by Anne Griffin
‘I’ll take your best cleaner with no English,’ I told the agency in Dublin, ‘I don’t want anyone local. I want someone discreet who’s not a gossip. I’ll pay extra for her petrol if needs be.’
She cooks too. Leaves me a couple of stews for the week. Mind you, they taste nothing like Sadie’s; in fact, I couldn’t tell you what they are. It took me a while to get used to them. Garlic, lots of that, apparently. But I surprised myself when I started to look forward to them, especially the chicken one. All that time with Bess, keeping me going, Robert was killed telling me I could’ve gotten the Health Board to foot the bill for a cleaner and gotten Meals on Wheels into the bargain.
‘Are you mad?’ I said, ‘I’ve never had a handout in my life and I’m certainly not starting now.’
Svetlana has sauntered over. Finished with her inspections and cleaning and glass stacking. She’s been pacing the bar for the last few minutes, waiting for the hordes to arrive.
‘You here for dinner later, yes?’
I like that name of hers. Svetlana. It’s straight up, sharp yet still has a bit of beauty about it. I wonder how I look to her? Nuts, no doubt. Sitting here, lost in my thoughts, the odd mumble escaping every now and again. She leans forward on the counter, eager for something to happen, even a lame conversation with the auld lad at the bar will do, it seems.
‘I’m not,’ I say, and it’s there I’d normally leave it. But tonight is no ordinary night. ‘Is tonight your first night here?’ I ask.
‘Second. I work last night.’
I nod, swirl the last drop at the bottom of my glass, before downing it. Ready now to begin the first of five toasts: five toasts, five people, five memories. I push my empty bottle back across the bar to her. And as her hand takes it and turns away, happy to have something to do, I say under my breath:
‘I’m here to remember – all that I have been and all that I will never be again.’
Chapter Two
7.05 p.m.
First Toast: to Tony
Bottle of stout
There’s stirrings out in the foyer. Looks like the boys in all their finery are beginning to trickle in. I’ll not have this place to myself for much longer.
‘Another stout, there,’ I say to Svetlana who looks like she’s having an attack of first-night nerves. ‘Keep that seat for me there. Don’t be letting those lads take it. The best seat in the house.’
It’s time for the little boy’s room. One of the perks of being eighty-four, your legs get regular exercise from all the toilet trips.
‘By the neck, yes?’ she asks, as I’m heading off.
‘Listen to you and the lingo,’ I call back to her, not letting on my concern that I’ve left my trip a little too late, ‘by the neck or the arse, I don’t care, just make sure it’s still in the bottle and from the shelf,’ I say speeding up.
‘One of these?’ she says, halting my escape.
Can she not sense the danger?
‘Aye,’ I say, starting again.
‘Glass?’
Heavens above.
‘No, sure stick an auld straw in it and I’ll be grand,’ I call back to her.
‘You joke right?’
I wave a hand as I disappear from view.
* * *
There were four children in my family. Four was relatively small, I suppose, for that time in Ireland. There were families of nine or ten or more all round us. We must have seemed odd. Two adults and four youngsters to a two-bedroom cottage. A luxury, almost. Tony was the oldest, then there was May and Jenny and me, the youngest. A year, maybe two, between the lot of us.
You never knew your Uncle Tony. He was long gone by the time you arrived. ‘Big Man’ – that’s what he called me. I know that’s what I became, six foot three and built like a house. But back when that nickname stuck, I was far from it. At four, I was the tiniest of things compared to the towering giant of him, or so he seemed to me. I imagine my little steps beside his on the road or round the farm. Always running to catch up, three of my little trots to his one stride. All the time him chatting to me, telling me about the hens we were feeding or the carrots we were planting in Mam’s little garden or the ditches we were clearing. The man loved the land as much as my father. And I’d be looking up at him, trying not to trip while taking everything in, trying my best to remember, to show him I could do it too, relishing his praise.
‘Now you have it,’ he’d say, ‘aren’t you the great man.’
