Araby

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  The pots would only be a starting point. Soon, vibrantly-coloured shells started to appear throughout the house, as if they were breeding. The bathroom mirror frame was edged with them, a line of them snaked around the mantelpiece and along the front of the fire-guard, they coated the kitchen window-ledge and climbed the stairs along the edge of the banister. They erupted into the garden, hugging tubs of gladioli and attaching themselves to the water butt.

  Decorated pots and mugs were produced for the church raffle. To my horror, I picked up my lunch-box one morning and found that red, green and orange shells formed my initials on the lid. It took me half an hour to prise them off with a chisel and residual glue stuck to my fingers for days. After a few weeks the hobby palled. As a last fling, she tried brightening up a dress with shells, attaching them to the hem, neckline and wrists, but the glue wasn’t effective. My father found a yellow shell in his soup and she was shedding them as she walked; they made a crunching sound, like a snail under foot.

  Wine-making was her passion one year. She had read in the Universe, a Catholic paper, that some parish priests were finding it hard to make ends meet and were having to water down the altar wine. This shocked her; after all, the wine turned into the blood of Christ during transubstantiation and therefore watered wine meant that Christ’s blood was being tampered with. It was true that Jesus had turned water into wine, but that was a different class of thing entirely because he had the power to perform miracles and being the son of God, was entitled to act as he liked. Those priests might be dicing with the salvation of their souls she decided and she headed off to discuss the intricacies of this theological issue with Father Corcoran. The good Father, who spent most of his days in a stout-induced haze and had a tenuous grasp on reality, humoured her and said that yes, he was sure that if she wanted to make fine strong wine he’d be able to get it to some of those poor priests who were skating on thin ice.

  A woman fired with a purpose, she came home and wrote to the Universe telling them of her plan and suggesting that other Catholics might like to do the same. It struck her that priests working in missions in poverty-stricken areas of Africa and other such far-flung places might have a similar problem, so she despatched a letter to Father Bhattacharya, asking would she need an export licence to send wine through the post? I was sent to the library to fetch a book on wine-making. Equipment was bought in bulk; a dozen demijohns, six fermentation bins, air-locks, bungs and siphon tubes. My father was given orders to pick elderberries and blackberries and instructed to excavate buckets of potatoes from the allotment. The green-grocer delivered a sack of parsnips.

  The house was filled with the heady tang of fruit, yeast and sugar. For days it was hard to scavenge food because the tiny kitchen had been taken over by vegetable peelings and containers of diced potatoes and parsnips. My mother’s hands turned purple. Bins full of first-stage ingredients sat in the hallway, living-room and bathroom, burping quietly. She had inserted one under the dining table on which I regularly barked my shins. During pauses in conversation the fermentation could be heard; gloop gloop. The smells percolated throughout the house; even my clothes seemed to exude a boozy fragrance and I felt muddle-headed.

  I think that maybe, true to Angela’s belief, my mother was a scientist manqué. Significantly, she wore a white apron when she was brewing. The demijohns, the siphons, the sight of fermentation, filled her with delight. She was imbued with a belief that her task encompassed a miraculous transformation. She loved playing with the tubes, counting campden tablets and sorting out air locks. I would come upon her sitting at the table with a demijohn in front of her, just watching the process taking place. Isn’t it incredible, she’d say, that a humble parsnip or elderberry could be turned into a liquid that would itself turn into Christ’s blood? Sure, didn’t God move in mysterious ways and didn’t he have his eyes on every lowly thing on this earth?

  The elderberry and parsnip wines proved a success and were bottled; boxes full were delivered to Father Corcoran at the presbytery. I have no idea whether any of them found their way to the needy priests. Father Corcoran had to be accompanied home on several occasions afterwards, when he had turned up at a whist drive or meeting of the Saint Vincent de Paul Society in a tired and emotional state. He vanished for a couple of months later that year and was reported to be convalescing in the country after a debilitating bout of gastric flu.

