The Granny

by Brendan O'Carroll

  ‘But that’s ridiculous, Dermot. I’ve talked to her loads of times. She thinks the world of you. She’s so proud of you, you know.’

  Dermot slapped Buster gently on the shoulder and said, ‘Let’s not talk about it, Buster, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ Again for a couple of moments there was silence.

  Then Dermot smiled that impish smile of his. ‘I really caught you, didn’t P’ Dermot teased.

  ‘You bastard!’ The two men laughed.

  ‘I’ll get you back,’ Buster promised, and with that Mrs Dolan entered the kitchen.

  ‘Mr Brady — I think you’re in trouble! Your wi — Mrs Braem, your woman is here at the door. Apparently your dinner’s been ready for an hour.’

  Buster looked at Dermot. ‘I just might get you back sooner than you think, Dermot. Mrs Dolan would you show my woman in please?’

  ‘I will of course, Mr Brady, if that’s all right with you, Mr Browne.’

  ‘Of course it is. Bring the girl in.’

  When Mrs Dolan left the kitchen Dermot stood and began to brush the crumbs off his lap, preparing himself to meet Buster’s woman.

  ‘Did you hear that auld wan, me fuckin’ woman — she didn’t know what to call her,’ Buster remarked. The two men laughed.

  Just then the two women entered the room. Dermot’s laughter stopped and he stood agape. So did Buster’s woman!

  ‘Cathy?’

  ‘Dermot? Dermot Browne?’

  They rushed at each other and the embrace was a replica of the two men’s embrace at the front door an hour earlier.

  Mrs Dolan looked at Buster Brady questioningly. ‘Now what’s the story?’ she asked.

  Buster smiled and said simply, ‘It’s his sister.’

  ‘Good God - I have to have a drink.’ With that Mrs Dolan vanished into the sitting room.

  It had been a good day in Moore Street market. Agnes Browne had virtually sold out, except for a couple of cases of tomatoes and a box of oranges which she would store. They would sell the next day. With her two trestles folded, her canvas hood dismantled and the lot packed onto her trolley, she made her way towards her storage shed. On the way she had to pass the fish stand of Winnie the Mackerel. Winnie was wiping down her marble slab and preparing to close for the evening.

  ‘Good day, Winnie, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Great, Agnes. I only have the one salmon left. If I got rid of that it would be a perfect day!’

  ‘Fancy a drink, love?’ Agnes asked.

  ‘Be Jaysus I do, Agnes, where? Madigans?’

  ‘Yeh, Madigans!’

  The after-work rendezvous confirmed, Agnes headed down the little lane to her storage shed. When she had her stuff packed away and the door locked up for the night she went back up the lane expecting to find Winnie ready to go for the drink. Instead, she found her negotiating with a customer. Agnes listened in to see if Winnie was about to have her perfect day. The woman was well-spoken and obviously from the southside of the city.

  ‘Tell me, dear, am I too late for salmon?’

  ‘Not at all, love!’ Winnie rolled up her sleeves and delved with her two arms into the huge bucket of iced water that she had under her stall. She withdrew the salmon and plonked it on the slab.

  ‘This salmon has your name written all over it, missus, would you like me to bone it for you?’

  ‘It’s a tiny bit small, do you have a bigger one?’

  Winnie dropped the salmon back into the bucket, and looked over her shoulder at Agnes. She gave Agnes a wink.

  ‘Let me have a look, love,’ announced Winnie as she delved back into the bucket again. She drew out the same salmon, only this time she plonked it on the slab the opposite way round.

  ‘This one’s a bit bigger,’ Winnie announced.

  ‘Ah yes, now that’s a lovely salmon!’ the woman declared.

  Winnie again looked over her shoulder and winked at Agnes, but while she was in mid-wink the woman went on, ‘I’ll take both of them!’

  Agnes laughed and wondered what Winnie was going to do to get herself out of this one. Slowly Winnie turned back to the woman. The woman waited expectantly.

  ‘Ah ... I’m sorry, love, I couldn’t sell you both of them. You see, I’m having a dinner party meself tonight and I’m goin’ to hang on to one of the salmon. So you can either have this one or the smaller one, or none at all.’

  ‘Oh, you’re having a dinner party? So am I. I was going to do Salmon Béarnaise, what were you going to do?’

