Ed, darling. You’re at the weeds
again, I see.’
‘Yeah, I’ll give them another lash of weed
killer later, but I think they’re immune to the stuff… I wonder where that’s
headed. Maybe Majorca, or the Canaries… Jeez, I’d love a holiday. Claire’s in
the kitchen, ironing a couple of my shirts. I’ll have a cuppa with ye.’
I’m sure he will. His tongue stuck to his
palate, going on about a holiday. As if he’s not already away with the fairies.
‘Take your time. I baked and made raspberry
jam for you pair of lovebirds last night. I’ll get Claire to stick on the
kettle and heat the scones.’
‘You’re a star. Watch your step. The rain
soaked those planks.’
‘I’m used to the obstacle course by now.’
Planks. I ask you. Planks are one thing. This
is a war- zone more like. The bungalow plonked in the corner of Tommy
McCarthy’s misshapen acre. The few tons of hardcore dumped where the bulldozer
gouged an entrance, swallowed by the muck and long since gone. As is the builder,
who scarpered when the money ran out. Rubble everywhere and you’d drown if you
fell into one of those trenches, filled with Lord alone knows what. No high
heels here. I’m wearing wellies, trying to get in and out without breaking my
neck. Thankfully, there are concrete floors inside. Imagine the mess if they’d
carpets?
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Hi, love, is it safe to come in?’
‘Yeah, Ed says he’s defeated the last
battalion of mice. There was a tiny gap by the sink, he’s blocked it and the
traps haven’t been touched for two days.’
‘Thank goodness for that.’
He’ll be acting the hero now. Hunter,
gatherer, protector, all that.
‘Were ye out last night?’
‘Nah, I didn’t bother. Ed went for pints with
the lads after work and met the rugby guys in the Corner House later. I’m
getting my hair done this afternoon, so we’ll probably go out tonight.’
‘Did you have time to look at curtains? That
rug pinned to the bedroom window looks awful from the road.’
‘I know what I’d love to buy, but the
mortgage is crippling us. The interest rate has gone up again. Did you see? 18%
now? How they expect people to pay that, I don’t know. We’d be sleeping and
eating off the floor if it wasn’t for you, Mum.’
Here he comes, puffing and panting like a
hound after the chase. At least he’s kicked off those manky boots.
‘I got the whiff of the scones. Is the brew
ready?’
After
gulping down the cuppa, Ed applied copious amounts of butter and jam, topped
the lot with mountains of cream, and scoffed his scone in one go. Then, with a
raspberry streak on his chin, he headed off to scavenge in the hedgerows for
firewood. Firewood! I ask ye. Oh, they had central heating, but no oil,
and no money for any either. 18% and all that. Thankfully, the sun was giving
its first lick of summer and they wouldn’t look like Travellers for much longer
lugging barrow loads of kindling.
Ed came back as I was about to run the
gauntlet, risking life and limb to get to my car.
‘Met the postman outside, the usual bundle of
begging letters. Have another mug of tea and thanks again for the telly. I got
it working with the rabbit's ears.’
Claire flicked through cheerless brown-window
envelopes and dumped the junk. A flyer announcing direct flights to Athens
caught my eye. Then it sounded like there was an explosion in her brain. A
wonderful one. Squealing and whooping, words running into one another, she
waved an official-looking letter in Ed’s face.
‘It’s here,’ she said. ‘It’s here. The grant
is here.’
Ed looked as if someone had plugged him into
the mains. He was jumping and bouncing about before the two of them began
jiving about the kitchen, their smiles getting wider and wider like children on
Christmas morning.
‘Will one of you tell me what’s here?’
‘Mum, it’s the grant. The new house grant
from the government. A thousand pounds. It’s more than I make in three months.’
‘That’s fantastic. I’m thrilled for the pair
of you.’
Calm restored and after more tea, Himself
went back to conquer Everest and the weeds. I started a list.
‘First thing Monday, I’ll get curtain books
from Dorothy, I know her from bowls. She’ll give us a good deal. Then, I’ll
call and pick up wallpaper and paint cards from Colour it Right and give James
in Floors Alive a shout. He’s expensive, but top quality.’
‘Thanks, Mum. I’m so excited.’
The
next few weeks were frenetic. Using a milk crate for a stepladder, we measured.
