New Irish Short Stories

by Joseph O'Connor

  None of her friends could go with her that evening. They never told her straight, but the truth was they didn’t enjoy her son’s gigs. They were always too loud, too hot and too long, and Margo had been caught short in the Ladies’ last time. Dot didn’t mind, she was quite used to doing things on her own.

  There were seats at the front – what better place to hear and watch her son perform? There was a good deal of getting organised, getting settled, and a lot of head-turning to see if she could locate Joe’s wife, who was being deliberately low key, still in her coat and standing by the bar. Dot had saved a seat for her, her coat draped possessively over its plastic.

  With her hands on top of one another, mid-chest, she lightly tapped her fingers and swayed her head from side to side, perfectly out of time. She felt immensely proud as she studied the CD that she’d bought at the door, even though she already had one in her car. She was flush to the stage, could feel the music reverberating against her knees. She watched Joe’s every nuance, every move. They were so like one another, mother and son – he had adopted many of her gestures: he held his finger in the air, just as she did, when making a point, and closed his eyes, smiling, the way Dot did, as he tried to remember something he knew he shouldn’t forget.

  Cradling her drink in her lap, she bent to put it by her chair leg as each song came to an end, so that her hands would be free to applaud. She looked around her and saw other people, strangers, tapping their feet or mouthing the words of her son’s songs, couples swaying, intertwined.

  At the end of his set, while he waited stage side near the speakers, because there was no green room at the venue, people cheered, took to their feet, shouted out requests. After enough persuasion, Joe climbed back on stage, shaking his head, grinning, and as he adjusted his guitar he told his audience all about his new song, ‘Giant’, dedicated to an eight-foot freak of nature, forever encased behind glass.

  Dot knew most of the words; Joe had played a recording of the song to her and his wife at Sunday lunch, for several Sundays, scrutinising their faces for reaction and drumming his fingertips against the kitchen counter, leaving greasy, temporary imprints on the Formica. ‘It’s very catchy,’ Dot had said as she listened – all her son’s songs were.

  She began to quietly sing along. And that was when Joe became aware of her, his mother, too close, out of context. The mother he loved so entirely, so simply, the flowers he always remembered for her on Valentine’s Day and on her birthday. The room seemed suddenly smaller; he lost a bit of his courage. He couldn’t gyrate his hips as he had done in rehearsal, he’d have to mind his language, he felt the sex drain out of him, he was a little boy again, performing tricks for his parents. He knew that his mother would be there that night, but he wanted her somewhere in the shadowy darkness, not beside him, willing him on.

  At the end of the night, Joe reappeared, sweat droplets across his forehead, towel around his neck like a post-fight pugilist. A girl wanted his autograph, the Beaker-like man wanted to talk about words. Joe scanned the room for his mother. She had hovered, wondering whether to offer him a lift home, then thought better of it. This was his place, not hers. She slipped away without saying goodbye, her left ear ringing and blocked.

  *

  Dot sat at her dressing table, tired, ready for sleep. She thought of the evening: the music, the words, the response. She thought back to London and the desperate vision of a soul too sad to live, wanting only obscurity. This song unearthed the dead: the dead giant who never wanted fame, the musician who wanted nothing more.

  She rubbed at the inky, illegible smudge of the admission stamp on her hand. How incongruous it looked with the risen veins, liver spots and loose skin of age. She licked her finger and rubbed it again; no use. She would take a nailbrush to it in the morning.

  Aisling

  Colum McCann

  I WOKE UP, OPENED THE CURTAINS, found my nightgown, made the bed, tightened the sheets, fluffed the pillows, donned my slippers, turned the tap, filled the kettle, hit the switch, boiled the water, brewed the tea, stirred the milk, climbed the stairs, woke the boys, combed their hair, straightened their curls, brushed their teeth, buttoned their buttons, zipped their zippers, checked their homework, poured their cornflakes, ladled the milk, toasted their toast, packed their lunches, checked their satchels, fixed their collars, tied their laces, wiped their noses, kissed their cheeks, unlocked the chain, crossed the threshold, tapped their bottoms, waved them off, ran the driveway, called their names, held their shoulders, kissed their foreheads, trudged on home, keyed the lock, climbed the stairs, brushed my teeth, washed my face, slipped on sandals, filled my clothes, ignored the mirror, jumped out the window and developed two huge wings on the way down. Of course I didn’t.

