The Granny

by Brendan O'Carroll

  Buster tried again. ‘Dermot, I think she might be really sick.’

  ‘Buster, I know she’s really fuckin’ sick - sure she’s a fuckin’ lunatic.’

  Dismayed, Buster now tried to lift Dermot to his feet. ‘Come on, Dermo, we have to get you to the hospital.’

  ‘I will and me bollox.’ Dermot said this with venom, as he pushed Buster back. In his drunken state, Dermot underestimated his own strength. Buster toppled backwards, cracking the side of his head on the comer of the coffee table. Dermot sat back down on the couch. Buster stood up and put his hand to his cheekbone where he had hit his face. When he took his hand away and looked at his fingers there was blood on them.

  ‘I’m cut,’ he said simply.

  Dermot didn’t look over to him, he just took a swig from the whiskey bottle. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll fuckin’ heal.’ Dermot lay back and closed his eyes.

  Buster had had enough. He turned and walked out of the room. As he opened the front door to leave, the telephone began to ring. He heard Dermot answer it.

  ‘What d’you want?’ Dermot roared into the mouthpiece. It was Mark calling from the hospital. He was calling to tell Dermot where Agnes was and what was happening. Buster had closed the door and was taking his first steps back into the rain when he heard Dermot’s roar.

  ‘Fuck off!’ The telephone came crashing through the window. Buster pulled up his collar and headed back to the gate lodge.

  Mark had insisted that Agnes be taken from casualty to a private room. The doctor treating Agnes had asked the nurse to gather all of her family into one of the small waiting rooms where he would then be able to speak to them in private. This was where they now all sat in silence, awaiting the doctor’s arrival. A nurse sat on a chair just inside the door and when the door opened she was expecting it to be the doctor. It wasn’t. It was another man. One she did not recognise. She stood up, blocking his entry.

  ‘I’m sorry, this room is for family only,’ she said in a friendly but firm tone as she pushed her hand against the man’s chest.

  From behind the nurse it was Mark that spoke. ‘Excuse me, nurse! He is family.’

  The nurse apologised and held the door open. Dino Doyle smiled a ‘thanks’ to Mark and made his way to Rory’s side. The two men looked at each other for a moment without speaking, then Rory began to cry. Dino gently laid Rory’s head on his shoulder and started to stroke his head to comfort him.

  When the doctor walked in the door Pierre stood up. The doctor extended his hand. ‘Mr Browne?’ the doctor asked.

  ‘No, Mr Du Gloss. I am Mrs Browne’s partner.’

  ‘Oh I see, please do sit down.’ The doctor sat at the only table in the waiting room. The gathering waited expectantly.

  ‘I wish I was the bearer of better news,’ the doctor began. ‘Our scan shows a cerebral haemorrhage, caused by an aneurysm. Now, before you ask me all the obvious questions, let me explain that there is no particular reason for this. People are born with aneurysms. Some people born with aneurysms go through their whole lives never being affected by them, or even knowing that they have one. In other cases people are affected by them and recover. But I must be honest here, in a lot of cases they can cause a stroke - and even be fatal.’

  The doctor waited, nobody asked a question, so he went on. ‘The first thing we are doing now is trying to relieve the swelling on the brain. It worries me a little that your mother hasn’t regained consciousness yet. However, even if she does I must warn you that we will be keeping her sedated for some time yet. The next twenty-four hours will be crucial, we will just all have to wait and see what happens.’

  With the exception of sniffles from Rory, Fiona and Betty, everyone was silent. Cathy slowly put her hand up as if in class.

  ‘Yes?’ the doctor asked.

  ‘Is it all right if we sit with her?’

  ‘Of course it is, in fact it’s good for you all to be here. If she does come out it will help her to see her family’s faces. And if she doesn’t, well ...’ the doctor left his sentence unfinished. Then he stood up and went to leave, but he stopped in front of Pierre. ‘Mr du Gloss, I’m available if you have any questions at any time,’ and he extended his hand again.

  Pierre again stood up and shook the man’s hand. ‘Thank you, doctor, thank you very much.’ Pierre spoke warmly but weakly.

