Beyond the Breakwater

by Catherine Foley

  turned satin in the evening light.

  Moll Ruck, Mrs Bulger, Daddy Walsh, Maggie.

  We grew up but their words are in my head today,

  Gran, Ena, Uncle Joe,

  do you see the lighthouse?

  Mind the current,

  the tide’s coming in,

  they’re down on the breakwater.

  Sugar spilled on the linoleum.

  That was before when we lived up at the Gap.

  Rogers’ house, Rosie’s house,

  Patsy Barron over and back on the ferry

  to Ballyhack where his amputated leg was buried

  and the boats on their way up the Suir to Waterford

  had to pass between his legs ever after.

  The pump in front of Connors’ house.

  The shop, ice cream,

  Did they get a salmon?

  No, they’re very scarce.

  Crabs, gulls, stones, herrings.

  The smoke house, shells, rain.

  Get up to bed,

  rosary beads behind the cushion on Gran’s chair.

  Mama sing-songing Gran’s lines,

  reminding us how she had frightened them as children

  with her recitations in a ghostly voice:

  ‘Sister Anne, Sister Anne, is there anyone comin’?

  No-one comin’ but the wind blowin’, the grass growin’

  An’ two men on a horseback.’

  Hurry up or we’ll be late for Mass

  Frocks-cardigans-sandals, ribbons-clips-lipstick-powder,

  The Angelus,

  Where are your Daddy Walsh’s glasses?

  Where are Gran’s beads?

  On her chair beside the fire.

  The wireless, the races, the Grand National.

  Bread and butter heaped with sugar

  That fell onto the floor and crunched gorgeously underfoot.

  The Men’s Walk, the dock, evening,

  the blind quay,

  the slip, the steps the gunnel.

  Why did we all get big?

  Why did Mir lose her curls?

  There were no more prams

  or little cardigans with white buttons.

  Gran died. Daddy Walsh died.

  Now Joe has slipped away.

  We all grew up but their words are in my head today.

  They echo back and forth.

  7

  Listening to the Hoover

  The hum of a hoover being run over a carpet is one of my favourite sounds. It takes me back to days when I was kept home from school because of measles or a sore throat.

  To make me feel better, I was usually put in my parents’ bed and tucked up, the sheets straightened and the coverlet pulled up around my shoulders. I’d lie there, delighted to be on my own in the house with mother, who’d pop in and out through the morning to monitor my symptoms. Having her all to myself on a school morning when my father was gone to work and my sisters were off at school was a delicious treat that took the sting out of being sick.

  I listened to the radio coming on downstairs and the floor being swept. I’d hear my mother taking the ashes out of the range and rummaging in a drawer. I’d listen to her running a tap to fill the kettle and putting it on the cooker to boil water for a hot water bottle for me. The novelty of listening to all those morning sounds was like being privy to my mother’s secret world. I’d listen and wait for her to come back upstairs with the filled hot water bottle. She’d wrap it in something soft and put it down at my feet, asking me if I was feeling better.

  ‘I think my throat is a bit better,’ I’d croak, hoping she’d notice the ragged rasp of my voice.

  Before she left, she’d tell me to open my mouth so she could look down at my tonsils. Then, straightening the bedclothes around me again, she’d put a cool hand on my forehead to feel if I was hot. ‘I think you have a bit of a temperature all right. Lie down there now and try to sleep,’ and before stepping out of the bedroom she’d look back to check that I was all right. I would remain prostrate in the bed, the picture of martyrdom, hoping she’d continue to run up and down to check on me.

  If I had a temperature and my symptoms persisted, she would tell me she was going to get the doctor. Usually before his arrival, she’d do a bit of a tidy and hoover the bedroom. I’d lie there in state like Good Queen Bess, listening to her working, not wanting another thing in the world. Later, she would comb my hair and rub a damp cloth over my face in readiness for the doctor. She might put fresh pyjamas on me, specially aired and taken from the hot press.

