If I Was a Child Again

by Caroline Finnerty

  My mummy died before 3 p.m. that Saturday, 4th May, 1991, just three weeks before her thirty-seventh birthday.

  A massive heart attack, they said. There was no further explanation, really. The medics were as horrified as we were but no one as much as my dad who had returned from work at lunchtime to be met with such shock, such horror, that his young wife and the mother of his six children was gone. He had spoken to her that morning when he left for work as she stood with their baby girl in her arms, and when he returned from work she was gone.

  She was buried on a beautiful sunny day, a Bank Holiday Monday and my father’s forty-first birthday. The most painful day I will ever know.

  If I was a child again?

  If I could have one more day with her, this is what I would do.

  I would play all of her favourite songs and I would never criticise. I would sing along to Barry Manilow and laugh with her as she told me of how she saw him on stage with his red piano like a dot in the distance of the huge arena, her first live concert in all her life.

  I would take her to New York city, a place she longed to go to and we’d even fly down to Nashville and sing “Crazy” like we were both Patsy Cline.

  I would go shopping with her, we would try on clothes, we would laugh at how things didn’t fit no matter how much we wanted them to. We would go for coffee, we would stroll around like we didn’t have a care in the world. Like her world had no end.

  But I was just a child. I didn’t know what God’s plans were for me and my family. I didn’t know that after that day I would never see her again.

  Life goes on and time heals. So they say.

  It does go on and it gets easier in that we learn to live with the pain, with the heartbreak, with the question of why life and why God would be so cruel to take away a mother from her six babies and from a husband who loved her so.

  I am a mother too now and I am thirty-seven years old, just a few months older than she was when she died, and the thought of leaving my own three children at a time when I sometimes believe that my life is only beginning makes me realise just how much she has missed out on and how much we missed out on by not having her with us.

  Does she know how we live now? Does she know she has six grandchildren as well as the six babies she gave birth to herself? Does she know some of us inherited her talent and are making a life writing in a way she always dreamed of? Does she know the men we each loved and lost and those we have loved again? Does she know how many people still talk of her with such disbelief that she is gone but with so many smiles around her memories?

  Was she with us on the days of our exam results, when our children were born, did she see me when I launched my first novel, did she see her daughters on their wedding days, does she watch her only son when he sings in her honour at his gigs, does she watch over us on all the big milestones we come across . . . all the life-changing hurdles we have got over?

  Does she see us sitting at her grave talking to her like she never left us in the first place?

  Does she know how much every day we still miss her and how much our hearts ache to have her for just one more day?

  If I was a child again I would cherish her more. I would understand that she was not only my mother but also a fantastic, funny, beautiful young person with her own needs and her own sacrifices and who was in the prime of her life, just as I feel I am now.

  I would have done the washing-up that Friday evening. I would have nursed the baby more. I would have hugged her like there was no tomorrow because on that day there was no tomorrow.

  For those of you who still have their mother, I look on you in so much envy. I watch my friends who visit their mothers, I watch as she becomes their best friend and their confidante and I still fight back the tears of what me, my sisters and my brother have lost out on. I watch my aunts look out for and enjoy their grandchildren in a way I only wish my own mother could have.

  I imagine things all the time.

  I imagine her every day.

  I imagine how she would have looked now, the songs she would have loved now, how we would have spent time together and how she would have advised me and my brother and sisters on the choices we made in life and how she would have nurtured us and stood by us in any of the mistakes that we made.

  I imagine how she would have made a career for herself when we were all a bit older and how she would have danced with my father and how they would have been lifelong companions and grown from those glamorous young parents who hoped and dreamed for easier times from the hardship of bringing up a young family.

  I can hold on to my memories, but nothing holds you better than a mother’s hug.

  Give your mother a hug today . . . a really big one. And if she asks for something, big or small, do it for her if you can.

  Emma Heatherington is from Donaghmore, County Tyrone, where she lives with her three children – Jordyn (17), Jade (12) and Adam (11). She works as a writer and freelance PR and has penned more than thirty short films, plays and musicals as well as seven novels for Poolbeg Press, two of which were written under the pseudonym Emma Louise Jordan. Emma has just completed her first feature film script which is in early development and her dream is to see it on the big screen with Liam Neeson in a lead role . . . Her favourite things, apart from writing and hanging out with her children, are all things Nashville (she is a self-confessed country music fanatic!), romantic comedy movies, sing-along nights with friends and family, red wine, musical theatre, new pyjamas, fresh clean bedclothes, long bubble baths and cosy nights in by the fire. Find Emma on Twitter @emmalou13 or on Facebook at emmaheatheringtonwriter.

  Story 22: It’s a Small World

  Gemma Jackson

  I vividly remember sitting on our staircase landing. I was about three years old. We as a family had moved from the Dublin tenements a few months prior to this particular day. I still hadn’t become accustomed to having our very own private staircase. I loved to sit on the landing and survey my own little world.

  It was Friday. A very important day: it was comic day. I knew this because I heard my big sisters and brother talking. They were excited about having an inside toilet but I wasn’t impressed by that. The staircase was a wonder to me.

