‘MAMMY!’ DERMOT CALLED AS HE BURST into the flat. ‘Ma,’ he called again, now moving swiftly into the kitchenette. Agnes sat at the kitchen table with Trevor on her lap. Trevor was slurping up bread and sugar with hot milk poured over it – a mixture locally called ‘goodie’ – which was his breakfast. Dermot stood before her, a look of anguish on his face, his legs tight together and one hand firmly on his bottom. He was squirming.
‘What’s wrong with you, love?’ Agnes asked him.
‘Me gick is comin’.’
‘Well, what are yeh tellin’ me for? Do I look like the gick collector? Go into the toilet and do your gick!’
‘Mark is in there.’
‘Well, tell him to come out … Mark!’ she yelled, ‘get outta that toilet and let your brother do his gick!’
There was no reply.
‘Mark!’ she yelled again. Still no reply.
‘He’s in there ages, Ma, he won’t come out,’ cried Dermot.
Agnes got up. ‘Here, Rory, feed Trevor.’ She walked out to the landing where the toilet was, followed by Dermot, who at this stage was holding his bum so hard that only his thumb was visible. When she arrived at the toilet door she listened first before banging on it. ‘Mark, are you in there?’ For a moment it seemed that there would be no reply, then there was a very quiet ‘Yeh’. ‘Well come out, your brother’s in agony here … and if he shits in those trousers, I’ll make you wear them tomorrow.’
There was a click and the door opened a crack. It was enough for Dermot, he bolted through with his pants half-way down his legs. Even as Mark was closing the door behind him a groan of relief could be heard from Dermot. Mark, eyes down, walked past his mother and made straight for his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Agnes followed him as far as the door and when it closed against her she stood for a moment in thought.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ she asked of no one in particular.
Simon just looked at her and shrugged. Rory was too busy getting the last of the ‘goodie’ into Trevor.
‘Maybe he has worms,’ Cathy offered.
‘Don’t be so disgustin’ you,’ Agnes said.
‘People do get worms in their gick, Mammy, Cathy Dowdall told me, and they do be miles long.’
‘Shut up that talk about worms, and you stay away from that Cathy Dowdall wan. She’s a bad influence. Brownes don’t get worms and that’s that!’
All went quiet again. Agnes gently rapped on the door of the boy’s room. ‘Mark … Mark … Mark?’
‘Janey, Ma, you sound like a dog with a hair lip,’ Dermot announced as he re-entered the flat looking much relieved.
Agnes made a swipe at him, ‘I’ll hair lip you in a minute. What did you say to your brother?’
‘Me? I didn’t say anything.’
‘You must have said something,’ Agnes insisted.
‘I said, eh … “Come on, Mark, me gick is comin’”, that’s all.’
‘Then why is he depressed?’
‘It’s not me, it’s his willy,’ announced Dermot. The other children giggled.
‘Who? Who’s this Willie fella? Has Mark been fighting?’
With this the whole group erupted into laughter, and even Trevor joined in. Rory’s face turned crimson and Simon had tears in his eyes.
Agnes was furious. ‘Stop that!’ she screamed. The laughter died suddenly but the children were bursting to let it loose. However, seeing their mother so angry, they all held it admirably.
Agnes scanned their faces. When she felt she had everybody’s undivided attention, she went on with her train of thought. ‘Now one of youse is going to tell me where I’ll find this Willie.’
Cheeks were puffing, tongues were being bitten and tears were streaming down Simon’s face, who, even though not making a sound, was shaking with held laughter. The children thought they were going to hang on until Agnes announced: ‘When I find him, I’ll choke him.’
The burst of laughter could be heard on every floor and in every flat of that building in James Larkin Court. Dermot ran out of the building howling. Rory went into hysterics, so much so that Trevor began to cry with fright. Cathy followed Dermot out the door and Simon buried his face in a cushion on the settee.
Agnes swept Trevor into one arm. With the other, she picked up the spoon that Rory had been using to feed the baby and ‘boinked’ Rory on the head. Simon, who had nearly stopped laughing, roared again. Agnes went to the cupboard and pulled out the baby’s coat. After silencing his cries with the insertion of a soother, she put the coat on the child and turned to the other two.
‘Now, youse can take him for a walk. Rory, get the go-car down the steps and you, Simon, take him.’ She handed the child to Simon. She then went to her handbag and fished out her purse. She gave some money to Rory. ‘Bring me back some Tide and a pound of broken biscuits. Now, go on, off with yeh!’