  The potato wine was a different and explosive story. My mother had stored it out of sight in the cupboard under the stairs. Little was said about this particular batch, but there had been problems with the fermentation process and she had been seen poring over that section in the library book. She was grumpy about her lack of success because coming from the land of poitín, she thought she should have a natural born talent for encouraging the alcohol out of spuds. Maybe, my father had suggested, the potatoes had been the wrong variety but she pooh-poohed him, saying any old murphy should do the business.

  I was hopeful that this phase seemed to be drawing to an end. Father Bhattacharya had replied, saying that her generosity was boundless but the native people in the missions liked to make the mass wine and there was no shortage of that particular item. The Universe failed to print her letter, so her idea was lost to the wider Catholic public. None of us in the house drank wine, so it was unlikely that she’d make more. My father and I were glad that we could find the kettle again and that decent dinners were back on the agenda.

  One evening, as we were eating, the potato wine erupted with the force of a small nuclear explosion in the cupboard. An ocean of cloudy liquid started to leak into the hallway. It took the three of us a long time to clear the cupboard out and wash the hall carpet. Despite our efforts, the lower floor of the house smelled like an alcoholic’s lair for months. My father made the mistake of saying that it was a pity to see a waste of good spuds; they’d have made fine shepherd’s pies or mash. My mother retorted that it was easy enough to stand back and sneer; Our Lord himself had been sneered at in his time and she’d only been trying to work for the glory of God.

  SEVEN

  The day after my mother’s return from hospital was busy, with the nurse and doctor in attendance. Her morphine dosage was checked; she didn’t appear to have much pain and she lay quietly, letting them move swiftly around her.

  The doctor accepted a cup of tea when he’d finished, following me into the kitchen.

  ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘this kind of thing isn’t new to you. You’re a physiotherapist, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right. I spent a bit of time on an oncology ward when I was training. I know roughly what to expect.’

  ‘No,’ Molloy corrected me. ‘You don’t know what to expect; she’s your mother and that makes it completely different.’

  ‘I knew she was dying as soon as I saw her,’ I pointed out.

  He sipped his tea. ‘If only she’d kept her appointments or let me in when I came to see her. Don’t get me wrong, I honestly don’t think I could have done anything that would have affected the course of events, but there’s always that element of doubt.’

  When he’d gone I went out to clear leaves from the gutters, raking at them fiercely. I rammed them into a bin-bag, wishing that he’d kept his mouth shut. I was angry with her for playing games just when she shouldn’t have. All those years of trotting to the doctor’s when there was very little wrong and then keeping him at bay when there was every reason to see him. I worked up a sweat, going on to rake up all the leaves in the garden, picking up twigs and other debris.

  I cleaned out the bird bath I’d bought for her a few birthdays ago. She’d scratched on the stone base in black biro, in the way she wrote on anything she was given: ‘To his mother on her 72nd birthday from her loving son Rory, May 1993, xxxx.’ I traced the words with my finger; I’d always laughed in amusement at this foible. Now I conjectured about why she’d done it. Were those the sentiments she longed for me to write? She liked fulsome words of affection, big gestures, the kind I sh
rank from making. She chose the type of greetings cards that I rejected in the shops, those in pastel colours featuring kittens or huge bunches of flowers with sentimental verses inside. I received one of those from her every year, with TO MY SON on the front in gold-edged letters. Inside, she would score a line under the words in the verse that she wished to emphasize, with a double line wherever it mentioned LOVE. I sent her cards featuring reproductions of great artists, blank inside except for my own simple greeting, knowing as I licked the envelopes that she would prefer gaudy, eye-catching efforts describing perfect motherhood. The rhyme on the sewing kit Dermot had once bought her was the kind that sent her into transports:

  Mother sweet and gentie,

  Thoughtful, kind and true,

  Giving love unending,

  Mother, that is you.

