Unspoken

by Gerard Stembridge

  ‘Mrs Storan says can Mr Mac come straight away.’

  ‘Jimmy! It’s the boy of the Strong’s. Mary Storan is looking for you. Straight away she says.’

  ‘It’s for my mam.’

  Mr Mac appeared. He loomed over Ritchie, huge everywhere with a baldy head. He sounded a bit annoyed.

  ‘What’s Mary in such a hurry for at this hour?’

  ‘He says it’s for his mother.’

  Ritchie remembered what Mrs Storan had told him to say.

  ‘Mrs Storan said my mam is started already.’

  The words were like magic. Ritchie saw the look on their faces change completely. Mr Mac stopped being annoyed and Mrs Mac suddenly smiled kindly and spoke to Mr Mac in a low, careful voice.

  ‘That’s right, sure I was talking to her in Curtin’s a few days ago and she was telling me that… you know… soon, like.’

  Mr Mac grabbed a jacket and walked to the Zephyr. Ritchie was delighted. Mrs Storan would be pleased with him for doing the job right. As Mr Mac reversed out fast, he shouted, ‘Close them gates after me.’

  Though he didn’t want to get his hopes up, Ritchie noticed as he closed the gate that Mr Mac hadn’t driven off. Then he heard him say, ‘Hurry up, your mam is waiting. Do you want a lift or not?’

  Yes! A dream come true. He was going to get a ride in a taxi. Ritchie pulled open the passenger door and dived in. The front seat was like a huge couch. Ritchie knew the ride was only going to last a couple of minutes, so he had to make the most of it. He tried to watch Mr Mac changing gears at the same time as looking out the side window at the houses flying by. He leaned back to feel how soft the big seat was compared to his dad’s lorry, and noticed how low down and close to the road he was, which made it seem like they were going even faster.

  ‘So you’re Fonsie Strong’s youngfellah?’

  Ritchie nodded.

  ‘What age are you?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘What are you going to be when you grow up?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Don’t be a taxi driver anyway. Your life isn’t your own.’

  Ritchie thought that was a mad thing to say. He wished Mr Mac would stop talking so he could concentrate on the journey and remember every second of it. Sure enough, like the donkey rides in Ballybunion, it hardly started and it was over.

  ‘Tell your mam I’m here.’

  As Ritchie jumped out he could see that Gussie and the others had stopped playing football and were staring over at him, eyes hanging out of their heads. Ha-ha! Gussie, nosey as usual, came galloping over. Mrs Storan was suddenly at his shoulder, puffing like mad on a fag.

  ‘You’re great to come so fast, Jimmy. Listen, she’s very near, she’s going to St Gerard’s. You’ll do it for two bob, won’t you? I told her you wouldn’t charge more than two bob.’

  ‘She’s going to St Gerard’s and she’s arguing about the price of the cab?’

  ‘Ah, Brendan, she’s been saving every penny for that place ever since she found out.’

  Mrs Storan leaned in and dropped her voice. Ritchie couldn’t hear more than a whispering sound. Mr Mac nodded.

  ‘Ah, God help us. Go on so, tell her we’ll have her there in no time.’

  Mary pulled Ritchie and Gussie closer.

  ‘Now, I’m going with your mam –’

  ‘Is she sick?’

  Mary looked at Ritchie, worried, and Gussie, curious. Eleven and ten.

  ‘Sick? Not at all, she’s grand, she just has to – to go to the church. She’s going to the Redemptorists for an all-night vigil. I’m going as well, but I’ll be back in about half an hour. Now you wait upstairs with our Shamie. Martin is with him. Oh, Jesus Mary and Joseph, where’s Marian?’

  ‘She’s over playing dolls in Pauline Cosgrave’s flat.’

  ‘Gussie, be a good boy and go and get her. Bring her upstairs when you come back.’

  The last thing Gussie Strong wanted to do was leave all this excitement to go looking for his little sister, but Mrs Storan had that look about her that told him it was no time for arguing. Still, as he trotted across the green to the Cosgraves’ flat, he kept looking back in case he missed something.

  Now Mary could hear moans from inside the downstairs flat so she raised her voice more as she spoke to Ritchie, hoping to drown them out.