Walls, windows and floors, length by breadth. Confusion, as my yards, feet and
inches clashed with Claire’s centimetres and metres. I left the maths to her.
In the kitchen, the picnic table I’d given them groaned under tomes of carpet
books. I kept fit crossing the gangplank, a volume of wallpaper samples under
each arm acting as ballast. We scoured through the lot ‘til we were cross-eyed.
With a to-do-list that filled my notebook, a
thousand pounds wouldn’t go far. It would be tight, but with my connections,
they could do the bed and living rooms, tile the kitchen, and maybe carpet the
hall. I’d suggested to Himself that he might make a start on the paths and that
mountain of soil he played with every month. He looked at me as if I’d
announced an intention to do a poo; ‘Can’t do anything too physical ‘til the
season ends. We’re in the County Cup final in three weeks. I can’t risk getting
injured pulling and dragging stuff around. Anyway, the place is all muck after
the rain.’
‘I see.’
Struggling, but showing the patience of Job,
I kept my gob shut.
And then… and then… well… the end of the
month came, and payday for them both. Claire invited me for dinner on the last
Sunday, as per usual. My contribution; a delicate white for both of us, Himself
would gannet the red, a cheapie Rioja. Roast beef with all the trimmings and
homemade Yorkshire puddings to boot. And the calorie crammed eclairs were
yummy. A pleasant evening, although I thought the two of them were childishly
giddy. We joked at the surreal scene,
concrete
floor, the wobbly table laden with gourmet food on bone chinaware and finest
crystal. They had done well on the wedding presents a year earlier except for
the four toasters, three kettles and the usual mantelpiece fodder. Lifting my
long-stemmed goblet, I was about to propose a toast to the imminent decorating,
but Claire beat me to it.
‘Mum, we’ve news.’
I almost choked on the Chablis.
‘What? I’m going to be a granny. Oh my God, I
can’t believe it, but I didn’t think you were planning to start so soon.’
‘No, no, no, Mum. Don’t be silly. I’m not
preggers. We’re going on holiday.’
I managed a weak ‘What?’ and despite the
wine, my colour drained, and I felt a migraine coming on.
‘Two days in Wexford wasn’t much of a
honeymoon, and Ed says we deserve a holiday. And do you know Mum, you can fly
direct to Athens? Anyway, we’ve decided to use the grant money to go island
hopping in Greece. For three weeks. Would you be able to give us a lift to the
airport next Saturday?’
9th
May 1981- the details chiselled in my brain.
And they went. I went to see Dr Murphy. He
prescribed a mild sleeping tablet and suggested I cut down on the G&T’s in
the evening. The cheek of him. Those junior doctors think they know it all. I
reminded him I’d survived a World War and would get over this bombshell.
I gave a few of the walls a lick of emulsion
when they were away, but the list went in the bin. Postcards arrived from
Paros, Ios, Mykonos and some place that sounded akin to something you’d catch…
Sifnos, I think it was. They came home bronzed and broke. I got the obligatory
bottle of ouzo, which I later used to strip the paint off a bedside locker.
For weeks, Ed first regaled then bored me
with tales of their adventures.
‘Did I tell you we slept on beaches a few
nights? The stars were awesome.’
‘Sounds so romantic.’ But no mention of
the mosquitoes or other creepy crawlies.
‘Yeah, gazing at the
stars makes you think of things… like infinity… even eternity.’ Looks as if
we’ve a philosopher in the family now.
‘And the ferries were amazing. They go
everywhere… and on time.’
Sardined into the petrol-scented bowels of a
Greek ship isn’t my idea of a holiday.
‘And we brought back loads of photos. Getting
them developed at the end of the month.’
I’d had enough and was ready for home when a
beaming Claire added. ‘And that’s not all we brought back.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I was going to wait. Y’know, ‘til it’s safe.
Superstition and all that. But I can’t. You’re going to be a granny. I’m two
months gone.’
It took me a few seconds to cop on, though
her words were plain enough. Then it was me jigging around the kitchen, as
happy as a dog with ten tails and all ten of them wagging.
