All Growed Up

by Tony Macaulay

  The thought of Big Isobel passing away was difficult to contemplate, in spite of the fact that, for as long as I could remember, she had been saying, ‘I’m in my coffin already, love. They just can’t get the lid on!’ Every time I had been to visit her since I started university she remarked that I was ‘all growed up nigh’, and ever since meeting Lesley she always made sure to enquire about the state of our relationship.

  ‘How’s the big Lesley girl, love?’ she would ask.

  ‘Aye, dead on, Granny,’ I would reply briefly.

  ‘In the name of God, don’t you go havin’ a wee notion of none of them other wee hussies up there in Coleraine and breakin’ that wee girl’s heart!’ was her sage advice. I was shocked at Granny’s doubts regarding my loyalty to Lesley, and she could read this in my face.

  ‘Don’t be lookin’ at me with the face trippin’ ye! You wouldn’t be the first Holy Joe to run off with some wee whouer!’

  I wasn’t sure whether to use my spiritual or feminist credentials to argue that I was not a ‘Holy Joe’, but I decided not to bother as Big Isobel would just accuse me of getting all swanky on her again. Since the age of four, she had distinguished me from the other grandchildren by describing me as ‘the wee swanky one’.

  ‘Ach, wise up, Granny, you’re scunderin’ me!’ I said, prompting an enormous hug from Big Isobel and a typically hearty laugh that made her sofa shake.

  ‘And don’t you be gettin’ that wee girl into trouble neither,’ she warned.

  I was astounded at how she could move from suspicions of infidelity to concerns of unplanned pregnancy in a matter of seconds!

  Given her volatile temperament, this was a good outcome from an exchange with my granny. She was not averse to shouting at you to ‘get out of the house and never darken my door again!’ because you had questioned the morality of hiding behind the sofa and pretending no one was in when the tick man called. She would often threaten violence when upset. On more than one occasion she offended my pacifist sensibilities by threatening to ‘draw my hand across your bake, ya cheeky wee hallion,’ simply because I refused to ‘run the wee brush over the carpet, love – this place is startin’ to look like a real dunderin’ in!’

  Big Isobel was quite outspoken on political and constitutional matters too. ‘Well if it wasn’t for the Big Fella we’d a been sold down the river long ago,’ was her analysis of the achievements of Rev. Ian Paisley. According to her, the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, James Prior had ‘a face on him like a scalped arse’ – and of course, Gerry Adams had ‘the sorta bake you’d never get tired kickin’!’

  Granny also had her own distinctive views on art and culture. She was a dedicated viewer of Crossroads, and she was completely intolerant of any talking in the room during an episode of Coronation Street, frequently telling us to ‘shut yer bakes while Carnation Street’s on or I’ll warm the ears of the whole bloody lotta youse!’ Big Isobel was also very excited about a new Irish country and western singer from Donegal called Daniel O’Donnell, who she said was ‘a lovely wee fella, and he’s good to his mammy.’ Though her less-favourable musical reviews could be quite cutting.

  ‘Look at the neb on yer man on the piano,’ was her description of Barry Manilow; and as for Boy George – ‘For the love and honour of pig’s gravy, what is the world comin’ til? Would ya look at the cut of thon wee lad all dressed up like some wee doll!’

  Big Isobel was so full of life it was hard to imagine her life coming to an end until that unhappy day finally arrived. It was Lesley’s birthday, and we had been on another trip to Dublin for student leadership training in her Renault 5. As a special treat we had gone to McDonalds in Dublin because you couldn’t get a Big Mac in Northern Ireland. I presented Lesley with a padded pink birthday card and a fine gold bracelet from Argos. It had been a truly happy day, but when we arrived back at my house in Belfast I noticed that the venetian blinds in every window were closed even though it was still daylight. This was usually a sign that someone had died in our street, so I wondered immediately if something was seriously wrong. I didn’t say anything to Lesley in case I was just catastrophising, but as soon as we entered the house I sensed the gloom. I could hear my mother and my Auntie Doris, who was a lovely singer from Lambeg, weeping in the sitting room. My father came out and delivered the bad news.

  ‘Your granny died this morning, son,’ he said.