  ‘Tell Shamie I said you can have bread and jam. If Fonsie – your dad – comes back before I do, tell him… tell him… your Mam was ready and she had to go straight away. What’ll you say, Ritchie?’

  ‘Mam was ready and she had to go straight away. To the vigil?’

  ‘Don’t mind too much about the vigil. Just say your mam was ready and she had to go straight away. Will you do that?’

  ‘Yeah. Is Dad late again? Is that why you have to get a taxi?’

  Mary had to stop herself from laughing. Poor old Fonsie getting the blame as usual.

  ‘No, sure you know your dad is never home this early. He works too hard. Anyway, when he gets home, tell him I’ll be back soon. Go on up now.’

  Ritchie was sure he could hear his mother through the door making queer noises.

  ‘Can’t I go in to my mam?’

  ‘Will you go up! Do what you’re told!’

  Even though he was worried and a bit afraid, Ritchie Strong was an obedient boy. Mary watched him all the way to the top of the stairs before opening the door to Ann, who had managed to change her clothes and was leaning against the wall, holding a bag. She moaned and caught her breath.

  ‘How often now?’

  ‘It’s not too bad. Every few minutes.’

  ‘Here, let me carry that for you. Jimmy is waiting.’

  ‘The place is in an awful state, Mary.’

  ‘Will you go on outta that. I’ll clean that up in a few minutes when I get back.’

  ‘I’ve washed all their clothes. And towels and sheets. You saw them there, airing in the hot press. That should do them for the week, I don’t want you putting yourself to any more trouble.’

  ‘Don’t worry about any of that.’

  ‘How much is he charging?’

  ‘Jesus, Ann, will you come on!’

  ‘I’ve left a list of the groceries for Fonsie. He’ll do all the shopping, you don’t need to worry about that. And he’ll make their breakfast before he –’

  Mary Storan pushed Ann into the back of the taxi. She sat in next to her and slammed the door. Ann sagged and moaned quietly. She was going to lose it. She knew in her heart she was going to lose her baby. Oh, St Gerard how can you let me lose it at this stage? Where would she be without Mary, who was poking Jimmy Mac on the shoulder?

  ‘Jesus, come on, move, will you?’

  *

  Peg Ryan’s farm was another five miles beyond Mulvey’s, just outside Bruff. Fonsie Strong wasn’t sure if he should chance going out there so late in the day. It would take him that much longer to get home afterwards and there would be war if he got back too late to vote, but poor old Peg was a good customer and Fonsie didn’t want to leave her stuck for another fortnight, which was when he’d be out this way again. He could just manage it. A quarter past seven. If he got to Peg’s by half past, say, unload whatever she wanted in a couple of minutes, do his best to stop her telling him every bit of news since his previous visit and get away as quick as he could, he’d surely be home by eight. Or not long after, at any rate. That way he could have a wash, eat his tea, and get to the polling station before it closed. If he didn’t, his mother wouldn’t ever let him hear the end of it. ‘No wonder that fellah keeps getting elected if people like you won’t even bother to get out and vote.’ Kathleen Strong could rarely even bring herself to say de Valera’s name. Sometimes she would twist her mouth and spit out the word ‘Dev’ in a strangled voice, as if to mock the very idea that such a blackguard should have such a friendly nickname. ‘The day you were born that long string of misery was starting the civil war that ruined this country.’ Fonsie had heard this repeated all
through his growing up. It made him feel a bit like the state of the country was his fault.

  Normally, his mother wouldn’t have given the presidential election the time of day. What does the President do, only go round in his Rolls-Royce waving at people? she’d say. But this was different because Dev was finally resigning as Taoiseach and putting himself up for President so this was the first time she ever had a chance to vote against him personally instead of against his Party. She was looking forward to seeing the name de Valera on the ballot paper and then putting her mark down for the other fellah, General Mac Eoin, although, as far as she was concerned, if the other candidate had been his father’s old horse, Nell, that would have been just as good. Better even. Seventy-eight or not, his mother would have been up first thing this morning, marching herself and his father the mile and a half to the polling station. Fonsie had promised her that he’d definitely be home from work well in time for Ann and himself to cast their vote against ‘that fellah’. Luckily, Ann was no lover of Dev either, because there would have been no chance of her voting against him just to please his mother. Anything but.

