AGNES BROWNE COULD TAKE A LOT OF ABUSE. She’d had a lot of practice. She was beaten regularly by her father, she was beaten in school and of course Redser beat her, but at least he only beat her when he felt he had a good reason!
She never told anyone about the beatings from Redser. She tried once – the very first time, it was. They had just moved into the flat in Larkin Court and she was as happy as a lark. They got a bed from Redser’s granny in Ringsend (she’d had it in the attic) and they had ordered a new formica-topped table, four chairs and a settee from Cavendish’s in Grafton Street – two pounds and fifty pence a week over three years with a week free every Christmas. The table and chairs arrived on a Friday and although Agnes was disappointed that the van man hadn’t brought the settee as well, he promised he would bring it the next day, Saturday. Redser ate his dinner off the new table that night. He hardly noticed it and his only comment before he pushed his plate away and went to dress for his darts match, was: ‘It doesn’t make the dinner taste any better.’
Agnes always rose early on a Saturday. She didn’t have to work because she had an arrangement with Marion – Agnes looked after both stalls on a Friday and Marion did both on a Saturday, but still she would be up at 7am. That Saturday she boiled a pot of water and filled the trough to make a warm, bubbly bath. She bathed Mark and dressed him. Then at exactly half-past eight, she carried Mark and his go-car down the stairs, strapped him in and headed for the second-hand market on George’s Hill. The highlight of Agnes’s week was her Saturday rummage through the mountains of clothes, shoes and bric-a-brac of this market. She knew all the dealers’ nicknames and why they had them. For instance, ‘Bungalow’ was a retarded man that ran and fetched for the dealers. They sent him for chips or cigarettes or whatever. He got his name because, like a bungalow, he had nothing upstairs. On the other hand, Buddha, who sold bedsteads, buckets and sewing machines, was very smart and got his name from the way he spoke, every sentence beginning with ‘But eh …’
This Saturday, Agnes just skimmed around the dealers instead of stopping, rooting and chatting, because she wanted to be back in time to meet the van man with her new, her brand new, settee. She arrived back to the flat at about eleven o’clock. As she entered the building old Mrs Ward, who lived in the ground-floor flat, met her on the landing.
‘Your fella’s gone out,’ she announced. Mrs Ward fancied herself as the ‘Keeper of the Castle’ and the residents of the building used to say ‘you couldn’t fart but she knew about it and by the time she was finished telling someone else about it, it was a shite!’ Agnes didn’t even look at her as she struggled up the stairs with child and go-car. She just replied, ‘I know.’
‘Overtime, is it?’
‘No.’
‘Gone up to his mother’s?’
Agnes didn’t reply, half because she was nearly breathless and half because she didn’t want to. Failure to reply never stopped Mrs Ward, for even as Agnes was opening her door two floors up, she could hear the old bat carry on below: ‘Hard to get them away from their mothers, these young bucks.’ Agnes closed the door to a muffled: ‘Oh yes, they love their mothers … love them!’
She plonked the go-car down and took off her headscarf. As she was unwrapping the baby she glanced over at her new table and chairs … lovely! The table was in a mess from the remains of Redser’s breakfast. A dirty mug, the sugar bowl, a bottle of milk and the teapot scattered around, the butter with the wrapping wide open like a greaseproof butterfly, and half a loaf of bread. Agnes decided she would put young Mark down for his nap before tackling the mess on the table. Once the child was asleep she would have the whole afternoon to herself. Redser never came back from the bookies on a Saturday before the last race was over.
The fresh air had done Mark the world of good, and he went to sleep quickly, his rosy cheeks puffing contentedly. Agnes came back into the only other room of the flat and went over to her radiogram – a bargain she’d got from Buddha for three quid. She selected six records from her pile, all Cliff Richard of course, and loaded them on the spindle, set the speed to 45 and flicked the Play button. The arm lifted, and a record made a little ‘plap’ sound as it hit the deck. Agnes began to pin her hair up as Cliff went into ‘English Summer Garden’. She loved Cliff, and so did Redser. In fact, Agnes had noticed the letters C.L.I.F.F. tattooed across Redser’s knuckles before she’d even seen his face on the night they had met.
Her hair tied up, Agnes attacked the mess on her new table. When the table was cleared, butter in the scullery, loaf in the bread bin, Agnes took a damp cloth to the table. On her first wipe she noticed them – four long straight gouges. They were made by the bread knife as it cut through the loaf … they were made by Redser. Her heart dropped. She sat down and ran her fingers over the cuts slowly, as if somehow this might heal the wounds in her brand new formica-topped table. But it didn’t. As Cliff belted out ‘In The Country’, Agnes wept quietly. Her table was no longer new.
When Redser came home Agnes was sitting on her new settee. Mark was by the fireplace, a cushion under his head, and one of his cot blankets over him. He was awake, but contented to lie there in the heat of the fire watching the flickering flames dance from coal to coal. Usually Agnes would have noticed that Redser was in a foul mood, but today she didn’t care. He didn’t say hello, or talk to the baby, but took off his coat, threw it over one of the new kitchen chairs and opened the oven. It was cold and empty.
‘Where’s me dinner?’ He spoke into the oven.
‘Yeh cut me table,’ Agnes said quietly.
‘What?’ The oven door slammed.
‘Yeh cut me table.’ Agnes’s voice now went up a notch. ‘Look at it!’
‘Fuck the table. Where’s me dinner, woman?’
‘It can’t be fixed, yeh know. Yeh can’t fix formica!’
‘Are you goin’ deaf … Where’s me fuckin’ dinner?’
‘I didn’t cook yer fuckin’ dinner. Now will yeh look at me table?’
‘You didn’t cook the dinner? Yeh didn’t cook me dinner?’ Redser advanced towards Agnes and she saw the warning signs. His bottom lip went white and began to quiver, his forehead began to redden and his temples to pulsate. She stood. He stopped. There was a madness in his eyes, they seemed to jump about. She went to speak. The slap, when it came, seemed vaguely familiar. He used the back of his right hand, the one with C.L.I.F.F. across the knuckles. It met the right side of her face full on, her head spun to the left towards the fireplace and her now wide-eyed and frightened son. She remembered. It was familiar. It was identical to her father’s slap. She wondered if her Da had taken Redser aside and shown him how it was done, or did young boys get taught it in school? She tasted the blood in her mouth. She didn’t cry. A man’s slap had long since ceased to be a reason for Agnes to cry. She just slowly brought her face back to his. He was half-smiling, just like Daddy.
‘I don’t want to hear another fuckin’ word out of your mouth until there’s a dinner on that fuckin’ table.’ He walked to the table quickly. He slapped his hand on it. ‘Here! Right here … on this table … my fuckin’ table. Right?’
She didn’t speak. She went to the cooker and prepared a fry. He turned on the radio and fiddled with the knob until the racing and football results were coming through loud and clear.
That night Agnes went around to her mother. She had to tell someone. She recounted the story as her mother was ironing her father’s shirts. Throughout the story her mother barely looked up. When Agnes had finished, she awaited some gem of advice or even sympathy from her Ma. Slowly her mother looked up, and in her Ma’s eyes Agnes saw a surrendered spirit.
‘Well, love, you’ve made your bed – now lie in it!’ said her Ma.
Agnes never told anyone again, but over time she learned how to avoid the beatings and she also established an unspoken but well-understood law with Redser. She did this with a look, the way only a woman can, and the look said: ‘I can take it … but don’t ever touch my children.’ Redser never did.