  *

  I nuked the tea, blew it cool, sipped it down, junked the teabag, threw it out, made some toast, spread the marmalade, flicked the television, jumped the channels, killed the remote, dialled the radio, broke the static, heard the weather, turned it off, ached for rain, waited for sunshine, rinsed the cup, cleaned the plates, separated the forks, licked the knives, sliced my lip, bit the blood, loaded the dishwasher, hit the switch, heard it hum, boiled the kettle, made more tea, rifled the cupboards, found the gin, opened the freezer, broke the ice, shook a cocktail, drank it down, recalled my husband, mutilated him twice, fair is fair, what he deserves, wept an aria, made another drink, iced it up, held the sink, poured it down, heard it gurgle, guilt and grace, phoned my friend, forgot her number, ordered a private jet to bring me all the way up to Cornelscourt and flew along through Monaloe Park on the back of a very handsome nightingale. Well at least I tried.

  *

  I took off shopping, inserted a euro, got a trolley, pushed it along, patrolled the aisles, ignored the prices, passed the specials, squeezed some apples, filched a grape, shook the cereal, eyed the ham, flirted with watermelons, lingered at lemons, checked the calories, avoided all fats, filled my trolley, wandered the wine, grabbed the Bordeaux, queued at checkout, flicked the magazines, waited for hallelujahs, started to fret, checked my purse, berated the Lithuanian, felt briefly guilty, paid by credit, bagged the groceries, trawled on home, took the overpass, walked down Clonkeen, used the doormat, ate a pill, skipped the stairs, thought of visions, destroyed all trinities, had a love affair with a tar-dark Gypsy who rang the doorbell and afterwards, in the driveway, had a minor collision with fifteen hundred nuns from Loreto Foxrock, oh my darling you’re a child of the Immaculate Mary and you don’t have to kiss him until you’re entirely ready. But I very well might.

  *

  I looked at photos, saw myself young, did my homework, ran to mass, wore brown smocks, hemmed them up, plucked my eyebrows, bared my ankles, skipped the Gaeltacht, hired a tutor, got into college, painted my toes, tattooed a butterfly, danced the Bar, went to Glastonbury, got some sense, filled the forms, cajoled a job, paid the taxman, queued at Lillie’s, tipped the barmaid, ate at Trocadero, learned to lament, flew to Paris, swam a lake, lost my passport, bussed it home, kissed my parents, called them prodigals, hailed a taxi, erased the tattoo, moved to Ranelagh, leafed with lovebanks, developed an accent, bought some stocks, read The Times, commissioned a painting, found two bedrooms, thought it three, lost the run, forgot the poem, married the hard-working boy who came up from the country while the dead girl flew off in the shape of a question mark, thinking well you can eat around the bruised part, my dear, but the core is still altogether dark I fear.

  *

  I went to hospital, had the children, settled in Monaloe, painted the walls, planted the garden, weeded the lawn, bought some secateurs, clipped the begonia, fertilised the floribundas, plucked the weeds, changed the vasewater, ate small portions, loved the boys, learned about porridge, loved the boys, went Sunday driving, girls’ night out, ironed the towels, shook out wrinkles, folded the underwear, whitened my teeth, lost the time, learned the lament, forgot my prayers, loved the boys, ignored the bills, begged the bank, loved the boys, reme
mbered their birthdays, slept beside them, sent off faxes, played the exchange, mortgaged the mortgage, laid the table, ordered the china, saw Aidan shudder, watched him leave, opened the champagne, called my friends, remembered their numbers, loved the boys, hired a solicitor, had an affair, broke the fever, extended the line, wrote on pillowcases, filled my heart full of petrol and poured it out into a styrofoam cup.