The two boys scurried out the door, and as they made their way down to the ground floor, Rory said something to Simon and the laughter started again.
Agnes slammed the door. ‘Little bastards, havin’ a funny half-hour at my expense,’ she said aloud. The flat was now as quiet as a butcher’s shop on a Friday. Agnes went to the radiogram and put on an LP, Cliff Richard of course. She went to the bedroom door again and was about to knock, but decided to leave it; Mark would come out in his own good time. Instead, she began to tidy up and dust the little flat, sailing across the room on the musical waves provided by Cliff’s voice. She opened the cupboard to return the duster just as Cliff began a soft, slow song. With the cupboard door open, she stood for a moment and imagined what it must be like to be married to Cliff – those twinkling bright eyes, that smile all of the time, his coal-black hair falling across his tanned face as she ruffled his quiff. Without realising it, she was running her hand through the dark grey strands of her upturned floor mop. When she noticed this, she giggled to herself and said to the mop, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Cliff,’ and with a swift brush of her hand cleared the ‘quiff’ out of the mop’s ‘eyes’. She took the mop from the cupboard and began slowly to ‘lurch’ around the room. She closed her eyes. Suddenly, she was in the ballroom of the Savoy Hotel in London. Cliff had just collected yet another award, the one for being the most handsome, talented and loving singer in the universe. He had thanked the audience and stepped from the stage. He walked through the thronging crowd and stopped by the table where Agnes was sitting. Without speaking he placed the award on the table and extended his hand to Agnes. Coyly she stood, and as the flash bulbs popped and the lights swirled, Cliff began to sing softly into her ear. The crowd parted and, alone on the dance floor, Agnes and Cliff were the couple of the century, as they floated around the dance floor.
Had a stranger walked into the flat at that moment they would have seen an attractive, dark-haired, smiling woman moving in slow circles, hugging a damp shaggy mop. They could not be faulted for wondering if it might be a good idea to call the home for the demented. This is what Mark saw as he stood by the bedroom door. The music came to a halt and Agnes opened her eyes and noticed Mark. She was both startled and embarrassed at the same time. ‘My God, you gave me a scare,’ she muttered and quickly went to the cupboard, replaced the mop and closed the doors. Mark did not move.
Agnes sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Sit down, Mark,’ she said gently. He did so sullenly, sliding on to the chair. ‘Are you all right, love? You seem to be upset … tell me what it is, and, sure, maybe I can help. Are you havin’ a problem?’
‘Yeh,’ he answered with his head bowed.
‘Well, tell your Mammy. Come on, love. What kind of problem?’
‘A willy one.’
‘And who’s Willie?’
‘My willy.’
‘What do you mean your Willie? Is he your pal?’
Mark looked up at his mother. Maybe she really was going potty. ‘Me willy! What I use to do me pee,’ he said, now pointing down at his pants.
Agnes panicked. She jumped up from the table and put the gas on under the kettle. Tea sounded like a good idea. It had never entered her head that she might have to explain to her sons what other uses a willy had. With her back to Mark, she calmly said, ‘I see.’ She sat down again. ‘And eh … what’s the problem? Is it sore?’
‘No,’ Mark answered, without the elaboration that Agnes had hoped for.
‘Is it itchy?’ she asked, not knowing why she was asking such a stupid question, but probably in the hopes that Mark would take the initiative and begin to explain.
‘No.’ Again, no elaboration.
‘Well, tell me. Tell your mammy, what … eh … what’s wrong with your willy?’
‘There’s hair growin’ on it.’ Again Mark had lowered his head and actually looked as if he was talking to his willy.
‘Is that all? That’s all right, son.’ Agnes was relieved. A simple answer should put him right here. ‘That happens to all boys around your age. It’s the start of becoming a man. All young boys get hair on their willy.’ Agnes was smiling as she spoke and Mark was looking at her. His expression was one of relief. Agnes was pleased with herself, she was a ‘modern woman’ she thought. Her son had asked her a very personal question and she was able to answer it without a hitch. Then came the dreaded follow-up question: ‘Why?’
Agnes thought. The modern woman here would say: It’s called puberty … soon your penis will be erect, and you will have dreams at night which will cause your penis to discharge a creamy thick fluid. This is called semen and is what fertilises the egg in the woman’s fallopian tubes and makes babies.
Agnes stared into the face of her eldest baby. His eyes awaited her answer. The modern woman went out the window. ‘That’s to keep your willy warm when you go swimming.’ She jumped up to the steaming kettle and over her shoulder she said, ‘Now, out with yeh!’