Despite my best efforts to keep pace, I’d inevitably fall or do myself some kind of injury trying to carry buckets that were far too big for me, just to be like him. He’d come back then and hunker beside me.
‘You’ll be better before you’re twice married,’ I imagine him saying, brushing me down, hugging me maybe, lightening my load then and slowing his pace for a while. You’d swear he was decades older than me, the way he used to mind me. But he was only five years my senior.
I’d have worked well into the evening with him, had I been let. But somewhere along the way my mother would come to fetch me.
‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ he’d say to my protests, as she carried me back in. Me with my hands outstretched to him trying not to cry for fear he’d see what a baby I was. And would you look at me now, still at it, battling those tears.
I’d wait by the window in the kitchen for him then. Getting up and down on the bench, despite my mother’s scolding, until he and my father finally finished their day.
I remember once when Father Molloy visited the house. Like all adults he was curious about what I wanted to be when I grew up. It seemed an odd type of question to me, I mean, the answer was so bloody obvious:
‘Tony,’ I said.
I couldn’t fathom why he and my parents laughed so much at my reply. I walked out of the kitchen, leaving them there with the hilarity of it all and the good china.
The name ‘Big Man’ stuck from our school days. Tony had been walking the half-mile to the one-roomed school for a fair few years before I joined him. Rainsford National School – engraved in an arch over the front door – that’s what Tony told me it read, as I proudly passed under it on my first day. Tony had me wound up the whole way there with the thoughts of how exciting it would be, what with all the children from around gathered in one place. I don’t think I’d slept a wink the night before, either.
‘Tony,’ I whispered to him beside me in the bed, not wishing to wake Jenny and May, who slept behind the curtain that divided the room, ‘does Patrick Stanley go to the school?’
‘Of course he does.’
‘And Mary and Joe Brady?’
‘Sure, what other school would they go to?’
‘And Jenny and May?’
‘Would you stop your messing and go to sleep or we’ll be going nowhere tomorrow,’ he said, pucking me with his elbow.
I was up first the next day, asking the same stuff all over again. I walked in Tony’s shoes, literally, that day. His hand-me-downs. I’ve no idea whose shoes he got. I strode through the school door, staring around in awe of the place that would make me as clever as my big brother.
‘Well, now, and who do we have here?’ a voice boomed as I entered. ‘Another Hannigan is it? Get up here and let’s have a good look at you.’
Master Duggan hauled me up, on to a desk at the front of the room.
‘Would you look at the size of you, a big man, what? I hope we have a desk big enough to fit you and all those brains you’re storing in that head of yours.’
I was ‘Big Man’ from that moment on.
I was beaming, proud of the welcome. I watched Tony laughing, elbowing his mates. I looked at the desks and the blackboard and the few books behind me on the master’s table and felt a warmth for the place and the things that were a part of my world now. I was keen to get on with it, to prove the master correct. I shuffled my feet in anticipation and was down soon enough sitting at the very desk on which I’d stood.
Over the next couple of days
the master drew all sorts on the board. We chanted our ABC’s but I hadn’t a clue that what we rhymed had anything to do with what he’d written up there with the white chalk. At first, I didn’t mind too much that it felt out of my reach while the others, even Joe Brady who was three months younger than me, seemed to eventually get the hang of it.
The only thing I truly loved and kept me running up that road every morning was the football. At break time the master rolled up his sleeves and bent expectantly between the jumper goalposts. Or when nothing was coming his way, ran between them shouting:
‘Would you kick the thing?’
‘Mark him, mark him.’
‘Pass it, man!’
The girls played with a skipping rope outside the back door, out of the way of the ball. Their laughter and scolding of those who weren’t playing properly reached me as I hurtled around the yard in a muck sweat of pure delight. I hadn’t played much football before that. We had the hurls at home, but football was the master’s game. I gave it all I had. A good man for a tackle. Thought nothing of diving in. And if Tony had the ball, well, I was stuck to him, all hands and legs, pulling out of whatever bit of him I could get a hold of.
