by Martha Long
Think! Hmm, I thought, slowly getting the picture of a vague, grim memory!
‘Ma, He Sold Me for a Few Cigarettes’.
30
I lifted my head, rubbing my eyes, sighing and taking in a deep breath. No, that’s the end of it. I can’t go on any more. This is killing me. For six long months now I have lived that nightmare all over again. God, I never knew any of this really. I had no memory! But the child in me knew it all and she just exploded back into life. It felt like I was not here at all, like I had disappeared. All I do is sit, pick up the pen, then it is her. The pen flies across the paper, letting her come back to life. She is living again. The person I am now does not exist. It is as if she has found a way to use me to live, breathe and talk. My hand is only the instrument. It is her in control, her words, her world, she has broken free! Now I have to live with her sitting in my head. She still wants to go on. She has so much more to say. But I can’t take it. I don’t know who I am any more. I feel so lost. I am just her again, feeling everything she felt, seeing the world through her eyes. I need to stop – enough is enough.
I closed the last notebook for the last time, then stared at it. Two full thick notebooks, five hundred and sixty-three pages all written by hand. I have never read it back. I have never even crossed out one word. No, not a single one. Everything that child said and lived and breathed I have now recorded. I must have used up a hundred biros. I have cried more tears in the last months than I have cried in many a long year. I need to put her back down inside me. She has so much to say, but I can’t listen to any more. No! That’s it.
I lifted the books, putting them into a big padded envelope, and carried them up to my bedroom, then I stood up on a chair and hid them at the bottom of a cardboard box pushed down deep, well into the back at the top of my wardrobe. The box is stuffed with old letters and cards, and all sorts of memories. It’s been left lying undisturbed, gathering dust for years. I will never throw them out, though, even if it’s years since I looked at them. No, because they are a lifetime of memories.
I pulled out a rolled-up coloured print, thinking I would have it framed. Then my eye caught the cardboard box sitting deep into the corner. Oh! I should really take a look in that. I have stuff from the kids when they were small, little notes they sent me and cards for Mother’s Day. Jaysus! My whole life is in that box, I thought, as I leaned in to grab hold of it. I humped it down, landing it on the bed, then the big brown package caught my attention. I stared at it for a minute, then pulled it up from the bottom of the box. Hmm! Maybe I will take a look at this, I thought, deciding to put the box back and take a look at the notebooks.
I opened the package sitting at the kitchen table, thinking it might be interesting to read a bit. I couldn’t bear to think of it for the last two years. It took me that long to get over it. Just as I was turning over the second page, the phone rang. I jumped up grabbing it.
‘Hello!’
‘Hi, Martha! What are you up to? I’m just passing your house now. Are you at home, I mean free?’
‘Yeah! Come on in, Evelyn. I’m delighted to hear from you.’
‘Right, get the kettle on,’ she said, letting the line go dead.
‘Have you got one of those mobiles, Evelyn?’
‘Yeah, on the table there. Take a look,’ she said, as I put my attention back to pouring boiling water into the mugs, making her a coffee and a tea for myself.
‘Do you want a biscuit?’ I said, rooting in the larder then looking down at her, seeing her buried in me notebooks.
‘No, Evelyn! Close that book. It’s private, my dear!’ I said, half-laughing but very serious.
‘Ah, go on! It’s really interesting,’ she said without lifting her head, letting her eyes fly across the pages.
‘No!’ I said, whipping it from under her nose. ‘For my eyes only!’ I said, trying to put the notebook back in the envelope.
‘Ah, will you stop, Martha! Go on. Just let me take a look. I was enjoying it! What’s that about? Did you write that?’
‘Yes, I did, Evelyn. OK, I’ll tell you what. I’ll just read you a bit from it, OK?’
‘Yeah, fine,’ she said, lighting up a cigarette, supping her coffee and settling herself back in the chair.
I read aloud bits I thought were not too personal, then said, ‘OK, that’s it, Evelyn.’