  *

  I woke up alive, filled the kettle, boiled the water, recycled the teabag, defrosted the loaf, cut the crusts, corked the wine, emptied my mind, designed an escape, changed the plan. The fridge sang, the mice groaned, the radio fizzed, the clock droned, the grass grew, the birds flew, my bones hollowed, my head hurt. I fell in love with all the cereal boxes I hadn’t yet arranged on the shelves. The dustbins keened, the postman knocked, the bills arrived, the cheques bounced, the creditors wept, the reaper wrote, the church collapsed, the child returned, the sky-woman fell through the roof. I thanked God for ceilings so I wouldn’t have to hit the stars. I cleaned windows, watched the clock, got myself together, paced the hall, wore a pathway, awaited the boys, sang this ditty. Be not sad, Roisín, for all that happened thee. I watched the clock, saw it strike, heard no footsteps, thought of suicide but the beauty of just about everything else took my courage away.

  A Gift for My Mother

  Viv McDade

  IN THE YEAR I TURNED TEN I picked my mother a bunch of wild flowers in the bushveld behind our house, tiny star-shaped flowers with white on the top and pink underneath, daisies the colour of egg yolks and a sprig from a lucky bean creeper.

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ she said, turning the little bunch to look at the shape and colour of each flower, the red and black lucky beans snug in their dry brown pod. She arranged the flowers in a jar of water and put them on the windowsill beside the stove so she could see them while she was cooking.

  ‘I love a fresh flower in the house,’ she said in her dreamy voice. ‘If I had my time over, Lucy, I’d have everything just perfect, nothing but the best.’ I knew she was thinking about the houses on the other side of the railway line, houses with hallways and moulded skirting boards and neighbours who didn’t go down to the shops with chiffon scarves over their curlers. But that evening they weren’t on her mind long enough to make her angry or sad and after a little while she moved the jar of flowers along the windowsill into the last of the sunlight, and she was humming when she wiped down the sink.

  I sat at the kitchen table doing my maths homework until I heard Dad’s car and ran out to meet him. He opened the door and leaned out to kiss me. ‘Hello, my precious.’ My mother hates that. ‘For God’s sake, it’s a wonder the child hasn’t grown up thinking her name was My Precious.’

  ‘I was the only one who could spell illiterate,’ I tell him.

  ‘Fantastic. You’re the best speller I know.’

  ‘I’m stuck with a maths problem. If eight men dig a ditch in two hours how many eight-hour days will it take two men to dig the same ditch?’

  ‘We’ll work it out when we put our minds to it.’

  He’s very good at explaining things and never makes you feel nervous or stupid. My mother thinks his job at the garage isn’t much, but he’s a far better teacher than Mrs Emmerson.

  He wiped his shoes on the mat before we went into the kitchen. ‘Hello,’ he said, as if he was asking a question, and my mother’s voice was tired and small when she answered him. He took a deep breath and slapped the little brown envelope of wages down on the table.

  ‘How much is there this week?’ asked my mother, and she gave a little laugh.

  ‘As much as I’ve earned, that’s how much.’

  ‘What you’ve earned isn’t enough for us to live on.’

  ‘Then die on it,’ he said, walking out of the kitchen, ‘because it’s all there is.’

  My mother snatched a pot from the cupboard, banged it into the sink and opened the tap so wide the water ran over the top. After she switched off the tap she looked out the window for a long time.

  It was getting dark outside when she told me to set the table. I switched on the light, and she pulled the curtains closed, leaving the jar of flowers in the darkness.

  *

  Next day after school I went around the back of the supermarket and searched for a box in the yard. Most were cardboard and too big or too deep but in the end I found a shallow wooden peach box that was perfect.

  At home I put tins of water in the box, changed into old clothes and went out the back gate with the box and scissors from the kitchen. The paths that led through the bush over to the factories on the road to the airport were sharp and clear but I chose an overgrown path. The leaves of the msasa trees were shiny, and the sun made it look as if there were diamonds on the big granite boulders.