  ‘What? Em ... sandwiches, love. Salmon sandwiches. Now, do you want it or not?’

  ‘Oh well, go on then, I’ll take it. That one - the bigger one — I don’t want the small one.’

  Winnie wrapped the fish and took the money from the woman, dropping it into her purse to complete her perfect day. She tipped over her bucket of iced water into the gutter, loaded her trolley and headed down the lane to store her own stuff.

  Agnes roared after her, ‘I’ll meet you in Madigan’s, Winnie,’ and headed off to the pub.

  Dermot Browne turned his back and pretended to be looking at something in the shop window as Agnes walked past. She didn’t notice him. He looked after her as she waddled up Parnell Street. He didn’t know what to do next. He’d been hanging around Moore Street for the last hour and a half. He had seen his mother from every angle possible. God, how she had aged. There was more grey than black in her hair now. Her face was a mass of wrinkles and although they gave her face character, they took from the beauty that Dermot had remembered of his mother. He didn’t want to approach her in Moore Street with all the other stall holders around; she would have made too big a fuss and he also feared rejection. But he felt better now that he had seen her. As he took his first few steps to walk after her she disappeared in the doorway of Madigan’s pub. When he reached the doorway of the pub he stood outside for a few moments, shuffling his feet, trying to decide what to do next. He entered the pub. He looked around casually but he couldn’t see her anywhere. Then from behind the frosted glass in the window of the snug he heard her call to the barman.

  ‘A Malibu and pineapple, Arthur, and a pint of cider.’

  ‘Be with you in a minute, Agnes,’ the barman called.

  Dermot took a high stool right beside the frosted glass panel. When Agnes’s drinks were put on the bar they were no more than two feet from where he sat. His mother’s wrinkled hands came into view, and he watched the hands busily picking through the coins to extract the price of the drink. The nicotine-stained fingers and the grime from the vegetables thick under her nails were so familiar to Dermot, it reminded him of being a young boy again. He wanted to just reach over and squeeze her hand, but as soon as the money was laid on the bar the hands and the drinks vanished.

  The barman turned to Dermot. ‘Can I help you, son?’

  ‘Yes, a pint of Guinness,’ Dermot said very softly.

  The barman went away to begin the slow process of pulling the perfect pint. The pint arrived just as Winnie the Mackerel made her way into the snug. Dermot could hear the conversation clearly.

  ‘Ah, you’re a sweetheart, Agnes. What about your woman and the salmon?’ The two women laughed. For a few moments there was just the sound of the two glasses being replaced on the table and the swish of a match being struck against a matchbox. Dermot went to the gents’ toilet. On the way he called the barman and asked him to put up another round of drinks for the two women in the snug.

  The barman glanced down and said, ‘I’m just after giving them a round, will I hold on till they’re ready for them?’

  ‘Yes, do that.’ Dermot gave the man a five-pound note and told him to keep the change. The barman saluted him. Tips were thin on the ground in Pamell Street.

  Dermot found himself alone in the toilets. When he had finished at the urinal he washed his hands. As he was drying them under the hot air machine he looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like a scared little boy. He began to talk to his reflection.

  ‘F
or Christ’s sake, if you are ready to end this then so is she. Now just go out there and say: Hello, Mammy. After that just take it as it comes. Now, come on, do it now!’ He put his hands one on each side of the sink and hung his head.

  ‘Any news from your Dermot?’ Winnie the Mackerel asked as she shook the matchstick to extinguish the flame.

  ‘Not a word, the little bastard!’

  ‘He’s home two weeks now, Agnes. I was sure you would have heard from him.’

  ‘So was I. Do you know, Winnie, on the morning he was arriving I had the house spick and span and had the makings of a fry ready. I got up at seven o’clock, lit the fire and laid the table for breakfast for him and the boy. I was sure he would come by on his way to Kilbride. But no, not a word. The little bastard! Pierre slagged me. Told me I shouldn’t be getting me hopes up, but I was sure he’d call, if only to let me see Cormac.’