‘No, no, no! Go on, it’s really interesting! I want to hear more!’ she said, getting very impatient, waving at me to carry on. ‘Listen, start at the beginning, Martha. That’s you, isn’t it? I even recognise your ma.’
‘Oh, God! Don’t remind me! Do you remember the time she turned up to the convent on Children’s Day?’ I moaned, giving her a crucified look.
‘Yeah!’ she laughed. ‘That was a scream. The nuns never got over the shame of it! Do you know, Martha, listening to this reminds me so much of my own mother,’ she said. ‘They even have the same name. We didn’t live too far from the Liberties of Dublin either; we were just across the Liffey. Well, my mother was. I was in the convent.’
‘Yeah, but you got a great education out of them nuns, Evelyn. They sent you to a top secondary school. God, you were one of the very few,’ I said, looking at her, seeing her nodding at me, with her baby-blue eyes dancing in her head. ‘But you were very clever, Evelyn.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ she laughed, grinning at me with a mouthful of snow-white teeth. ‘Well! Go on! Start reading,’ she said, lighting up another cigarette. ‘Wait, before you begin, let’s have another coffee. I’ll put the kettle on, so don’t start yet,’ she laughed, looking at me, then pinning her eyes on the notebook as she filled the kettle.
I finished the last line and closed the book, looking up at her. We both stayed still as she stared back at me, getting lost in her own thoughts.
‘That’s it!’ I muttered. ‘The whole story all written down now for posterity. Let the kids do what they like with it. But I am so glad I wrote it, Evelyn. It was worth all the snots and the tears and the heartbreak.’
She kept nodding her head slowly, then she took in a big sigh, shaking her head, saying, ‘That has brought back so many memories to me, Martha. Everything became so vivid in my mind. I could see myself as a child, going out with my mother sometimes when she came up to bring me home.’
‘Yeah, Evelyn, I know. I’ve seen more of you now in the last few weeks than I’ve seen of you when we were in the convent together. I’ve laughed more too. Some of those stories you told me about your mother, Evelyn, remind me so much of my own ma.’
‘Listen, Martha,’ she said, lighting up another cigarette. ‘Jesus! I’m nearly out of cigarettes,’ she said, seeing there was only two left in the box. ‘I hope the garage is still open. I better get some. Anyway! You have to listen to me. You really should have that published. I keep telling you, there are people out there who would love to hear about those times again. It will remind them of their own childhood. But you should do it fast, Martha, before they all die off! Frankly, I think it would be a terrible loss to history if you didn’t. There are very few records of old Dublin life. Mostly they are written by scholars or people just writing short stories about their memories. But what you have there is unique. Nobody has written a book like that in the dialect of old Dublin-speak. Be glad the nuns didn’t educate you,’ she laughed. ‘It would have spoilt your natural brilliance.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Evelyn,’ I said, terrified at the idea of letting myself be unmasked. ‘I have to think of the children! What would they think, Evelyn? And, Jaysus! I was a street kid! I don’t mind that now. I’m secretly proud of myself. But I don’t want to broadcast it.’
‘Listen, Martha. It’s because of that very fact! Because you were a street kid! You had a really tough life. Well, that puts you in the rare position of having the depth inside you to write that stuff! So, take my advice – share it with people. It’s their life too! Everyone was poor then, Martha. Jesus! I well remember it,’ she said, shaking her head and getting up to make h
er way towards me. ‘Bye, love, thanks for everything. I’ll see you soon,’ she said, reaching over to grab hold of me in a tight hug. ‘I better get home. It’s two o’clock in the morning,’ she said, looking mournfully down at her gold wristwatch. Then she laughed, saying, ‘The only good thing about ending that book was now I can be in bed early and get some sleep.’
‘Right! I’ll see you out, Evelyn,’ I said, watching her climb into her big black BMW. Gawd, Evelyn is a scream, I thought, waving as she drove off roaring out into the night.