  I loved the hum of the hoover as she pushed the nozzle all around the edges of the room, under the dressing table and the bed, in behind the curtains and along by the wardrobe. I’d listen to her using it out on the landing by the stairs. When she was in the room or by the door, I’d have her in my sights and I’d breathe in deeply to fully enjoy the serenity of the moment. Sometimes, I’d drift in and out of sleep, the comforting sounds of Mama working lulling me into a state of deep contentment.

  When Dr Coffey arrived downstairs, he would be ushered in with whispers and my ears would strain to hear what they were saying. ‘The patient’s in here, doctor,’ I’d hear my mother say, recognising the hint of a smile in her voice.

  There was a general holding of breath as we waited for him to discover the cause of my high temperature, itchy rash or swollen glands. Like a priest stepping up to the altar, time seemed to slow down when he was present and I’d watch his movements with intense interest. He’d walk in over the newly hoovered carpet, his very presence adding gravitas to the room. When he opened his impressively compact leather bag, the unfamiliar smell of antiseptic tweaked at my nose. He’d take his stethoscope out and listen to my breathing, moving the cold metal orb over my chest. ‘Breathe in, and out, in and … out.’ He’d put a spatula on my tongue. ‘Say aaaah.’ His movements, coupled with my responses, formed a kind of a choreographed dance and it seemed like the perfect coda to a morning with my mother.

  Later, when my father came home for dinner, a bottle of Lucozade would appear on the bedside table. He might produce a bunch of grapes too. As these are given to invalids the world over, I’d nod weakly and smile, lying still in the bed.

  Later in the week, when I was allowed down to the fire to join the others, I’d go down gingerly on legs that I was sure had wasted away after three whole days in bed, having read all about Clara in Heidi and Beth in Little Women taking similarly tentative steps during their convalescence. As a result, I’d allow my sisters to fuss over me and act as my slaves.

  Soon, of course, I’d be back to normal and I’d be sent off to school, wrapped in extra layers. Like a released hostage, I’d go forth and brave the day; glad it was cold, as it was in keeping with my hard-pressed spirits. The biting breeze always helped me re-adjust to the harshness of life on the outside.

  Then memories of my little holiday at home with my mother all to myself would gradually fade and I’d forget how the sound of the hoover humming away over the carpet had lulled me into a state of bliss and happy martyrdom. Until the next time, that is.

  8

  Saying Goodnight to Our Lady

  We had a statue of Our Lady on the landing in our house in Lower Newtown when I was small. It was taller and heavier than I was at the time but I remember how, one night, my mother took it down for me so that I could inspect it properly. Then I had to say goodnight to her, and from that night on I used to say goodnight to Our Lady before I got into bed.

  Her blue sash flowed down elegantly by her side and her hands were clasped together like a steeple, in prayer, coming up to just under her chin. Like her hands, her head seemed to be tilted slightly to one side as if she was listening intently to what I might whisper into her ear.

  To me, she was like a giant-sized doll and I longed for the day when I might play with her and lie her down alongside me in the bed and roll her over and cuddle her. The next best thing was the chance I got each night to say goodnight to her befo
re I got into bed. When I was ready for bed, as a treat, she’d be taken off the window sill where she sat on the return leading up to the attic, and I’d hug this plaster-cast image of the Blessed Virgin with all the intensity of my three or four years. I’d wrap my arms around her and lift her up off the attic stairs so that I could kiss her fervently on the cheeks. I remember the great weight of her. I could hardly lift her off the floor. It was difficult to get a good grip as she was slippery and the few points of purchase were all sharp, small edges, but regardless I’d struggle to lift her and carry her down a step or two where I’d talk to her and stroke her head.

  There was a chip gone off her little nose but I didn’t mind that. She had lovely rosy cheeks. Her skin was a matt pink. She had blue eyes and the most gentle and pleasing expression. I loved the smoothness of her blue folds down along her back, and the way her head and shoulders were so dry and rounded and cold to my touch.