  I sat with my two feet on the stair underneath me. My back nestled securely into the stairway behind me. I could hear me da snoring in one of the bedrooms behind me. He was on night work so we had to be quiet. I wanted him to wake up.

  I was intently watching the door at the bottom of the hall. I was so excited I was forgetting to breathe. Earlier me ma had put me baby sister in the pram and gone to the local shops.

  I thought about going down the stairs and out into the big back garden. I wanted to but I was nervous. The garden of our new house was overgrown and full of stinging nettles. All the houses in the new scheme had the same problem. The men wanted to clear the space so they could plant gardens. A local farmer was lending his donkey and goats to anyone who wanted their gardens cleared. It was our turn to have the animals in our back garden. I’d sat up here and watched my brother drag the animals through the long hallway and out the back door. I’d felt safe up here watching the action.

  I’d been sitting up here the other day when a man with a pony and trap came around the houses offering baby chicks for sale. I’d heard me ma say we’d be interested when the back garden was cleared. Everything was so new and different around our new house. I missed The Lane. I’d known everyone there and been allowed to go off with the other kids, but not here. Whenever I asked I just got told “not yet”. I buried my head in my knees and, with my eyes fixed firmly on the front door, waited.

  I heard our outside gate open. My sisters and brother exploded from the living room. I didn’t rush down. They were bigger than me.

  “Would you let me in the door for goodness’ sake?” me ma snapped.

  I stayed where I was. I could wait and from my vantage point I had a clear view of all the goings-on.

  “Someone take these ba
gs until I get the baby out of her pram. Seán, you take the bag with the comics. No peeking now. I want no trouble.”

  I stood with my face pressed between the stair rails and watched the bag with the precious comics being carried into the living room. The bag was put on the sofa. My brother and three older sisters stood in front of the sofa, patiently waiting.

  “Right.” My mother walked from the kitchen, pulling her scarf off her head. She’d removed her coat and was wearing her wraparound apron. My baby sister was on her hip, gnawing on something. “Let’s see what we have here.”

  My mother put my sister down. She just stood there waiting. My mother sat on the sofa and pulled the comics from the bag.

  “Who gets the Jackie?”

  My eldest sister almost pulled that out of her hand.

  “The Dandy?”

  My brother grabbed that one. He escaped into the back with his comic. He wasn’t afraid of the donkey and goats. They were easier to put up with than all those bloomin’ sisters. I’d heard him say so.

  “Bunty?” My mother held the comic aloft.

  It too was pulled from her hand.

  “Judy?”

  That was snapped up.

  “Jack and Jill?” My mother turned her head towards the staircase. She’d known I was there.

  “Me,” I tried to whisper and scream at the same time. I ran down the stairs and into the living room. My mother was passing Playhour to my youngest sister.

  I grabbed my Jack and Jill with both hands and hurried back to my place on the stairs with my treasure. I couldn’t read the comic yet but I could look at the pictures while I waited for one of my big sisters to be ready to read it to me.

  I sat on the staircase, my precious comic open on my knees. The house was silent, everyone intent on reading. I turned the pages very carefully and examined the drawings and pictures in great detail. I became fascinated by the squares of drawings showing children with a small horse. It had its own house at the end of their garden.

  I put my finger over each square and examined every little detail of this strange world. Why would a horse need its own house? Didn’t horses live in fields like they did around where I lived now? We’d had a stable in The Lane but that was for working horses. This horse didn’t look big enough to pull a cart. What would you do with a little horse like that?

  I needed this story read to me. I looked down into the living room. No point asking my eldest sister. She’d give me a thick ear and tell me not to bother her. My next sister had a sweeter nature but she wasn’t the fastest reader and my need was great. I’d have to beg the sister next in age to me. She was the best reader anyway but, Lord, she was cranky. I’d heard my mother say so. I didn’t know that was what it was called to be in a bad mood all the time but I liked the word and it seemed to suit her.

  I begged. I whined. I blubbered. I won. She read the story to me at a speed that would flatten you but I got the sense of the thing.

  “It was too fast,” I whispered to the next sister in age.

  She put her own comic aside and took mine with a sigh. She read the story again slowly. She let me sit on the floor beside her and waited while I moved my fingers under the words. It was a magical tale.

  “Will you read me this story, please?” I’d braved the donkey and goats. I’d do anything to hear this tale again.

  My brother must have known it was important. After all, I’d ventured out to the back garden with the wild animals, hadn’t I? He too read the story.

  I took my comic back and turned to go inside and leave him in peace. I climbed back up the stairs. I opened my comic and visually examined every inch while keeping an eye on the living room. I had to wait until my sisters had finished reading their own comics. I continued to run my finger over the words written in white balloons coming out of the mouths of the children in the images.

  Finally, after what seemed like days to me, my eldest sister started trying out new hairstyles she was copying from her comic. I gripped my comic tightly and slowly made my way down the stairs.

  “Will you read this story to me, please?” I held up my comic.

  “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a nuisance?” she snapped.

  “You do all the time,” I answered honestly.