  I gave my mother the longest hug I had ever given her, and she sobbed on my shoulder the same way I used to cry on her shoulder when I was a wee boy. There was a steady stream of visitors to our house and plenty of cups of tea and triangular egg and onion sandwiches served by Auntie Emma and Auntie Mabel. Lesley helped with the dishes like she was one of the family, and Auntie Doris took the time to admire Lesley’s lovely gold bracelet even though she was grieving the loss of her mother.

  It was strange that Granny had died on Lesley’s birthday, because I had been born on Big Isobel’s birthday. She always said I was her best birthday present ever, and when I thought about this I had to go hide in my room to cry for a while because men weren’t supposed to cry. Neighbours and distant relatives I didn’t see very often called at the house and everyone said that Big Isobel was a character, so she was, and she’s in a better place now, God love her. Rev. Lowe called in to shake everyone’s hand firmly and say a prayer. He seemed genuinely upset, even though he buried people every day. He always had great craic with Big Isobel, even though her faith was a little unorthodox for a Presbyterian. I didn’t know anyone else who said they loved the Lord as much as Granny, but in the next breath she would call her neighbour – who you were supposed to love – ‘a sleeked wee bastard’. It was hard to believe that Big Isobel was really gone, but within a few hours we had visited the funeral home on the Lisburn Road to pay our final respects and the awful truth began to finally sink in. My parents and my brothers and I took turns to say our own personal goodbyes to Granny. She was laid out in a small dark room that smelled of death and lilies, with stained glass windows and wooden panelling on the walls. After all those years of hearing her say the words, Big Isobel really was in her coffin but they hadn’t put the lid on yet.

  When it was my turn I hesitated at the door and approached the coffin very slowly, half-expecting Big Isobel to shout, ‘C’mere over here and see me, son, and stop all that oul futterin’ about over there!’ Granny looked so still, so quiet and peaceful, but her spirit was not there in that room with me. Her body was just a shell. I felt an overwhelming sadness I had never felt before, and I realised she was gone. Big Isobel was gone. In her own words, she had ‘gone to the happy huntin’ ground’. My tears dripped onto one of the shiny brass handles on the casket, and when I wiped them away I caught the reflection of my own sad face, twisted like in one of the crazy mirrors at Barry’s Amusements in Portrush. I kissed Granny on the forehead and talked to her as if I was four years old again, thanking her for all the birthday cards, the Christmas presents, the hugs, and even the shouting matches. I told her I loved her very much and that she had been a good granny to me, so she had, in spite of all her oul shenanigans. Finally, I said farewell to Big Isobel.

  ‘So this is grief,’ I thought.

  The funeral was not without incident. The church was overflowing with Granny’s relatives, friends and neighbours from the Donegall Road, as well as many family friends who all turned out to pay their respects and offer their condolences. There was even a group of mourners from the Westy Disco. There were lots of flowers and handshaking and everyone said they were awful sorry for our loss, even old men I had never met before. Lesley sat beside me and held my hand during the prayers. Rev. Lowe led the service, and he spoke warmly and personally about Isobel Taylor. It was obvious that he really knew her and really cared about our family’s loss. Some ministers just saw burials as a chance to tell a crowd of non-churchgoers to get born again, before it was their turn to go to hell.

  When it came to doing a lift of the coffin I was one of the fi
rst.

  ‘You’re in the second lift, son,’ said Uncle Freddie.

  What if I drop her? I thought, panicking. What if I fall over and cause a commotion and let the whole family down?

  No one had ever explained to me what a lift was or how to do it properly, but I just took the lead from the other men and the undertakers and I managed it all right. Big Isobel weighed over twenty stone, and as the edge of the coffin dug into my shoulder I understood the term ‘dead weight’ for the first time. I had to put one arm around my big brother’s shoulder, something I had never done before, and hold one of the brass handles with my other hand. As we walked slowly along the wet tarmac road behind the hearse my right cheek touched the cold, polished wood, and it felt as though Granny was kissing me on the cheek one last time.