  I loved to run the flat of my hand down along the lines of her clothes, a well of love bubbling up in me. I remember the depth of my feelings for that statue. I never wanted to leave her. Although Our Lady was only made of plaster, she felt like a living, breathing presence to me.

  ‘Now, I’ll put her back on the ledge,’ my mother would explain and pry me off the statue. ‘She’ll be all right there for the night. Go in to your bed now and I’ll be in to say your prayers with you.’ And I’d kiss Our Lady again and hug her one more time before relinquishing her to my mother. Then I’d go in to bed to say my prayers. ‘And now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.’

  I must have outgrown the statue or else I was weaned off the practice of saying goodnight to her, but I remember noticing her one night when I was a year or two older and feeling no bond with her at all or any need to say goodnight. The strong connection I’d felt had evaporated and all I saw was a mute statue on a sill. There was no throbbing presence emanating energy and love. It was just an ordinary statue again.

  I looked and looked but I couldn’t see or feel it. I was a bit nonplussed, but I knew it was gone. The little painted face was the same; the little hands like a steeple were still poised in prayer. I longed for the angelic, childlike love I’d felt, but it had slipped away from me. The statue was a dead thing, even though I stood on the landing getting cold once or twice waiting in the hope that I’d feel it again.

  9

  Doing Alphonsus Road

  On the morning of my Holy Communion, I was dressed in my new clothes: a white knee-length dress; a shoulder-length veil that was held in place with hairpins and an elastic band under my hair; new t-strap white shoes over turned-down ankle socks. I had gloves and a white cardigan with mother of pearl buttons. Everything crinkled when I moved.

  I stepped gingerly over the hall tiles in the new shoes, rocking over the wooden lintel. I carried a handbag for my prayer book, my rosary beads and the ‘handsels’ I’d be getting later on of course – tokens of good luck that would mostly be in the form of money.

  ‘Come here till I handsel you,’ I’d hear as an admiring uncle or an aunt slipped a sixpence into my pocket with exaggerated discretion. ‘Turn around now till I look at you.’

  And so I made sure I went in to our neighbours next door to show them my finery on the day of my Holy Communion. I felt an obligation to parade my new outfit and visit as many neighbours as I could to collect whatever handsels they might like to offer. I felt like many first-born children: aware of my ability to give joy. I knew they’d be disappointed if they didn’t get an opportunity to offer handsels and, as a result, I’d feel I had let them down if I didn’t see them. So I left to knock on each door up along Lower Newtown. I went as far as the corner and turned up onto St Alphonsus Road.

  I knocked and waited politely at the first door. When the door opened, I waited to hear the plaudits. Sensing the woman of the house was going to hansel me, I held out my white patent-leather bag with its tight metal clasp and passed it to her for the money. After receiving those handsels I went to the next house. This time I did notice a moment of uncertainty. My would-be benefactor turned to look over her shoulder, perhaps to her husband or an elderly parent within. When she peered out over my shoulder to see if I really was on my own, I began to wonder if perhaps it was time to return to home camp.

  But my stash was growing so I continued up the hill.

  I weighed the bag as I went. It was mostly shillings, half-crowns and sixpences. A pound or a ten-shilling note was a rarity. I would count it out carefully when I got home, I decided, in readiness for school the next day when the burning question amongst all us First Holy Communicants would be ‘How much did you get?’

  My mother, meanwhile, had come out to our gate, wondering where her angelic all-in-white daughter had gotten to. She looked up and down the road for a sight of me. She asked the Chesters who were playing on the wall across the road if they’d seen me. ‘She’s gone up to do Alphonsus Road,’ one of them shouted.

  My mother’s heart must have sunk at the idea. Running in haste, she went to the corner and ran her eye up along the hill. When I heard her calling, I turned back happily and joined her at the corner. She took my hand and we rushed back to the house. As we went, I told her about the houses I had called to. I wasn’t worried about her being cross at all. I imagined she’d be pleased with me because I knew I was a little angel in my dress.