‘Stop, would you?’ he’d laugh. He was like King Kong swatting away those planes. Put his hand on my forehead, the fecker. Holding me at arm’s-length so I couldn’t get near him. My arms flailing nevertheless. I fell, a hundred and one times. Blood and bruises. But it was of no consequence, it didn’t dampen my enthusiasm.
‘Good man, Hannigan. Up you get. That’s the spirit,’ the master called from the goal.
I couldn’t get enough of his encouragement out there on our makeshift pitch. A welcome change from his silence and frustration at my efforts in the classroom. No amount of him reminding me which letter was ‘b’ and which one was ‘d’ helped me remember, let alone grabbed my interest. My enthusiasm for the books slipped down, away from me, like my fallen knee socks. In those moments all I wanted was to lay my head on the refuge of the rippled wooden desk, to feel its shiny surface from years of varnish and fingertips, and close my eyes.
His piling on the praise in the playground worked a treat. On I’d charge again, not giving a damn about any prospective injuries. But I was forever disappointed when he called time and took the ball and walked towards the back door. My stomach sinking at the thought of the darkness in that room, let alone the depression in my head.
I improved very little with my letters over the years despite everyone’s efforts, especially Tony’s. I spent most days with my head fuzzy, not able to catch up or understand the things on the board or on the page. Numbers weren’t so bad. They made some sense. I could add and subtract and, in time, multiply. Tony saw my progress and pushed me on. All the way to school and all the way home, we’d practise. He’d make a game of it, making sure I knew my money and the time, so that Mam and Dad and Master Duggan might let me be. He tried with the words too:
‘Think of a “b”, like it’s a stick man holding a ball in front of him. And a “d” is a dumbo hiding the ball behind him.’
I’d try to hold that in my head, ‘ball, in front, dumbo behind’. And it worked, when the letters were on their own and not in the middle of words or at the end. That’s when everything started to swim around on the blackboard or on the page and I couldn’t order them or the sounds in the right place.
I punched Tony once on our way home when he wouldn’t let up pushing me to get it right.
‘Would you give over saying you’re stupid, Big Man, you’re as able as the next fella.’
‘Go ’way,’ I yelled, as he doubled over. ‘I am so stupid,’ I called back as I ran off into the bit of a forest that, back then, stood at the front of our house.
I’ll admit that behind my tears, I was impressed that I’d managed to floor him. But as I ran, weaving my way through the trees, trampling on the fallen leaves and branches, the shame of it crept up on me. My exhausted body finally came to a stop at a clearing that faced west out across the Dollards’ land. There, I screamed out my fury so loudly that I was sure its power reached over those fields, up the hills and down as far as Duncashel.
It was dark by the time I headed home that evening. My stomach told me it was about six o’clock when I walked through the door and heard the clatter of the tea things. My family’s chat quietened as I slipped on to the end of the bench at the table. But my mother continued to fill the teacups like there was nothing untoward at all. I didn’t dare lift my head, hoping they might all have the decency to ignore me. As I concentrated on my hands twisting in my lap, I heard my knife rattle against my plate. I looked up to find a slice of soda bread newly landed there. Tony. I didn’t need to look to know, but still I raised my eyes to find his smile and wink.
Master Duggan wasn’t the worst, I have to give him his due. When I hear the stories now of what kids endured back in those days, I’m lucky I wasn’t beaten black and blue or worse. As the years went on it was like we came to an understanding, him and me, that he’d leave me alone when it came to asking questions, if I never made trouble. He never pushed or embarrassed me. Never stuck me in the corner or once called me lazy. I believe he simply didn’t know what to do with me. We were together on that. Most of the time I asked if I could be excused to go to the toilet. Not that we had toilets, but it became our code, when he knew I needed a break. I roamed around the back of the school, over the wall in the fields, wandering up and down, looking out on the countryside below, seeing the neighbours at work. I’d go back after a good long stint out in the fresh Meath air, to listen and watch the others succeed and belong.