  “Oh, give it here.” She grabbed the comic from my hands and with a longsuffering sigh sat down on the floor in front of the fire.

  I hadn’t felt the cold until now but I was suddenly freezing. I shivered.

  “Serves you right for sitting on those bloody stairs all day,” my sister snapped. “You would think they were going to disappear on you or something.”

  I didn’t answer her back or stick my tongue out – though I wanted to. She was the best at reading because she put on strange voices.

  I sat enthralled while she read and acted out the story in my comic. I decided to sit quietly for a while before doing the rounds again. I couldn’t get enough of this strange world in my colourful comic book.

  When my sisters and brothers finally got angry at me I had to come up with another plan. I saw some of the older girls playing ball outside. I’d try and get the ones waiting for their turn to throw the balls against the wall to read my story. The plan worked. I passed my comic along the line and had my story read to me again and again.

  My mother sent my eldest sister out to drag me in for something to eat. It still wasn’t time for me da to wake up. I ate the stew when it was put in front of me and couldn’t wait to try my luck with some of the other big kids.

  “Do you want to wake your da up?” my mother shouted from the open front door.

  “Yes!” I screamed.

  I followed after my mother as she carried a cup of tea and a piece of bread she’d toasted on the open fire up the stairs. I almost stepped on her heels, I was following so close behind her.

  “You better talk to this one.” My mother opened the curtains to let in the light. I waited until me da moved in the bed. I knew I had to wait until he had almost half the big mug of tea drunk before I jumped on the bed. “She’s been dragging around the place all day waiting for you to wake up.” My mother left the room.

  “What’s that you’ve got?” me da said, pushing himself higher in the bed.

  “It’s me new comic, Da.” I climbed up onto the bed with the comic in my hand. “Will you read it to me?”

  “I’m only half awake, love,” me da said.

  “Do you want me to read it to you, Da?”

  “Come here then, you maggot.” Me da pulled me under his arm.

  I opened my comic while he sipped his tea and ate the toast. I put my finger under the very first word and started to read aloud. I used my finger to follow every word. I was aware of me da listening intently and staring at the page. I felt so important.

  “Rosie, come up quick!” Me da’s roar almost deafened me. “Rosie, yeh gave birth to an honest to God genius . . . Rosie!”

  “What’s wrong?” my mother shouted up the stairs.

  “Come up!” me da roared.

  “In the name of God, what’s up?” My mother ran up the stairs.

  “Listen to our little genius.” Me da nudged me. “Read the story again, love.”

  I did exactly that, feeling very important. For the first time in my life I was the sole focus of the attention of both parents.

  “She’s a fecking genius, Rosie!” me da yelled when I’d finished reading the story for the second time. “Not yet three years old and she’s reading like a champion.”

  “She knows the ruddy story off by heart,” my mother snapped. “She should do. She’s had everyone and his brother pestered to read that ruddy story to her today.”

  “But she knows every word. She didn’t make one mistake,” my da continued to say. “We’ve got a genius on our hands.” He patted the side of the bed. “Sit down a minute and listen to her read.”

  I was almost three years old and I’d discovered the power of the written word. I’ve never forgotten that feeling of power
and the attention it gained me.

  Gemma Jackson was born in inner-city Dublin, the fifth of seven children. She vividly remembers being taken to see the ships sail in and out of Dublin. Her mother would paint word pictures of exciting worlds filled with marvels beyond their little island. Educated by the nuns at Mount Sackville Convent in Castleknock, Gemma remembers a childhood of hunger, cold and desperation. Yet through it all, making life worth living, were wonderful people, stories, music and gales of laughter. The hardship of early childhood put steel in her spine. She first left home at seventeen, desperate to see what was out there, beyond the sea. She wanted to see the strange worlds her mother had spoken of, taste the weird food and learn everything she could of the wider world. She has travelled widely. Her debut novel Through Streets Broad and Narrow is a loving tribute to the Dublin she remembers.

  Story 23: Worrier

  Susan Loughnane

  I’m learning the breaststroke today. I feel like a frog swimming like this. Sometimes I get bored with it and float onto my back, close my eyes and imagine I am an otter floating in a lagoon. But then the instructor shouts at me and tells me to do what I’m supposed to be doing. I look up at the balcony where my dad is sitting, hoping he hasn’t heard me being told off. I’d hate to make him disappointed. But he’s chatting to another dad. He’s laughing. He looks so happy. That’s because he has just got a new job. But, shush, it’s a secret. I hope he’s not telling that man. I hope he remembers that we’re not allowed to tell anyone until next week.

  It was so hard today at school not telling everyone. We were doing “Our News” at the start of the school day where we tell the teacher our news and she writes it on the blackboard. John has a new baby sister . . . Matthew got a new bike . . . Siobhán’s big toenail fell off . . . All of this was complete nonsense. I was sitting there about to explode with some really exciting news but I couldn’t tell anyone. I wanted to shout it: My dad got a new job! We’ll be loaded! We’re going on a holiday to France this summer! But instead I sat on my hands and kept my mouth zipped shut like I promised.