  Agnes finished speaking. She took a drag from her cigarette. As she exhaled the smoke she could see through the frosted glass the figure of a man leaning against it as he took his seat on the high stool. She watched as the man’s arm reached for a pint of Guinness. On one of the fingers was a single-stone diamond signet ring. That, along with the expensive-looking watch, told her that this man wasn’t a local — probably a tourist. She then noticed a tiny tattoo on his wrist, just below the watch but before the hand. It was three initials: B.H.G. For a moment she thought it vaguely familiar. But then Winnie the Mackerel drew her attention back again.

  ‘Ah Agnes, I think you’re being a bit hard on him. I think Dermot’s just trying to sort himself out and building himself up to it — know what I mean?’

  ‘Not at all! He’s a thoughtless, selfish bastard, just like his father was.’

  The two women now drew on their cigarettes simultaneously. After exhaling, they both picked up their drinks and took a mouthful. It was like watching people doing synchronised swimming. Arthur, the barman, then arrived at the snug’s hatch with a round of drinks.

  ‘Here we are, girls!’ he announced as he placed the drinks down on the bar counter.

  The two women looked at each other.

  ‘Jesus, Winnie, I didn’t see you ordering that!’

  ‘I didn’t order it, still I’ll pay for it!’ and Winnie stood up.

  ‘That’s all right, girls, it’s already paid for,’ Arthur announced, as if he had paid for it himself.

  ‘Paid for by who?’ the two women asked in chorus.

  ‘By this man — ah Jaysus, he’s gone! The man that was sitting there.’

  ‘Who was he?’ Winnie asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. He looked familiar, actually he looked like one of your lads, Agnes. Anyway the drink is paid for.’ Arthur was too busy to play detective.

  Agnes jumped up and burst through the snug door. All she saw was an empty stool and a half-finished pint of Guinness. Then she remembered the tattoo. It had been applied using the sharp end of a compass and Indian ink. B.H.G. stood for Boot Hill Gang. Suddenly it was clear. Just as suddenly everything went black.

  Chapter 25

  PROBABLY THE BEST WAY TO EXPLAIN what an aneurysm is, is to imagine the veins as plumber’s pipes. Now, try and picture a four-inch pipe coming to a V joint where it divides into two-inch pipes. One can imagine that when the gush of water from the four-inch pipe tries to disperse through the two two-inch pipes the build-up of pressure at the joint can be quite severe. Plumber’s pipes are made of copper. Unfortunately veins are not. Aneurysms can occur anywhere in the body, but they are most serious when they are in the brain. When the pressure builds up in an aneurysm it begins to inflate, and this can cause periods of unconsciousness. However, if the joint bursts it causes a cerebral haemorrhage, its most serious consequence. This usually causes brain damage, the symptoms of which are akin to a stroke. Most often indeed an aneurysm is followed by a stroke. On some occasions, it can be fatal.

  When the ambulance arrived at Madigan’s public house the paramedics immediately gave oxygen to Agnes. Then they gently lifted the woman’s crumpled body onto a stretcher. The ambulance rushed to the nearest casualty department, which was at the Mater Hospital on the North Circular Road. Winnie the Mackerel telephoned Pierre. Before leaving the house in Wolfe Tone Grove to go to the hospital, a panicking and worried Pierre ’phoned Mark and broke the news to him. Mark immediately dropped everything and prepared to leave for the Mater, instructing his secretary to inform every member of the Browne family of what had happened and where their mother was. Mark then went into the general office of Senga Furnishings where he took Cathy to one side and told her. With Cathy in tears, they left the building and made their way directly to the casualty department of the Mater Hospital. Within forty-five minutes all but two of Agnes Browne’s living children were in the waiting room.

  In Manchester, Trevor Browne was working on an illustration for his brother Dermot’s latest book, Blue Boy and Mary, when his studio door opened. He knew immediately he saw Maria’s ashen face that something was terribly wrong. Two hours later they were both aboard the St Finbar, an Aer Lingus 737, as it took off from Manchester airport. Trevor watched from his window seat as the ground sank away from the aircraft. Maria gently squeezed his hand. He made a great effort to smile, but couldn’t.

  At half-past eight that same night Buster Brady was sitting in front of the open fire at his home in the gate lodge. Pamela was asleep and Buster was worried. It just wasn’t like Cathy not to ring if she was going to be late home. He only barely heard the knock on the door above the racket the rain was making as it lashed against the windows. When he opened the front door Buster was surprised to find young Cormac standing on the doorstep under an umbrella. The boy had no coat on and was shivering.