Another year had passed when I picked up the notebooks again. I could feel a nervous flutter in the chest as I stared at the thick package envelope. OK, Evelyn was right – this stuff is part of our history; this is how it was. This is the voice from a child long ago, once again come alive to tell her story in her own words. Her voice speaks for the hidden millions. There were many little Marthas out there, some a lot worse off than me. Hunger and disease was rampant in my mother’s time, and death was always close. I came barrelling in on the tail of new developments – vaccines about to be discovered – yet not much had changed through them early years. Children were born and died, while the mothers held their breath waiting for the new vaccines to limp in.
Nobody ever saw the silent tears of a mother as she sat cradling her infant child wasting away to death. Slowly it was being clawed from that mother’s arms as she watched it perish from hunger and disease. Nobody ever heard the pitiful cries from that tenement house as death came howling back. It rushed in, blowing a cold wind under the door, ready to swoop again. The little ones’ tortured screams for another loss – this time their worn-out mother – was just a keening sound being carried on the wind, then it would be heard no more.
So, let this little scrap of a child be the voice for the many generations who never had a voice.
31
I wandered home thinking about that publisher, the one in the UK. Yeah, nobody was bothered until he showed an interest. Weeks, those other publishing houses had it. But as soon as they got wind of the fact someone was interested! Now, suddenly, they are all rushing to make me an offer.
Yeah, well, the question is: do I really want to publish it? The idea sends me into a nightmare. Jesus, I might never be able to hold my head up again. Dublin is only a village. I could see people pointing me out in the street. I could just hear them all.
‘Look! There’s yer woman!’
‘Who would have thought it, Barberalla, dear?’
‘And she looks so respectable!’
‘Goodness, one never knows who one is fraternising with.’
‘I’m off! Quick, she’s coming in our direction.’
Oh, fuck! No, I would have to emigrate!
No, think again. You sent this out to the publishers because you had made your mind up; otherwise, you would not be letting it see the light of day. Now you’re just getting cold feet. Right, you’re going to have to take the risk and run the gauntlet. You may become an outcast again, and everything you’ve worked for, especially for the kids, will be wiped out. They will suffer. That is the risk. But you would not be where you are today if you had let fear get in your way. Think of it! You have plunged in and taken many a risk, sometimes even sailing close to the wind, with the potential to lose everything. Well, you haven’t come a cropper yet, because first you always move slowly, calculate the risk, do the groundwork, then do or be damned. This is a calculated risk and – bloody hell! – the calculation is simple. What have I got to lose? Everything! What have I got to earn? Very little compared to what I have. Jesus! Too much of a risk!
But there is a fire now in my belly. It is something I feel duty-bound to do. I owe it to myself and the people out there who lived through this too. A lot of them are not here any more; they’re long gone. So, do it for them, let the little voice of this child speak for them. This is their history too. It should be recorded!
Fuck! You’re getting very noble, Martha. Yes! Well, if it is the right thing to do, then do it.
I took in a deep breath, making my mind up. So, let it be published and be damned! Right! That’s settled. Now to make the best deal. I’m getting the idea publishers are a hungry lot! Better keep wide awake! Right, I still have a few people to see.
I dived into the back seat then turned, saying, ‘Thank you for a lovely evening. I really enjoyed the party.’
‘OK, tomorrow morning then. I will phone you around ten-thirty. Have you read the contract yet?’ he said, sounding hopeful I might give him an answer now.
‘Well, I’m still ploughing through it,’ I smiled, not wanting to commit myself.
‘OK, we’ll talk tomorrow,’ he said, smiling and slamming the door shut as the taxi moved off, heading me for home.
I looked around, seeing him head back to the party. He walked with a very erect bearing. Quite the aristocrat, I thought, seeing him hurry, wanting to get in out of the dark night with the rain bucketing down on his big, black, man’s umbrella. It even had a gold tip on the handle.