  Her favourite songs were syrupy ballads featuring mothers; ‘Silver-haired Mother of Mine’, ‘A Mother’s Love’s a Blessing’, and best of all ‘Mother Machree’ as sung by Count John McCormack. She and Father Corcoran often crooned it together during an evening chin-wag, he with a bottle in his hand and cake plate balanced on his knee, she with her tea poured specially for the occasion into a bone china cup:

  Oh, I love the dear silver that shines in your hair

  And the brow that’s all furrowed and wrinkled with care

  Oh, I kiss the dear fingers so tire-worn for me

  Oh, God bless you and keep you, Mother Machree.

  Now, as I hung the bird bath back up I considered how mean I had been not to write this simple kind of message that would have meant so much to her. Yet, at the same time, I thought how like her it was to shape something the way she wished it to be, to mould it to her will.

  That evening, as I was sorting her pillows out at bed-time, she beckoned me close.

  ‘Is yeer father out of the way?’

  ‘He’s having a bath, why?’

  ‘Go over to the bottom drawer below the wardrobe. There’s a brown box. Bring it here to me.’

  I did as she asked, laying the long box beside her on the bed. She touched the lid of it, patting gently. Then she asked me to open it. Inside, beneath several layers of white tissue paper, was a dark brown robe with a hood and buttons down the front. I lifted it up, thinking that it was the kind of vestment I might have worn if I’d become a monk.

  ‘That’s me shroud,’ she said. ‘I sent away to Dublin for it. That’s what I want on me. I want to be dressed in that with the hood pulled up. D’ye understand?’

  I nodded, the cloth cold and soft under my hand. A musty air like a draught in a tomb rose from it.

  ‘Me mother had one the same. She looked lovely in it, like a princess. Put it away now, I don’t want yeer father seeing it. ‘Twould only upset him. He’s not strong at all.’

  ‘How long have you had this?’ I asked, for something to say.

  ‘Three years. They were advertised in the paper.’

  I settled the box back in its drawer. I couldn’t help wondering if there was any other country in the world where you’d be able to get a shroud by mail-order. I was trying to distract myself from the thought of her in it; it had looked huge and she was shrinking daily. Even her distended stomach had reduced in size.

  ‘What date is it?’ she asked.

  ‘November twenty-second.’

  ‘I want ye to buy me some Christmas cards tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’ll need to get them sent off. There’s a place in Fermoy that does them. Nice religious ones, now, none of yeer ould doves or bells, yokes like that. Pictures of the nativity or the wise men. And make sure they have a …’

  ‘… Nice verse inside,’ I finished.

  ‘Oh very funny, ha ha.’

  I moved around, folding clothes and emptying the ashtray by my father’s bed. His nocturnal smoking had been a bone of contention between them for years. She alleged that one day he’d burn them alive and there would be no funeral expenses, with only ashes left. He would reply that we all had to go sometime and the man upstairs would decide when; if it said ‘frying tonight’ on their ticket then that’s the way it would be.

  When I turned around to ask her if she wanted to be read to she was asleep, her lips open slightly. A little of the plain yoghurt she’d eaten for supper had curdled in the corner of her mouth. I took a tissue, damped it on my tongue and dabbed the food away. She gave a soft snore. I wondered if she would dream and if the illness destroying her body would rise up and invade her dreams also, turning them dark and fearful. I had picked fresh rosemary again that morning, replenishing her vase. I took a sprig and laid it on her pillow so that the fragrance might inspire dreams of a far off fantastic land of spices and heat and palaces with musical fountains.

  The next day she was restless, becoming agitated about Father Brady, the parish priest, who had arranged to call at two o’clock. She spent the whole morning giving us instructions about the little altar she wanted set up in the bedroom. There was scarcely enough room between the two beds, but I had to carry in a small oak table from the kitchen. My father ironed a white tablecloth and she watched him through the door, telling him to make sure every single crease was gone. Once the cloth had been fitted and the corners smoothed I had to place her six-inch high crucifix in the middle of the table. Statues of Our Lady and The Sacred Heart were positioned diagonally at either end, facing in to the crucifix.

  ‘D’you want flowers on it?’ my father asked her.

  ‘What flowers? There’s none in the garden this time of the year.’

  ‘Rory could get some in Fermoy, couldn’t you, son?’

