AOIFE STABS ONCE WITH the paring knife. The blade is so worn that it only dents the thick foil. Stupid bloody things – why all the packaging? She pokes it again, harder this time, and twists until a coffee scent siphons out through the little piercing. She drops the knife onto the table and wriggles her fingers in, coaxing the hole wider.
What’s Mammy like? Queeny in there on her throne, big hands bent over the armrests and her lips pursed, and Davitt crouching in the low armchair – yes Mrs Kearney; no Mrs Kearney – shuffling papers about and making her feel all important.
She’ll have to phone Davitt later and make sure Mammy’s not doing something silly; tampering with the will or whatever. Her mother is getting to an age now where they need to keep a bit of an eye on her.
The vacuum pack yields very suddenly, splitting down the seam and sending coffee filter cups clattering out over the table. They’re a terrible waste of money, these things – individual plastic filters for each cup of coffee, only seven to a pack, but her mother insists on them.
When she’s stacked the filters on the table, Aoife opens the dishwasher for the mugs; white with little blue flowers along the rims – one for herself, and one for her mother. She sets them side by side on the table and pops a filter cup on top of each. She’ll have everything nice and ready when her mother comes in, and she won’t let on she’s wondering about Davitt. They’ll sit and have their coffee, and she’ll ask casually what it was all about. Her mother will be delighted with the chocolates she brought… Oh yes— the chocolates!
The living-room door is still ajar when she moves across the hall. Her handbag is on the console, beside a vase of tattered tulips. Where did Mammy even get those cheap tulips?
There’s no sound from the two of them in there. Are they whispering? Or sitting, fingers on lips, waiting for her to retreat to the kitchen?
In the inside pocket of her handbag she has four of those chocolates collected from her coffees in town. All week she saves up her complimentary treats. Then she brings them with her on a Monday and shares them with Mammy after lunch. It’s their little ritual.
Pulling the bag towards herself, she catches her face in the hall mirror, half concealed by the flowers – one baggy cheek, and one sombre eye and the blocky shadow of her newly coloured hair. Miserable. That’s what her husband said last night, Why do you have to be such a miserable cow all the time?
But this morning she felt like a nice lady as she drove into the city with the chocolates in her handbag, no greys in her hair, heading in for her weekly pamper. She played Lyric FM in the car, and she drove calmly along, no rush, unperturbed by other drivers, only good will in her for the day ahead.
Now the sight of that vase brings a bright rage fluttering up to her skin and twitching in her fingertips. The state of the flowers! The petals lying splay, rotting shafts. It’s shocking, how her niece Freya just takes and takes from Mammy.
Not a whisper from the living room.
Aoife can feel her upper lip thinning and tightening, that ugly way it has. The vase water is low and marshy, the pollen shedding all over the shiny wood and the strip of Brussels lace. It’s the least Freya could do, to look after things like that; change the water in the vase, and wash the lace now and then.
The mirror needs a polish too.
She touches the skin beneath her eyes.
Davitt is pale-looking now. Old-looking.
She stands back a little – she has learned to do this. She has learned not to stand too long, to look too long or in the wrong light. This is closer than people come, she tells herself. No one notices those lines, no one is searching for them.
She turns her attention to the dark, silky interior of her handbag. It’s a great handbag – grey suede on the outside and a lovely silky taupe inside. She bought it for less than half price in the January sales. A good handbag is important. She has explained that to her daughter. A good handbag and a good coat and you can hold your head up high… She only hopes the chocolates haven’t melted into the lining from the heat. No, they’re alright. One by one, she lifts them out and places them tenderly in her palm. Four lozenges, wrapped tightly in gold paper. They make her think of other small treasures – wild bird eggs, or the tangle of baby mice her husband found that time when he pulled out the skirting board…
Passing the door on her way back to the kitchen, she can hear nothing from the living room but the clink of a spoon on china. Not to worry – Davitt has more sense than to go behind Aoife’s back.
They’re taking their time. Aoife might as well empty the dishwasher. It’s when she’s putting away the glasses that she sees it – yet another photo of Freya’s little bastard! When did that appear? It’s a passport-sized thing, tucked in between the glass and the frame of the cabinet door. A school photo with a marble backdrop and he’s wearing that ridiculous uniform. Aoife averts her eyes as she shuts the cupboard, turns to find that there’s nothing left in the dishwasher. Well, she’ll have her own coffee then. Might as well.