  It was at the graveside that Big Isobel made her final mark. The cemetery smelled of freshly dug earth and freshly cut lilies, mixed with the musk of death. After the saddest part of ‘ashes to ashes and dust to dust’, the undertakers began lowering the heavy coffin into the grave using large grey straps attached to the brass handles. Suddenly, there was a crack, and one of the brass handles detached from the coffin. There was a collective gasp from the mourners. The coffin lurched to one side and threatened to topple over. I imagined the casket flipping over, the lid falling off under Big Isobel’s immense weight and Granny diving out of her coffin and into her grave in one final grand gesture. Fortunately, the undertakers imagined a similar disaster and moved swiftly to steady the swaying casket. For years Granny had told me she was in her coffin already, they just couldn’t get the lid on – today it seemed as if she was saying, ‘Look! Even when I’m in my coffin they can hardly keep the lid on!’ I was sure Big Isobel was watching this from somewhere in her happy hunting ground, laughing one of her great big laughs that made her sofa shake.

  I was back at university the day after the funeral, getting to grips with an essay on the promotion of capitalism in television game shows. For weeks, my first thought every morning was that Granny was dead. I felt an empty, gnawing feeling in my stomach, and I understood this was loss and grief and all part of being an adult. It was only when my first thoughts of the morning returned to Lesley and my final exams and Doctor Who that I realised I had emerged from a period of mourning for my dear granny. Dealing with death was a major part of growing up but, ironically, now that Big Isobel was gone, no one would ever again tell me that I was ‘all growed up now’, so they wouldn’t.

  17

  GO WILD IN THE COUNTRY

  Bellaghy sounded like a fascinating place, so it did. Of course, it wasn’t Monte Carlo or Gallifrey, but I was enthralled by detailed accounts of Girls’ Brigade displays and IRA marches, Church of Ireland flower festivals and an ancient haunted bawn. There was talk of Seamus Heaney, Mad Dog, ponies, and a deserted church in the middle of a lough accessible only at the height of summer. On top of all that, there was the exciting goings on in Mrs Steen’s drapery shop and the juicy gossip from Greens’ grocers, which made the ups and downs of the Sugdens in Emmerdale Farm sound positively boring! The more I listened to Lesley talking about the wonders of Bellaghy the more I wanted to go on an adventure up the country.

  I received an official invitation to visit Bellaghy one weekend when I needed a break from my rigorous film production schedule. This wasn’t simply my first experience of the intriguing south Derry village – it was to be my first introduction to Lesley’s parents (or Mummy and Daddy, as she called them). Lesley was an only child, so she talked about her parents and her extended family a lot. Even though we had yet to meet, I already felt as if I knew all her cousins in Maghera and Magherafelt, right down to the price tag on the latest outfit they’d bought in Go Gay in Ballymena. Bellaghy sounded so different from Belfast and so far away from my native Upper Shankill that when we arranged the date for my first visit I felt like I was Alan Whicker from Whicker’s World on UTV, about to go on a great adventure to see fascinating people and exotic places hidden from the rest of the world. Geographically, I was aware only that Bellaghy was somewhere north of Glengormley until Lesley pointed it out to me on a map.

  ‘Sure you boys from Belfast think the world ends at Glengormley. You’ve no idea!’ she said.

  Bellaghy was near the top of Lough Neagh and close to Toomebridge, where my father used to fish for eels in green waders before the Troubles. My big brother had begsied the green Simca for some football, rugby or cricket match where he could show off his brilliance with balls, and although I was sure he had done this deliberately just to sicken me, I was not altogether disappointed at being unable to display our humble family car to Lesley’s folks. They had three cars between them – one for Mummy, one for Daddy and one for Lesley – and every single one of their cars was bigger, more expensive and less rusty than the Green Dream Machine. Although Lesley was largely unfamiliar with the concept of public transport she phoned the bus station in Belfast to find out the details of the journey for me. She provided me with clear instructions on where to catch the blue and white Ulsterbus to Bellaghy, how much the ticket would cost and where to disembark on the Toome Road. There she would pick me up in the Renault 5 and transport me the final few miles to the enchanted village itself. Alan Whicker usually travelled on a Concorde but I was happy enough to get an Ulsterbus to Bellaghy. My main experience of this particular mode of public transport had been watching Ulsterbuses burning on Good Evening Ulster. For as long as I could remember the paramilitaries had been burning buses to free Ireland or keep Ulster British, or simply to show how upset they were by the latest political development. I felt sorry for all the bus drivers who must have been very bad with their nerves after so many hijackings.