  Fonsie was a tiny bit worried by the time he turned up the long dirt road to Peg Ryan’s. Twenty to eight already. He began to wonder how, without being rude, he might put a stop to Peg’s gallop once she kicked off. Usually her order was two hundredweight of Polish and he could unload that quick enough if he didn’t have to listen to her at the same time. The old woman appeared from the side door, big in her apron and rubber boots, rushing at the lorry like she was preventing a terrible accident, holding up huge leathery hands and crying out with a voice well used to summoning the dogs from the far end of the field.

  ‘Well now, Mr Strong, aren’t you very good to call. I hope you didn’t put yourself out to come back my way.’

  Fonsie reassured her. ‘No, Mrs Ryan, sure I’m out this way every second Wednesday.’

  ‘You are indeed, sure, you are, to be sure, don’t I know it. Well, Sacred Heart, is it two weeks already and you last here? I suppose it must be ’cause wasn’t I saying to you then that it was coming for eight months since poor Seamus and here we are now a week since the eight months…’

  Fonsie had the feeling she’d never get over her husband’s death. Her whole life had been spent looking after his every comfort.

  ‘… because wait ’til I tell you now. With the weather as balmy as it has been this past while, to be honest with you, I don’t be lighting the fire that much. And of course since poor Seamus I do take myself off to bed that little bit earlier with the paper, instead of sitting up on my own.’

  Her hand rested on the driver’s door as she looked up at him, so Fonsie felt a bit trapped in the cab. Her broad veiny face seemed older and sadder every time he called. Fonsie could think of no way to stop the flow.

  ‘I was down by the coalshed earlier this morning and didn’t I think of you, because I was saying to myself, there now, I’ve hardly used up much of the last load. I wasn’t sure was it today you were coming out or not, do you see, but thinking maybe it might be and then of course, when I turned on the wireless a few minutes ago and Joe Linnane had started already I thought, that’s grand, he’ll never come at this hour so I haven’t put the man out, meaning you. And then, next thing what do I hear, only a vehicle coming up the road and of course I’d know the sound of your lorry anywhere.’

  It was not the first time today Fonsie had heard a similar story. He still had more than half a load on board after being out for eleven hours. It was hard to sell coal in fine weather.

  ‘I’m awful sorry to put you out, Mr Strong, and you so good to come, but honest to God, if you were to have a look in the shed now you’d see the load of coal still in there and sure, at the rate I’m going, what I have now will nearly do me for the rest of the summer.’

  Fonsie tried not to think of the time wasted nor the loss of the few shillings. Poor old Peg, what was she to do? She couldn’t be lighting fires just to please him. It was probably loneliness was sending her to bed early.

  ‘Will you come in for a cup of tea at least now you’re here? Maybe I could take a bag of slack. Sure, there’d be no harm in getting one in anyway, just to be sure, and ’twould last me. If you have one to spare.’

  Fonsie thought of the time. If the tea was made already he could down it fast enough. Make the poor woman feel better about not buying any coal.

  ‘Only if it’s made already. Don’t go to any trouble.’

  ‘Ah sure, what trouble, after all the trouble you took to come out here.’

  The tea had not been made, but by the time it was, it was fine and strong, and the griddle cake was still moist, the tang of sour milk putting an agreeable taste in Fonsie’s mouth. Poor Peg talked and talked like she might never get to say another word to a living soul after he left her. By the time he got back into the lorry he was afraid even to look at his watch knowing that, at this stage, the chances of getting home in time for even a quick wash before running out to vote were small. Worse again, what if Ann had the tea on the table waiting for him? The trouble she’d gone to in her condition, the time wasted. To try and make up Fonsie would have to eat it cold when he got back from the polling station, no matter what it was. Peg was still talking up at him as he started the engine.

  ‘Definitely now, in a month or so I’ll need an order. Don’t worry yourself one little bit until then, but definitely now in a month. Six weeks, say.’