Waiting for the water to ease silently down through the coffee paper, she raps her glossy fingernails on the table, falling in with the tick of the carriage clock from the adjoining room. Her father used to take great pleasure in winding it up every night at seven.
Her father thought he had ‘taste’, and he had to sanction every item in the house – nothing could be allowed on the shelves or walls that did not meet with his aesthetic standards. No lollipop-stick picture frames, no lumpy sculptures… and yet there it was all those years, the centrepiece of their sitting room – that garish thing – lime-coloured marble and little gold-plated lion feet. It’s so loud, that ticking, and dull, like a dripping tap. Sometimes, when dinner was tense – Daddy glowering at his plate, Mammy’s cheeks simmering red, and Aoife’s stomach tightening around her food – she used to imagine a sink filling up to the brim with all the ticks that Daddy wound into the house every evening.
It’s Mammy who pays for that crèche – no doubt about it – a Montessori in Merrion Square because little Lady Muck can’t be expected to send her child to the college creche like the other unmarried mothers. Freya doesn’t like it – that’s what Mammy said. Doesn’t like it! Oh no, not content to take the usual precautions, Freya decides to go and have a baby. Not only that, but this child has to have only the best; no single mother’s life for Freya. Ridiculous carry on anyway – five-year-olds in blazers and caps like Victorian dolls, and the shorts! Ridiculous nonsense – tartan shorts and knee-high socks. No doubt it was Freya who slipped that photo in there, her little message to the rest of them that she has her feet in under the table. The child looks like a gnome; a face on him like aren’t-I-gorgeous-you-know-I-am and fat, dimpled cheeks and creepily round eyes that follow her around. Aoife’s breath is growing sore in her throat. Despite herself, she glances again at the obnoxious photo. Well there’s no reason she should have to feel like a stranger in her home; the home she grew up in. She stands quickly, plucks the picture out from the frame of the cupboard, flips it around and slides it back in. He can smirk in at the cups and saucers now instead of at her.
The coffee is taking so bloody long to filter that she goes out to the hall. Someone has to change the water in that vase. Someone has to look after things. She slows as she passes the living room, taking careful, quiet steps.
‘Lovely, Davitt,’ says Mammy in her public voice, ‘do that, will you? Thank you, Davitt, you’re very good to come all the way out…’
She’ll be accused of eavesdropping if she’s caught in the hall, so Aoife grabs the flowers and returns as quickly as she can to the kitchen. She’s swirling a cloth around the bottom of the vase by the time her mother calls, ‘Aoife! Fifi darling, Davitt is leaving, he can’t stay!’
Vase in hand, Aoife leans in the kitchen doorway, a nod and a smile. ‘See you now Davitt, thanks for calling in on her.’
‘Bye then, Aoife, give my best to Brendan now won’t you?’
Mammy stands too long at the open door, waving and smiling while Davitt manoeuvres his car inch by inch out between the two others in the driveway.
‘That’s it!’ shouts Mammy. ‘Careful now, Davitt! Good man, you have it…’
‘Leave the poor man alone, Mammy!’ says Aoife. ‘How can he concentrate on driving when you’re there gawking and screeching at him?’ Her mother ignores her, so she returns to the kitchen and finishes washing the vase.
When at last she’s shut the front door, Mammy shuffles in, hands on the table to steady herself as she moves towards her chair.
‘What are you doing to my tulips, Fifi?’
‘I’m changing the water. It was disgusting, Mammy. It smelled… the flowers are jaded anyway, you know, no more than a day left in them.’ Aoife fills the vase with cold water, and pushes the flowers back in. Another petal drops.
Mammy knows she’s in trouble. Her back ruffles up like a bird’s in winter. She looks at the table and says, ‘Tell me this, have you heard from Sinéad?’
‘Not much. She’s very busy, you know. The garden is tough going at this time of year…’
‘I tried to phone her yesterday but she wasn’t answering.’
‘Probably in the garden,’ says Aoife.
Her mother nods. ‘She exaggerates a bit with all that gardening, I think.’
‘Well, are you going to explain what that was all about, Mammy? You didn’t tell me Davitt Dunlin was calling in?’