  When the day of my journey arrived I made sure I was on time for the bus and bought a one-way ticket to Bellaghy. I had learned from my mistake on 12 February 1982 when I missed the train to Coleraine and almost ruined my life. This was a similarly important appointment, though I hoped Lesley’s parents weren’t going to subject me to a formal interview. As Lesley was an only child, I knew her mother and father would have very high standards for her. What did they think about their only daughter going out with a wee lad from up the Shankill? Of course, there were plenty of people from the Shankill who had come up in the world, such as Norman Whiteside who played for Manchester United. Nonetheless, I was certain Lesley’s parents would have been much happier if Lesley had been doing a line with someone like Aaron Ward whose father was a dentist, and there was no way in a million years that I would ever play for Manchester United because, to quote my big brother, ‘Our Tony couldn’t kick back doors!’ I knew the Evanses were good Presbyterians, so I clung to the hope that being a good livin’ Sunday School teacher in Whiterock Orange Hall might compensate for my humble origins. As I travelled up the motorway into lands well beyond Glengormley, I fretted that Lesley’s wider family might not accept me, as I had never once bought an outfit in Anderson & McAuley’s in my life. Lesley’s budget for one Gloria Vanderbilt outfit was equal to my annual budget for John Frazer’s. I contemplated pretending that my father was actually Mr McAuley himself and that he worked with Mr Anderson in the shop in Royal Avenue, but I knew my lie would be exposed if anyone took the time to compare the spelling of our surnames.

  The Ulsterbus crossed the bridge with the Irish tricolour flags and IRA graffiti at Toome and then passed the enormous, fortified police station with scorch marks on the security gates from the rocket attacks. As I admired the lovely scenery I worried about all the stupid things I might say in front of Lesley’s parents that would deem me an inappropriate boyfriend. Finally, I reminded myself to say all my ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous’ and ‘sorrys’ to prove that I was dead well brought-up and educated and all.

  As the bus approached what I believed to be the correct bus stop I spotted the blue Renault 5 parked at the side of the road and I could see Lesley using her rearview mirror to fix her hair and apply fresh red lipstick. I appreciated that she wanted to look nic
e for me, although the lipstick was a bit of nuisance when it rubbed off on my lips and I had to wipe it off with a hankie or the sleeve of my best Simon Le Bon blouse. I leapt up from my seat, wobbling slightly with the weight of the sports bag containing my jammies, wash bag and Good News Bible, and pressed the button to inform the driver that I wished to disembark. Being an inexperienced passenger I had left this quite late and the bus driver scowled at me and shook his head, but I forgave him because he was probably bad with his nerves due to all the hijackings. I jumped out of the bus and landed in a shuck, splashing mud all over my suede ankle boots which I had brushed especially for the occasion. I inhaled the scent of cow’s clap and slurry, and as I exhaled I knew I had finally arrived up the country.

  Lesley welcomed me with a red lipstick kiss and one of her perfect smiles. She was obviously very excited. Lesley was excited most of the time, but today she was even more excited than usual as she talked me through her detailed plans for the day. After I met her parents and her cousins we would visit the historic Bellaghy Bawn which was across the road from her house, and Cuddy’s Department Store in Magherafelt, which had been bombed a few times and sold lovely clothes. Lesley drove us slightly too fast down a winding country road snugly framed by shucks and hedges.

  ‘Look at all the gorgeous wee lambsies,’ she said as we passed fields full of sheep. Within five minutes I could see the sign announcing our arrival in the beguiling village of Bellaghy.

  ‘That’s our church – there’s the hall for the GB and there’s the church for the services. The railings need painted and you’ve no idea … Mummy’s in the choir and she’s the captain of the GB and sometimes plays the organ and counts the money and she never stops and you’ve no idea … and that’s the RUC station, it used to be a big manor house until the police took it over, and there’s Mrs Steen’s shop and down there is Greenses and the Masonic Hall on the corner …’