  When Dermot awoke the next morning he was freezing cold. He had been lying beneath the broken window. Although it had stopped raining outside, it had rained long enough during the night for the carpet, the couch - and indeed Dermot - to be drenched from the rain that had been blowing through the broken window. He got up gingerly. His head was pounding and he felt nauseous. Tottering like a crotchety old man he made his way to the kitchen and delved into the fridge for a carton of orange juice. He gulped it down quickly in an effort to quell his thirst and remove the filthy taste from his mouth. He put the kettle on, then went to the medicine chest and got himself two Solpadeine tablets. He gagged as he tried to down the half-glass of water containing the soluble tablets. When the kettle was boiled he made himself a cup of instant coffee. Carrying the cup, he made his way back into the sitting room. The place was a mess. He saw some blood on the edge of the coffee table and spots of it on the carpet. He examined himself thoroughly and could find no cuts. There was broken glass everywhere - around the fireplace from the broken bottle, and all over the room where the rain and wind had blown pieces in from the broken window. He looked out through the shattered window frame. The telephone was sitting on the bonnet of his car.

  ‘What the fuck?’ He massaged his eyes and made his way back into the kitchen where he sat and held his head in his hands. After a while, he didn’t know how long, he heard the front door open and close and the sound of Mrs Dolan shaking off her coat.

  ‘Sweet loving Jesus!’ she screamed.

  She arrived at the kitchen door holding Cormac by the hand. The boy looked terrified.

  ‘Oh Christ!’ Dermot exclaimed, as he tried to hide his face.

  ‘Well now ... you must be very proud of yourself this morning, Mr Browne!’ Mrs Dolan chastised him, and she looked furious.

  ‘What’s the boy doing here?’ Dermot said from under his arm.

  ‘He lives here, or did you forget that, along with the fact that you are supposed to be a gentleman?’

  ‘I mean, how did you get him?’

  ‘Mr Brady dropped him into my house this morning on his way in to the hospital. He’s gone to see your mother apparently. Did you know your mother was in hospital?’ Mrs Dolan now sounded more like a schoolteacher than a housekeeper.

  Dermot spoke again without lifting his head. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then one would wonder why you aren’t visiting your mother?’

  Dermot now lifted his head and rose from the chair, squaring up to Mrs Dolan. ‘One might be better off ... minding one’s own fuckin’ business, Mrs Dolan!’ Dermot had had enough.

  ‘Well, my God!’ the woman exclaimed as she stomped out of the kitchen. Soon, Dermot could hear her noisily rooting in the cupboards of the utility room to get out her cleaning materials. She began to clear up the mess. Dermot had sat back down again at the kitchen table. Without speaking, Cormac put on the kettle and took his father’s mug from his hand. He rinsed the mug under the tap and made his father another cup of coffee. Carrying it carefully across the floor, the boy gently placed it in front of his father. Then he too sat at the kitchen table. During all of this Cormac didn’t speak once. Dermot took a sip of the coffee.

  ‘I’m sorry about last night, Cormac.’ Dermot was embarrassed.

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘No, it’s not okay. I shouldn’t have behaved like that. I won’t do it again.’

  ‘No, really, it is okay. Buster explained everything.’ The boy seemed confident that he knew exactly what was going on.

  Dermot stared at the boy. ‘Did he now? And what exactly did Buster explain?’

  That you have a lot of pain inside
you. Old memories that aren’t nice. And that some people try to kill the pain with drink. And that even though you knew that didn’t work, you had to try it anyway, you had to find out for yourself. That’s what Buster said.’

  Dermot dropped his head onto his arm again. ‘Jesus Christ, maybe it’s Buster that should be writing the fuckin’ books,’ Dermot mumbled. Slowly he rose from the table and began to make his way to the stairs. On the way he went into the sitting room and tried to apologise to Mrs Dolan.

  ‘Er ... Mrs Dolan, I’m sorry ... I, er ... well, I’m sorry.’

  ‘And so you should be, young man,’ Mrs Dolan replied as she turned her back and carried on with her cleaning. She wasn’t giving in yet.

  Dermot felt better after a shower and a shave. He put on some fresh clothes and when he came downstairs Mrs Dolan was busy with the hoover. Cormac was still sitting at the kitchen table.

  ‘Do you want to go down and play with Pamela?’ Dermot asked Cormac.