Her mother sits wearily at the head of the table, a big dramatic sigh. ‘Oh my Feefs you are a nosy thing, aren’t you?’ There is a little quiver in her throat as she says that. Her top lip is a strip of purplish gristle. All that excitement has tired her out.
Davitt should have checked with Aoife before calling in. She could have told him Mammy wasn’t able for it. ‘What was that all about, Mammy?’
‘He just called in, darling. He needed me to sign some things, you know.’
‘Are you having your coffee or did you already have it with Davitt Dunlin?’
‘Yes, please darling. No, I haven’t had my coffee.’
Aoife pushes her own coffee towards her mother and pours some hot water into the second filter for herself. Her life is full of these small unnoticed sacrifices.
‘I brought you some chocolates.’ She nods at the little huddle on the table. They look paltry now, their paper frayed.
‘Oh, thank you, darling.’
‘The Italian ones you like.’
‘Aren’t you a great girl, thank you, darling. We’ll have them after our lunch.’
‘So, what’s this business with Davitt?’
Her mother’s cheeks flush. She’s hiding something – no doubt about it.
‘Well, you know, darling I just wanted a little chat. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a look over my affairs…’
Aoife rolls her eyes. What kind of an eejit does her mother think she is? ‘So, am I going to have to ask Brendan to call Davitt, or are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
Mammy looks into her coffee mug. ‘You know Cara can be a serious girl sometimes – “Grandma, these are very bad for the environment you know…” And there’s me sorting all the rubbish for the five different bins we have now, and switching off the lights after her, you know, she always forgets to switch off lights. Your daddy could get angry over that, do you remember?’
‘The cheek of her, Mammy, telling you what kind of coffee to drink.’
‘Well, aren’t you a cranky one today?’
‘How can you stand the sound of that clock, Mammy? Day in day out, I couldn’t stand it. I’d just let it stop if I was you.’
‘Well, isn’t it lucky then that I don’t mind it, and Freya neither?’
‘Does it not drive you bonkers?’
‘No, darling. I like that clock; you know that. Your daddy loved that clock.’
Aoife lifts the lid off her coffee, places it on the tablecloth, and peers in at the swill of water beneath the paper.
‘You’re making a fool of yourself, Mammy.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t be getting Davitt Dunlin to come out to you like that. He has enough to be doing.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right, darling.’
‘So, what did you want with him anyway?’
‘Oh, I just wanted to look at the will, you know, now that there are more children. There were no great-grandchildren, you know, when your daddy and I made our will.’
The indignation surges up into Aoife’s throat. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath in, then out, but it presses sore under her tongue.
‘Mammy,’ she says calmly, ‘don’t tell me you’re going to reward Freya for getting herself pregnant outside marriage? Don’t tell me my Valerie is going to be punished for keeping her legs shut like a decent girl…’
And this is what really gets Aoife, this is what makes her chest feel like a dam and her head clamour with brilliant, flapping rage – Mammy’s frail-old-lady act. She can’t bear to watch it – the face dappling red and white, eyes wild as though in fear, the way she clutches at her own hands. Then the voice, the warble like she’s some crusty bat instead of Aoife’s mother, some rickety old crow instead of her mammy. ‘No, darling. No, of course you’re right. I never thought of it like that.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve gone and changed the will you made with Daddy, Mammy?’
‘No darling, no you’re quite right; you’re quite sensible to say that. No, I only talked it over with Davitt. He advised me to think it over. I was going to talk it over with you darling…’
‘I’ll have Brendan call Davitt and sort it out. We’ll sort it out, Mammy. No harm done… but you are a terrible eejit dragging poor Davitt out here on a silly whim. You’re getting soft in the head.’
‘I see.’
‘I brought you your chocolates, Mammy, the ones you like.’
‘Thank you, darling.’
‘The Italian ones you like.’
‘Yes, Aoife, you told me. Thank you, darling, you’re a great girl.’
Bloodless lips pursed, Mammy rotates the coffee mug slowly with her fingertips, until the handle is at her right hand. It makes Aoife want to smash something. ‘Well, Mammy, Brendan was very disappointed not to see you last week,’ she says. ‘I made roasted quails.’
Mammy runs the pad of a finger up and down the curve of the handle. ‘Oh, was he? Well you tell him I’m sorry. You know, I was tired. I had a nap…’
‘Drink your coffee, Mammy, before it gets cold.’