There was this one lunchtime, I must’ve been about seven, when I decided I’d had enough. Three years I’d been trying at that stage. By then, Tony had only a couple of months left in school. He was twelve and once June came he was leaving to work the land full-time with our father. The football had been particularly good that day. I had been brilliant. In my memory, I had scored every goal, made every deciding tackle, even getting the ball from Tony once or twice. I was a genius. And then the master called a halt to proceedings to get us back inside. I knew then, at that moment, that I couldn’t. It felt like a weight had been planted on my head, not allowing me to move. I sat on the low wall that marked the school boundary, breathing heavily, watching the fallen-down socks and bruised legs of the others scurry and kick their way through the door. I could see the master looking at me. But he didn’t move; instead he called Tony and whispered something in his ear. I watched them watching me, before the master headed on inside and Tony trotted over.
‘Alright, Big Man? Come on, we have to go in.’
‘I want to go home,’ I said.
‘You can’t be doing that. Come on, the master will be waiting,’ he said, heading on again.
I said nothing, not moving an inch.
‘Listen,’ he said, returning, his hand now between my shoulder blades, pushing me off the wall and ahead of him with some strength, ‘the day’s nearly over. We’ll be out of here before you know it.’
I near fell in the door of the classroom, with the force of his pushes. I walked slowly by each table, my finger trailing along every one, to get to my seat, where I stayed for the long afternoon with a big sulky head on me.
‘I hate it,’ I repeated, over and over on our way home.
‘It’ll get better.’
‘Yeah, right. Well how come I’m still as stupid as the day I started, then.’
I ran ahead of him, like it was his fault. Ran all the way back into the house. Flew in through the kitchen, ignoring my mother’s gaping mouth and was down with the dust balls under the bed before she had time to stop me. Refused to come out. Lay there, picking at the threadbare rug that half-covered the cold concrete floor, listening to the muffled talk seeping through the slats of the latched wooden door.
‘What happened, Tony?’ Mam asked, when he eventually landed in.
‘Nothing. Seriously. Nothing happened. I don’t know what’s go
t into him. I’ll sort him.’
Tony sat down by the bed bringing me the glass of milk and buttered soda bread my mother always produced after the school day was over and before we headed off to find our father and the work he had lined up for us. Tony placed his plate beside mine. When there was no sign of me coming out he pushed mine in under a little further. I ignored the food for as long as my stomach let me, then I reached to take bits of the bread. Eventually I pushed them and myself back out and sat beside Tony. We said nothing. Just ate and looked at my sisters’ bed opposite. Made to perfection, not a pillow or blanket out of place, the crochet-knitted cover, made by Jenny and May over the previous winter, that gave weight and warmth at night, spread smoothly on top.
‘Do you think we should make one of them?’ Tony said. ‘One of those crochet covers?’ I looked at him like he’d gone mad. ‘Like I know women are good at all that kind of stuff but I don’t see why we couldn’t do it. It’d be fierce warm in the winter.’
‘I’m not taking up knitting so people can laugh at me even more.’
‘Hold on, Big Man, that’s not what I meant.’
‘Yes it is, you think all I’m good for is women’s work.’
‘Ah now, Maurice, that isn’t what I was saying at all. And no one is laughing at you, either.’
‘Oh yes they are. Joe Brady called me a dumbo yesterday when I got the spelling wrong.’
‘So that’s why you hit him,’ he laughed, impressed. ‘He’s no feckin’ genius anyway. He can’t even tie his laces for feck sake. And have you seen the state of his ears? I mean no man with ears that stick out like that has a right to call anyone a dumbo.’
Despite myself, I smiled.
‘Come on, Big Man. We’ll figure this out, OK? Me and you, right. Me and you against the world, yeah?’ He got me in the gentlest headlock and ruffled my hair. ‘You’ll be grand.’
But I wasn’t. And every morning after, they had to pull me kicking and screaming from my bed. My father was pushed to limits that were not naturally him.