  The road from Bruff back into town was twisting and full of potholes, but at least there was hardly any traffic and Fonsie could chance making the lorry rattle along a bit faster. By the time he drove into town past the cemetery and the mental hospital, he finally got up enough nerve to check his watch. Just after half eight. Fonsie Strong never usually thought, let alone spoke, bad words. Even now, tense and agitated, the most violent expression that came into his head was, ‘Oh heck.’ He knew already that Ann would trail after him into the bathroom, telling him he was always the same, always late, and it was she had to put up with it, her tone as pungent as the industrial smell from the big tin of Swarfega on the bathroom mantelpiece, as aggressive as the way every evening Fonsie had to attack his coaldust-ingrained hands with the powerful green jelly.

  As often before, in situations like this, when time was against him and the damage was already done, Fonsie now slowed down. Things would be as they would be. It had been a long, back-breaking day, so warm and dry it made him think kindly of the chill rain that frequently washed his face in winter as he humped saturated sacks from lorry to coalshed. At least rain sold more coal. Today he had driven about fifty miles around the east of the county and was still coming home with more than half a lorry-load, which meant less than two pounds for himself for his day’s work. Not enough. Definitely not enough with another baby on the way. But what could he do but try?

  Fonsie noticed when he got into the hall that the voices of his children seemed to be coming from Mary Storan’s flat upstairs. Was Ann up there? If so, he couldn’t hear her, nor, much more surprisingly, Mary Storan. He opened his own door quietly. Not a sound from inside. He looked into the front room. Though it was not quite dark, Ann would usually have the lights on by now. There was no one in the front room or anywhere else in the flat by the sound of it. The voice he heard now, shouting over the general noise, was definitely Gussie’s. And another boy’s voice. Still no sound of adults. Fonsie decided he’d better go up and find out what was going on but first he would have a quick gander in the kitchen just in case Ann had left a note on the table. Walking across the room he called out, more for something to say than any expectation of an answer, but skidded and fell before he finished a sentence, ‘Ann, are you –?’ It was only when his hands touched the lino that he realised how wet the floor was. Sliding a little, he stood up carefully. What the heck was going on? The shouting upstairs was getting louder. There was a thump on the ceiling as bodies hit the floor above. Still no adult voices. He’d better get up there now. When Fonsie arrived
at the top of the stairs and pushed open the door of Mary Storan’s kitchen, seven roaring children got the shock of their lives. The sight of this black-faced man coming home from work late in the evenings was not unusual. All the local children were well used to Mr Strong the coalman and his jalopy, but this time, lost in their screaming match, the Storans and the Strongs had heard nothing until, suddenly, the kitchen door swung open and a blackened face loomed. It was poor little Catríona Storan who saw it first and let out a huge scream which made everyone jump. It took even Fonsie’s own children a couple of seconds to realise who it was.

  Shamie Storan was the first to cop on that there was going to be trouble, and he wanted to make sure that Mr Strong knew it was all Gussie Strong’s fault. It wasn’t his flat in the first place and all Shamie had done was try to stop him cutting up their loaf of bread. It was annoying enough to be told he had to give Martin Strong bread and jam, but then Ritchie Strong came in, who he hated anyway, and after him, Gussie Strong, acting like he owned the place, along with his sister Marian, who started asking his baby sister Catríona why this and why that when she should have been asking Shamie who had been put in charge. That’s what he told Gussie Strong when he picked up the loaf of bread and started walking around with it asking where the bread knife was. Shamie told him put it down, this isn’t your flat. It’s not your flat either, it’s the corporation’s, said Gussie, who always thought he was so smart. Shamie said to Ritchie, tell your thick brother to put that bread back, it’s not his, and Marian stuck her nose in where it wasn’t wanted and said your mam said we could have tea and bread and jam and Shamie said how do you know what my mam said when you didn’t even see her. That was when Gussie found the knife in the drawer and started giving out orders, telling Shamie, you make the tea and I’ll make the bread and jam, so Shamie took a jump at him. Next thing the black face appeared out of nowhere. Shamie opened his mouth to explain this but Mr Strong shut them all up.

  ‘That’s enough now, that’s enough of that now. Ritchie, Gussie, that’s enough now! What’s going on? Where’s Mam? What are you doing up here?’ Ritchie saw his father’s eyes turn on him. Now he’d probably get the blame, when it was Gussie’s fault. Like when Gussie painted Reidy’s dog and Ritchie was told he should have stopped him.