Mammy nods and brings two fingers to her brow in salute. ‘She who must be obeyed,’ she murmurs quickly, and takes a sip of her coffee.
Aoife won’t rise to it.
‘Honestly, Mammy,’ she says, ‘running around after that child all the time, at your age. That’s what has you tired. Brendan would have picked you up, you know, if you were too tired to drive.’
‘You’re very good, darling. I’ll come next time. Tell me what did you do with the quails? Did you stuff them or what? Or did you do that nice thing with the juniper berries – that was lovely you know. I was telling Cara about it…’
‘Well come on Wednesday, Mammy, will you? Valerie will be home for a couple of days… she can’t stay long though and she really would love to see you.’
‘Yes, I’ll try darling. I’ll see if Freya can come. The little one finishes at twelve on a Wednesday.’
‘Well I think Valerie would be disappointed, Mammy, not to see you on your own.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s impossible to talk, you know, with a child running around and chattering away all the time. I’m sure Valerie would like the chance to see you on your own for once… I wish you’d told me Davitt was coming this morning, Mammy. I could have done my shopping this morning instead of this afternoon.’
‘Oh yes, that reminds me darling, I have a list. You’re going to Brown Thomas isn’t it?’
‘A shopping list?’
‘Yes, darling. You know those Sloggi?’
‘The underwear?’
‘Good cotton knickers – the ones that cover your bottom properly, and cover your kidneys. I want you to get me six extra small and six medium, can you do that?’
‘Why?’
‘Well, Aoife, you should see the little rags that Cara wears, and Freya, my goodness you couldn’t trim a hat with the scraps she has for knickers!’
Aoife lifts the filter off her coffee. She pours a big dollop of milk in, drinks a deep, tepid gulp and wipes her lip.
‘I don’t mind helping you, Mammy,’ she says, and breaths out to push this terrible soreness from her chest. She can see that her mammy is nervous though, knowing she has gone too far. She’s clutching at her hands again like a big squirrel, her shoulders up and her bony chest heaped beneath her gullet. Aoife speaks low and calm. ‘I’ll get you as many knickers as you like, Mammy, if they’re for you. You know I have no problem doing that. I won’t even ask you for the money for them. But I will not run around buying knickers for the Ladies Muck. I will not, Mammy.’
‘No. Alright then, darling. Well I want some knickers for myself then – six extra small and six medium, you know how my weight goes up and down…’ Mammy tries to grin but she is nervous, flicker-eyed, like a daring child. She stands. ‘I’ve written it out for you there and it’s with the money under the chopping board.’
Aoife looks at her own hands – the perfect, smooth ovals for nails, and the incongruous chubbiness of her fingers – and breathes out. She can feel her mother move around the kitchen; slow and resolute. Two fifty-euro notes and a scrap of paper are placed ceremoniously on the table in front of her. Written in her mother’s careful, knife-sharpened pencil marks:
Aoife Monday
In Brown Thomas please can you get:
Sloggi knickers, white (black or naked if no white) 100% cotton
6 × extra small
6 × medium
Thank you darling
Aoife raises her face to Mammy with her mouth open, a shout ripping at her chest, ‘You mean nude Mammy. Not “naked”, nude.’
But Mammy has turned already, her head in the open fridge now. ‘Well I’ve made us a lovely salad for our lunch, darling, because I know you are slimming again. And I’ve made some nice mayonnaise too – one little spoon won’t do you any harm. But tell me this, would you like a nice herb omelette as well with some scallions snipped into it? Chives would be better but Freya brought back a lovely little bundle of scallions from that market in the park. I’ve been waiting for a visit from Sinéad though, with those wonderful chives she has growing there out the front. I haven’t had a word from her all week. Do you think I should call over?’
She closes the fridge and turns back around, four eggs cradled in her long, speckled hand. She looks Aoife right in the face, all conspiratorial smiles. ‘It’s not just you who should be slimming you know! Sinéad was always such a fine figure of a girl growing up and – well! Well, my God, when I saw her last time, well, I said, “Sinéad, what sort of a bottom have you grown?” and “Oh stop it, Mammy,” she says, so I said no more. But she doesn’t have the bones to hold all that size, you know! It’s as if the fat can hardly hold onto the tiny frame of her. And the great thighs! Well, Aoife, I was shocked. Were you shocked? That happened very quickly. But what did you tell me there? When did you say you last saw Sinéad?’