  After a while my arms got tired holding the box so I sat on the edge of the path and watched a line of polished black ants follow each other into the long yellow grass and listened to birds calling pttt pttt from the trees. I left the box in the shade of a boulder. The ground felt hot through my sandals and the long dry grass scraped my legs. There were all kinds of daisies: tiny and white, and yellow and orange ones as big as my hand. I cut the stems as long as I could and took each handful back to the box to put them in water. I was reaching over a clump of blackjacks to cut off their flowers and they’d scattered their tiny black spikes on my T-shirt and shorts when I spotted my first flame lily, its wavy swept-back petals bright red at the top and yellow at the bottom exactly as if it was on fire. Mrs Emmerson had shown us a picture and told us it was illegal to pick them and you were very lucky if you saw one. I longed to give my mother something so beautiful and precious but shivered at the thought of becoming a criminal. I was lucky to find a big bush full of tiny white candle-shaped flowers with yellow tips and trumpets of witch weed with black spots in their hearts. A long creeper of wild spinach had lots of flowers but their stems weren’t long enough to go in a bunch. In places where the leaves of the msasa trees were starting to turn different colours I cut delicate gold and red sprigs.

  By the time I got home the long grass was making shadows across the path and I’d worked out everything I needed to do. I laid out the flowers and divided them into ten bunches – some all one kind of flower, others different flowers but shades of the same colour and others I mixed up. I made daisy chains out of string and used them to tie up the flowers before arranging the bunches in the tins of water and putting my purse in the box beside them.

  On the street I decided not to start with the du Toits or the Thompsons because they lived beside us and might tell my mother. Instead I walked five streets away and went to the house at the end. It felt safer to start with strangers.

  There was a tricycle in the garden and a puddle of water around the sprinkler in the middle of the yellowy lawn. A safety chain held the front door slightly open and inside a voice on the radio was talking about a shop that had been burgled and a man who was helping the police with their investigations.

  A woman’s voice called out, ‘I’m telling you for the last time, put those toys away.’

  I knocked on the door, a soft knock at first and then louder. I was thinking about leaving and going next door when I heard flip-flops slapping to the door. A woman carrying a baby, so small its head had hardly any hair and its cheek was squashed against her shoulder, looked through the gap in the doorway.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ I said. ‘Would you like to buy some flowers for sixpence a bunch?’

  A telephone started ringing in the house, and she hesitated for a moment as if she might go to answer it, then changed her mind. ‘Flowers?’ she said. ‘You must be joking!’ She turned her head. ‘I’m not going to say it again. Put those toys away this minute.’ Then she looked at me again, took the chain off and opened the door.

  ‘Does your mother know what you’re doing, pet?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m going to surprise her.’

  ‘Well, your flowers are beautiful. It cheers me
up just looking at them.’

  She took one of the mixed bunches into the house, and when she came back she gave me a sixpence and four toffees in waxy white paper with blue writing. ‘You be careful crossing the road with that box,’ she said.

  On the way out I put down the box and closed the gate, then opened it again when I remembered that was how I’d found it.

  In the garden two houses down a man was pruning a creamy rose bush beside his veranda, standing back a little to look at it and pinching his cheek slowly before he cut off each branch. He turned when he heard the click of the gate latch and put his head to one side as he walked down the drive to meet me.

  ‘Those look nice,’ he said.

  ‘Do you think you might like some?’

  ‘Of course I would like some,’ he said. ‘What are you charging?’

  ‘Sixpence a bunch,’ I said, and immediately wished I’d lowered my price.

  ‘Bring them up here,’ he said, going onto the veranda. ‘I’ll go in and get my wife so we can choose together.’

  His wife was round and quick with a smile that took up her whole face. ‘What will you do with the money you get from the flowers?’

  ‘It’s going to be a surprise.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said the man.

  ‘For my mother,’ I said.

  His wife loved all the flowers but the little white daisies were her favourite because she said ‘Definitely these’ when her husband asked ‘What’ll we get?’

  In the end they bought three bunches: daisies for the kitchen and two mixed bunches for the lounge. The man fetched his wallet and gave me two shillings. ‘There you go,’ he said, ‘and you can keep the change.’ When I looked back from the gate he held up his thumb and called out, ‘Good luck.’