Hmm! He’s quite the debonair, I thought – very suave, sophisticated and certainly charming. I have been wined, dined and now met the ‘glitter-literati’ of Dublin. He was intending to show me there could be weight behind his words of ‘You will be famous. You shall be feted! You have done for the twenty-first century what blogs have done for the twentieth century,’ he said, with me letting it go in one ear and out the other.
Oh, yeah, very smooth! He’s trying to swell my head so big I won’t be able to resist parting with me manuscript to him. Anyway! Believing that rubbish would only get me locked up for being delusional! No, second thoughts, maybe there could be something in it. Otherwise, why would he want to publish it? Maybe I do believe he meant what he said. He knows his stuff when it comes to literature. He’s not just a publisher but a very erudite and learned man. But still, he may be the only one that sees it like that. Most people are blind – that’s why they don’t see opportunity under their nose.
He’s also made me a handsome offer. It’s not really the money but the weight he can put behind the book. He has some very serious contacts. Yet I’m still holding back. So, my antenna is telling me this is not the deal for me.
Others are talking about a huge campaign with an appearance on the ‘Late Late’ no less! Yeah! I’m sure they could do it. Ireland is an island of nepotism. Scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, dearie!
Yeah, but I’m thinking I might be better with the UK. I met the publisher from Mainstream again yesterday and I have a strong leaning to go with him. He’s serious – no smothering you in honeyed words that could be a fly-trap! No, he’s a straightforward, hard-headed businessman, with the feet firmly planted on the ground. Plus, he has very strong back-up – he can do what he says. And there’s no doubt he’s razor-sharp. I see that in the penetrating look he gives you. Like he’s not just listening to the words but he’s even reading the air around you. That should make it easier for me to do a deal with him. I’m not clever enough to deal with fools – they’re much too much hard work. No, this fella is the type that, if he ran a shop, he wouldn’t let you out the door without taking something out of your pocket. He’s a deal-maker! Good, should be easy. Funnily enough, I even feel I can trust him! Yeah, there’s a homeliness about him. You can see the man behind the business front. He has an innate kindness – like he feels what you tell him, like he actually cares. Yeah, I think he’s a decent man and would play fair. Right! UK it is, and am I the lucky one? Very lucky, Martha. I sighed contentedly, sitting deeper into the seat for more comfort.
My eyes took in the old Liffey walls, with the river continuing to make its way up along the quays as it headed itself out to sea. It still flows, undisturbed by all the changes that screamed in with the ‘Celtic Tiger’ now chewing up everything in its path. It’s then spitting it out as soulless apartments and giant glass office blocks, with the whole lot held together by giant skeletons of nothing but steel. Pity – the old charm of the Georgian city is nearly being
wiped out.
The taxi glided along the dark quays, whirring over the rain-lashed streets with the neon lights flashing ahead in the distance. They winked and dazzled, promising a warm welcome to late-night stragglers desperate to still hang on to the air of gay abandon. I stared out through the rain, seeing the remains of the old Georgian houses tarted up, looking more like painted whores now than the ‘grand old dames’ they were. That was before the investors got their hands on them. Now they’re all show on the outside, but the rot and decay is still eating them away. They sat silent now, looking lonely and empty as business people locked up and went home for the night. At least they’re still standing, I thought, getting something for a bit of comfort at seeing me old roots.
Over the other side of the river I stared moodily out at the new apartments. I could see very few of the windows showed a light. I bet they’re all in there now sleeping the sleep of the dead, knowing they have to get up in a few hours, then it’s back to the salt mines, working all the hours that God sends. And for what? Just so they can pay for them bleedin little dog boxes. Bloody hell, it depresses me. Everything has changed too fast, gone too far. I feel lost now without my old city. I don’t recognise the faces on the people, or the places where I lived. I think when this blows over it will leave a lot of devastation in its wake. Oh, yes, there will be hell to pay!