  ‘Pamela’s not there. She’s gone in with Buster, to the hospital.’

  Oh right. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you and me go out and get something to eat somewhere and leave Mrs Dolan alone. We only seem to be in the way, and I seem to be really annoying her.’ Without trying to court any more favour from Mrs Dolan, Dermot quietly left with the boy.

  It had been Betty’s idea to bring the children. At first Mark was against it.

  ‘No, no - a hospital is not the place for children, not when their granny is like this,’ he argued.

  ‘Well, I’d feel better if Aaron was here, and I’ve spoken to Fiona and Cathy and they agree.’

  ‘I know it sounds like a good idea, darling, but — ’

  Before Mark could finish Pierre interrupted. ‘It is not my place to say it, they are your children, but Agnes has always loved the sound of children’s voices and their laughter. Perhaps it would be good to have them here?’

  Mark thought for a moment. ‘Yes ... you two are right, go on, Betty, get the kids - and, Pierre, it is your place to say it. Our children look on you as their grandfather, you know, just as much as we look on you as a father.’

  Pierre smiled. ‘Thank you, Mark.’

  Betty and Fiona went home for their children. Cathy called Buster and asked him to come in along with Pamela. Within an hour the room was alive with chattering children. There is no doubt that the presence of the children brightened everyone a little and the tone of everybody’s voice changed to normal conversation from what had previously been just whispers.

  Agnes Broume wasn’t sure what was happening. Everything was dark at first. Then she could see a tiny light just like a pinprick. Gradually the light got bigger and bigger and bigger. For some time she stared at the light. It was nice, warm and friendly. Then she beard a voice she recognised. It was singing.

  ‘When no-one else can understand, ooh, wooh wooh, ‘When everything I do is wrong ...’

  Marion? Is that you, Marion?’

  ‘Ah, Agnes, how are you, love?’

  It was indeed the voice of Marion Monks, Agnes’s best friend and companion for many, many years. From her childhood up till Marion’s untimely death in 1967, Agnes could not remember a time when Marion Monks was not by her side.

  ‘What’s happening, Marion, what’s happening to me?’

  ‘I’ve come to show you the way, Agnes. Just put your hand out into the darkness and I’ll take it. ’

  ‘Show me the way to where, Marion?’

  ‘To where you’re goin’, Agnes. To here. ’

  Agnes thought for a moment and then it dawned on her.

  ‘Oh — THERE.’

  ‘Now you have it, Agnes, are yeh right? Come on.’

  ‘What’s it like? Marion, what’s it like ... there?’

  ‘It’s only brilliant, Agnes, you’re goin’ to love it. Bingo every night. As much cider as you want. And real interesting people too. I had dinner with Elvis last week.’

  ‘Would you fuck off, Marion Monks. What would Elvis be doing with you?’

  Marion’s laughter was sweet and musical. Ah janey, Agnes, you haven’t changed a bit. God, I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Not as much as I’ve missed you, Marion.’

  ‘Then come on, will yeh? Don’t be keepin’ me waitin’.’

  ‘Marion?’

  ‘Yeh, Agnes?’

  ‘Marion ... is Francis there?’

  ‘Frankie? Yeh, ’course he is, Agnes. Now, come on, will yeh?’

  ‘I can’t Marion, I can’t go yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s not finished — not yet.’

  ‘What’s not finished, Agnes, for God’s sake?’

  ‘I don’t know ... something’s not finished ... I’ve somethin’ to do, I don’t know what it is ... but I’ve somethin’ to do, Marion. Jesus, Marion, I want to go but I can’t, not yet!’

  ‘It’s up to you, Agnes. I think you’re mad. Ah janey, I wouldn’t be able for all that shite again, but it’s up to you.’ Marion was very matter-of-fact.

  ‘Can I think about it, Marion?’

  ‘Of course you can, Agnes, take as long as you like. Listen, I have to go. I’m doin’ a bit of cleanin’ for John F Kennedy.’

  Are you, Marion?’ Agnes was impressed.

  ‘No, I’m only jokin’,’ and Marion burst into laughter which faded as the light went out.

  Although Agnes was back in the darkness again she was sure she could hear children’s voices in the distance.