  ‘Yes, I could pop in now; I’ve got to go for your Christmas cards anyway.’

  ‘No, leave it,’ she said. ‘I want you to be here for the priest, you can go shopping when he’s been.’

  I couldn’t help looking at her with some suspicion. She was lying half-propped up, her face nearly as pale as the pillow. There was no reason why I should stay for the priest; I had abandoned Catholicism over twenty years ago and told my parents at the time. Every now and again my mother would raise the issue of my lost faith and I would divert the conversation, unwilling to hear her pious sentiments. Sometimes, when I unpacked at home after a visit to them I would find a pamphlet hidden amongst my clothes: Returning to the Faith or Questions Lapsed Catholics Ask. Once, a copy of a prayer entitled For Those Who Have Lost Their Way fell out of my washbag as I fumbled for my razor; she had underlined the part where it said that it was never too late to come back to the church; ‘God in his goodness loves even the most heinous of sinners.’ It was a long time since I’d seen that word, heinous; it made me think of serial killers, dictators who ordered genocide. What on earth did she suspect me of? Booklets arrived a couple of times a year from The Catholic Way organization; then I knew that she had been filling coupons in in my name, a response to adverts that appeared in the press; Have You Been Wondering About the Meaning of Your Life? and Ever Thought of Talking to Jesus? These attempts to persuade me with holy literature were never mentioned between us; it felt like aerial bombardment, a counter-offensive devised at Heavenly HQ.

  I have many memories of priests’ visits to the house in my childhood; often I would be commandeered to recite a prayer or sing a song. My mother would hiss at me to go and put on a clean shirt and I would be positioned by the window to do my turn. I felt like a tortoise tormented from its shell. I was not one of those children who like to show off their dramatic talents; I was shy, desperate to go unnoticed. Squirming, I would half-close my eyes to put the smiling, nodding priest out of focus while I performed. Father Corcoran always asked for ‘Kitty of Coleraine’ and when I’d finished he would lean over me, breathing stout into my face and saying I had the voice of an angel.

  I had never met Father Brady, only glimpsed him at a distance when I’d occasionally given my mother a lift to mass because my father wasn’t well. I had no doubt that he would have been told all about me; my loss of faith, my failed marriage, perhaps even my strange abandonmen
t of real food. My mother would have entreated his prayers for me and requested masses to be offered up in the hope that I would return to the bosom of the church. I steeled myself for his arrival as I decanted liquid from her plastic bottle of Lourdes water into a glass bowl and placed it on the home altar; she wanted the priest to bless her with this special ingredient. I felt awkward and ham-fisted arranging these religious items; they meant nothing to me. She could have got my father to deal with them, but I was sure that she had involved me deliberately, seizing any opportunity to influence my sinner’s soul.

  Brady breezed in on the dot of two. He was a small, beefy man with plump hands, a fast talker from Kerry. My father took him in to my mother and I kept out of the way in the kitchen, occupying myself with making a soup. I sensed that old rigid fear of being trapped; I almost believed that any minute now, my mother might call me and ask me to say that nice poem about the daffodils for Father Brady. I could hear him in the bedroom, rattling through prayers, barely giving my mother time to make responses. He was finished in ten minutes and out of the house by two twenty. I felt cheated on her behalf; surely your spiritual adviser should spend a bit longer than that with you when you are dying. She had been so anxious about his coming and yet a mere neighbour would have stayed longer and indulged in a bit of social chat.

  My father was sitting on the side of the bed, lighting a candle for her.

  ‘He didn’t overstay his welcome,’ I said.

  ‘He’s a busy man,’ my mother replied, but I thought she sounded flat. She was lying back, all the morning’s energy gone.

  ‘He’ll be back again, sure,’ my father said. ‘We’ll carry the altar out as it is so that it’s ready another time.’

  I popped back in to see her before I left for Fermoy.

  ‘You look exhausted, try to have a sleep,’ I said.

  She looked at me and her eyes seemed opaque. ‘Me mother was a good woman, she helped lots of people,’ she murmured.