  She guided me in through the front door. When we were in the kitchen she recounted my exploits to my father. I saw them smiling but there was an element of embarrassment in their laughter too and I realised then that what I had done was not something I should repeat.

  10

  Annie Brophy

  Not long after making my First Holy Communion, my mother took me and my sisters to Annie Brophy’s photographic studio at 9 Barker Street in Waterford City. Brophy’s experience of photographing all aspects of social, religious, sporting and educational life throughout the city and the county was second to none. Even to my young ears, the photographer was known to be legendary.

  I was dressed in white from head to toe – dress, shoes, socks and gloves. I had my little white handbag draped over my arm and I took my veil along too. My two sisters were called in from the garden to be dressed in clean clothes and we all set off for the shoot.

  My memory of the visit is dim but I do remember that it didn’t take long, that Brophy was deft and brusque, completely focused on the job in hand. Her studio was a small room that was cool and quiet. A woman of few words, she pulled a brass tub closer to the stool where I was to sit. She moved my shoulders so that I was angled more towards her. The years have distilled my memory of the day. I remember how she arranged us: Miriam was put standing, while RoseAnn was asked to sit on a type of bench alongside our mother and me. Then Annie Brophy disappeared under the black cloth behind the tripod to drop the shutter and capture the image. All our energies became focused on that moment. She told me to look at her and not to move, and I waited to hear the click, terrified to move.

  In the end, it was all about the photograph.

  Brophy photographed me both sitting and standing, as well as taking the family shot of the four of us. My father was at work so he missed this occasion. In each photograph I am looking directly into the camera, smiling angelically. There is a kind of timelessness to these black-and-white photographs. I’m wearing my First Holy Communion medal and my two hands are together in my lap. Miriam’s hair is tied back off her face with a great bow on the crown of her head. RoseAnn stares out cagily from under a silky fringe and a couple of ringlets hang down to the top of her shoulders. My mother looks like a film star in pearls and a sleeveless black and white dress. Brophy had photographed her almost thirty years earlier for her Holy Communion in the late 1930s. We treasure this photograph, as we have no other image of my mother as a child.

  It was years later when I returned to Barker Street to retrace my steps. It’s strange to walk in the footsteps of an icon. You sense a presence. At times, you imagine you
are being taken by the hand and guided towards certain places. That’s how it felt when RoseAnn and I were making a documentary about Annie Brophy, the great Waterford photographer, who left an archive of more than 65,000 negatives behind her.

  Making the documentary, we became detectives, tiptoeing around our subject, trying to understand and discover what made her tick. From the photographs, it’s clear to see that she loved symmetry. She liked pattern and balance in her pictures. Many of the pictures have the composition of a tableau about them and many have a stillness and a quietness to them. Yet there’s truthfulness too. Fresh faces peer solemnly out at us from those earlier decades – serious, smiling, benign, vulnerable. They posed for her in the 1920s and 1930s before the war and afterwards, right up to the relative economic prosperity of the 1960s and 1970s.

  She was a mould-breaker and a shrewd businesswoman. Brophy was only seventeen when she began her training as a young photographer in 1916. While still a schoolgirl at the Mercy Convent, she was singled out as being artistic and an excellent student, and sent to train at the successful Hughes photographic studio in Manor Street in Waterford. She served her time there until Mr Hughes moved to London. She set up her own studio in 1922, shortly after Mr Hughes left, and she did not retire until 1978.

  ‘It was most unusual but it was well discussed at home with her parents,’ Annie’s niece, Carmel O’Regan, recalled. In the end, her family decided to support her in this endeavour.

  Annie kept copies of everything she photographed for the simple reason that people often looked for copies, whether it was of wedding parties or missionaries, of ordinations or class groupings, and so everything was filed away. The negatives were kept at the top of the house, all stored in shirt or shoeboxes, in cigarette or biscuit boxes and whatever else was available. An entire bedroom was her filing cabinet.