  Chapter 26

  ‘GOD, IT MUST HAVE BEEN A VERY STORMY NIGHT!’ Dermot exclaimed as he manoeuvred the car around the pools of water on the road that were caused by overflowing ditches. There were broken branches and pieces of debris all over the road too.

  ‘It was. I couldn’t sleep with the thunder and lightning,’ Cormac answered.

  They were heading down the Dublin road from Kilbride, but when they got to the junction at Mulhuddart, there were bollards blocking their way and an orange sign with the word ‘Diversion’ on it. Alongside it was a piece of wood which looked like a bread-board. Painted on it by hand were the words: ‘Road flooded’.

  ‘Shite!’ Dermot exclaimed as he swung the car to the left and down a by-road. Two miles of twisting country road brought them to another main road. There was a lot of traffic on this road and it took Dermot a good two minutes before he was able to swing out into the line of cars. They were now on the Derry to Dublin road, heading for Dublin. This road would bring them straight past Finglas, Dermot’s old home. As they approached Finglas, the road became a modem highway which hadn’t been there when Dermot had left Ireland. Looking out to each side of the motorway he recognised streets and factories from his childhood years. He suddenly brought the car to a stop.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Cormac asked.

  Dermot was staring out the driver’s window.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Dermot continued to stare. For a few moments Cormac sat twiddling his thumbs. Then he knelt up on the passenger’s seat and, looking over his father’s shoulder, asked, ‘Why are we stopped?’

  Dermot pointed, his finger up against the window. ‘Can you see that big chestnut tree over there?’ he asked Cormac.

  The boy followed the line of Dermot’s finger and eventually his eyes fell upon what was, right enough, a huge chestnut tree.

  ‘Yes, what about it?’ he asked.

  ‘That, my son, is Chestnut Hole!’

  ‘Chestnut Hole? Like from the book?’ Cormac was getting excited.

  ‘I’m nearly sure it is - I think so anyway.’ Dermot too was a little excited.

  ‘Can we go over, can we go over and look, see if we can find Chestnut Hole?’ Cormac was tugging at the door handle on the passenger side of the car.

  Dermot smiled. ‘Yeh, come on. Why not!’

  Dermot took the boy by the hand and they carefully crossed the dual carriageway. On the far side of the road Dermot lifted the child over a small fence, climbed over it himself, and the two be
gan to trudge across the field.

  ‘This is exciting, isn’t it, Dermot?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Dermot replied, although he sounded more scared than excited now. As they moved farther into the field the ground became wetter and swampy. Dermot stopped.

  ‘Christ, we’re going to get ourselves destroyed! Come on, let’s go back.’

  ‘Oh no, Dermot, don’t go back now, I want to see Chestnut Hole, please!’

  Dermot looked at the boy. Then he looked up at the chestnut tree. They were no more than a hundred yards from it. Maybe it was the drink from the night before, but his stomach felt sick, and his hands began to shake. When he answered the boy there was a tremor in his voice.

  ‘Okay, then, let’s go.’ They went on. They reached the tree in a few seconds, both now up to their knees in mud. It was a good ten minutes more before they found the entrance to Chestnut Hole. It was Dermot who found it.

  ‘Cormac! Over here, son, I think I’ve found it!’

  He waited for Cormac to join him. Then together they scurried through the entrance into the ancient hut. Dermot took out his lighter and flicked it. The hut lit up. In the centre of the floor were the remains of a small fire, and neatly piled in one comer were four candles. It was obvious that Chestnut Hole had now acquired new residents and had become the headquarters of some new Boot Hill Gang of the nineties. Dermot was glad. He picked up two candles and handed one to Cormac. He lit them and they looked around. Memories came flooding back to Dermot and he began to give the boy a guided tour.

  ‘Just over there,’ he pointed to one comer, ‘is where I had my seat. We had two seats. We got them out of an old Austin Cambridge; one was Buster’s, one was mine. I had mine over there.’ Dermot turned. ‘Buster had his over here. And see where that fire is now? That’s where we used to lay out our mattress on nights when we slept here.’

  ‘It looks like somebody else has moved in,’ Cormac commented.

  ‘Yes, it does,’ Dermot answered. They moved the candles around to try and see every inch of the place, and there was no talking for a while.