  ‘Cormac? Come in, son, come in.’ Buster took the umbrella from the boy and shook it. He led Cormac into the hallway and closed the door against the rain.

  ‘Dermot said I was to stay here tonight,’ Cormac said, his face sad.

  ‘Sure, it will be a pleasure to have you here. Did he say why, Cormac?’

  The boy shrugged and shook his head slowly.

  Buster squatted down in front of him. ‘What’s wrong, son?’

  ‘Dermot’s up in the house on his own. He’s crying ... and he’s drunk.’ The boy began to sob.

  Buster took the boy into a warm embrace and spoke softly into his ear. ‘Don’t you worry, Cormac. Dermot has a lot on his mind, he probably just needs to be alone tonight. He’ll be fine in the morning, you’ll see. Come on, let’s you and me have a couple of cups of hot chocolate.’ He held the boy back at arm’s length and beamed a smile at him. ‘What do you say?’

  Cormac’s face brightened a little. ‘Okay, Buster, thanks.’

  After a cup of hot chocolate, and a long chat which encompassed everything from Cormac’s new school to Buster’s hopes for his gardening business, Cormac began to feel drowsy. Buster picked up the boy and carried him to his and Cathy’s bed where he undressed him and tucked him in. It was an hour later when the phone rang. Buster snatched it up before it had completed its second ring. Slowly Buster sank into the chair beside the hall table as Cathy broke the news, explaining why she was late in coming home.

  The rain was now teeming down. Buster ran up the driveway as fast as he could but was still drenched by the time he got to the front door of Dermot’s house, which now bore the nameplate ‘Dragonfly’ in black on brass. Lights were on everywhere in the house. He could hear the strains of Johnny Reggae playing in one of the rooms. It was old ’seventies music and reminded Buster of the days when he and Dermot were skinheads and used to dance to all kinds of reggae. Buster rang on the doorbell. He waited. He rang on the doorbell again, this time four times. Again he waited. Again there was no answer. Getting himself even more wet, and cursing, Buster made his way around to the kitchen door which he found unlocked. When he had closed the door behind him he snatched one of Mrs Dolan’s tea-towels and began to dry his hair as he walked through the house.

&nb
sp; He found Dermot in the sitting room. The album Dermot had been listening to was finished and the turntable was now making a ‘clickety-click’ sound, as the needle jumped around the last groove in the album. Dermot was unconscious. He was a mess. The shattered remains of a broken whiskey bottle were strewn around the fireplace. Dermot was lying half-on, half-off the couch, his hand resting on another bottle of whiskey, the contents of which were half-consumed. Buster shook him. Dermot slowly opened his eyes. When he recognised Buster, Dermot’s face broke into the lazy, stupid smile of the drunk.

  ‘Ah, Buster ... there you are ... come on and the two of us will rob a bus. Ha, ha, ha!’ Dermot’s voice was slurred and he broke into a manic laugh as he sat up, or at least tried to sit up.

  ‘Jesus, Dermo, are you all right?’ Buster was concerned.

  ‘I’m grand, Buster, fuckin’ grand, never felt better in me life. Sure, am I not me father’s son and well able for the whiskey?’ Dermot held up the half-bottle of whiskey in the air. ‘Whiskey is your only man, Buster, will you have some?’

  ‘No thanks, Dermo, I don’t want any. Listen, Dermot, I have some bad news — ’

  ‘Good man, Buster, just what we need - a little bit o’ bad news. Lay it on me - I’m your man for the bad news. Sure, wasn’t me father bad news, and amn’t I bad news, and no news is good news and ... Oh fuck!’ Dermot slumped back down onto the couch.

  Buster stretched his arm out and stopped Dermot putting the bottle to his lips. ‘Dermo, listen for a second. Your mother’s been taken into hospital.’

  Dermot had his mouth in an ‘O’ shape, anticipating it meeting the neck of the bottle. His mouth then changed to a grin. ‘Good! I hope it’s a fuckin’ mental hospital!’

  ‘Dermo, I’m serious.’

  ‘So am I, Buster, dead fuckin’ serious. That woman has no time for me - and I have no time for her. And that’s the way it is, Buster, no fuckin’ time. Do you know what I mean?’