Back home, I rummaged and found my knitting
bag. Took a few days to find my rhythm, but I got going. Cardigans and socks
and bunnies and blankets. Maybe it was after staring at the stars, but Ed
calmed down a tad when fatherhood loomed. Working at the speed of a drifting
iceberg, he made slow headway and finally conquered his Everest. He wasn’t slow
to moan about his aching back and blistered hands though, the poor little
wounded hero. Claire, as thin as the garden rake to begin with, did her bit,
hauling away bucket after bucket of stone before becoming the self-appointed
Minister for Blossoms and Blooms. When finished, it felt as if they’d turned a
corner. Some of the mayhem had evaporated. The emerald green lawn running down
to the hawthorn hedgerows gave the house a settled feel.
Susie arrived safe and sound and beautiful.
Chaos returned, but it was just the chaos of a child. I spoiled her rotten, of
course, but that’s what grannies are for.
Masons laid paths, and Ed surprised everyone
by building an acceptable low, dry-stone boundary wall. Progress, I thought.
But Claire’s blood pressure rocketed when he arrived home with the remnants of
an ancient school desk; ‘You’re not bringing that junk in here. Where’d you get
it?’
‘I rescued it from a skip.’
In it came, and nights of sanding,
varnishing, and cursing saw it restored. I don’t know where he got them, but
seeing the inkwell, complete with brass lid, brought back memories. As did a
blackboard he acquired from God knows where. The walls of the room he’d
commandeered were covered with stencils of animals, trees, and a giant rainbow.
‘All ready for Susie,’ he said. ‘I think
she’ll be a teacher.’
Mission accomplished; they headed off again. A bargain, last-minute
cancellation. Where else but Greece? I said nothing, but was thrilled. I’d have
Susie, who had taken her first steps, all to myself for the week.
It was lovely, that time with Susie. You
forget, between your children and your grandchildren, all the fun of having a
whole young person to yourself.
And they brought home more good news. I said
to them, ‘Most people bring home a few bottles of duty-free,’ but I was only
messing. Linda, the little darling, arrived the following Spring.
‘Must be something in the water,’ suggested
Ed.
‘More like something in the drink,’ I said. ‘’Tis
a wonder you didn’t call one of the girls, Alexandra or Athena or something.’
‘Maybe next time.’
‘Hold on a sec here,’ said Claire. ‘There
won’t be any next time. Finito. I won’t go as far as making you have the snip,
but I might just hide your passport.’
We laughed, raised our glasses, and offered
thanks for our blessings.
Time slips by, especially with two young
girls in the house. The far-from-finished house. Rooms are a work-in-progress,
one at a time. The bedrooms are painted and carpeted and undeniably snug, but
elsewhere, concrete reigns supreme. In the living room, family photos, a window
to times past, fill a wall. My favourite: a grainy image
of great-grandparents, Cornelius, ramrod straight in his Sunday best and Nora,
forbidding, enthroned alongside in all her finery.
Thankfully, the driveway is finished. The
bitter-sweet smell of asphalt lingers on hot days. I like the contrast with the
earthy cow dung aroma from McCarthy’s nosy cattle who peer over the wall.
We’re doing a
barbecue this evening and I’m in charge of the salads. While picking lettuce,
radishes, and spring onions from the raised bed, I’m peeking in at the girls in
the playroom. Susie is busy squiggling shapes on the blackboard. Her friends,
arms folded, legs crossed, cosy up on the floor, while a menagerie of teddies
sit at the desk waiting for class to begin. Linda is busying herself crawling
through an obstacle course of toys.
Ed arrives back after cutting my grass and
hedge and fixes me a house-measure G&T. He cooks the obligatory sausages
for starters, then he’s off like the Pied Piper, the children in tow, frolicking
about, smiles as wide and bright as the sun, queueing up for spins in his
wheelbarrow. The girls chattering as loud as the cluster of blackbirds in the
whitethorn; the boys concentrating on the scabs on their knees. It’s
intoxicating, infectious, and perfect. Perfect, except for that plane
thundering overhead. The kitchen windows rattle in protest.
‘C’mon Gran,’ says Susie, ‘Let’s play
aeroplanes.’
And so, here I am, arms outstretched,
soaring, swooping, and laughing.
‘Where’s that one going, Gran?’
‘Haven’t a clue, love. Maybe Majorca or the
Canaries or even Athens.’
Looking skywards, I wonder if anyone on board
is as irresponsible and daft as my pair were.
I do hope so.
A story from a recently finished collection of childhood memories. 30k in total. Looking for a publisher.
About the author
Published in many short story anthologies, highlight to date was winning the Southport International Short Story Competition in '19.
