eleven

Breda came to relieve me, her face beaming. ‘Wait’ll you hear the news, kid. My Da’s ship is docking on December 28th. I haven’t seen him for ages. I’d love to be home then. But only if it’s OK with you

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘Steve will still be in camp?’

‘Only until the next day.’

‘I know but if you go home for Christmas you’ll be separated for a good while. I won’t mind if you want your leave for New Year, honest to God.’

Sometimes I wondered if anyone could be always as obliging as Breda. Always willing to accommodate others. Did she fume inwardly? Feel put upon. Wish she could be more assertive.

She never gave offence. Shared whatever she had. Swapped shifts to suit me. Never complained if I was late relieving her.

But watching her get ready to take over the switchboard, seeing her open smiling face my doubts were swept away. She was genuinely incapable of resentment, bitterness, envy. It was no wonder everyone liked her. ‘Listen,’ I said taking off the headphones from round my neck. ‘You go and see your dad. Three weeks won’t kill me without Steve. My mother might if I don’t go home for Christmas.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Definitely.’ And so it was agreed. And once my application for leave signed ‘your obedient servant’ was in and granted my thoughts turned to Christmases in Dublin.

I remembered all the good things about them. The buzz there was. You could feel it in the air. See it wherever you looked. In the shops. Little ones, their windows decorated with daubs of cotton wool, hung with gaudy paper chains. Glitzy ones in Grafton Street into which you could look but never step over the threshold. Everything they sold beyond the reach of the working class. But the beautiful gowns, luxurious furs, lingerie in pure silk and satin could be admired, marvelled at, imagined against your skin as you gazed through the plate-glass windows.

Moore Street, Henry Street and Thomas Street jumping with life. The dealers calling encouragement to buy. Bargains galore. Paper chains, balloons and baubles. Pyramids of apples and oranges.

Maceys, Cassidys and Kellets in George’s Street, Aladdin’s caves of artificial silk and stockinette slips and knickers. Angora boleros. Coats and hats, frocks and skirts. Up to the minute in fashion at prices that were affordable for factory and office girls who’d paid into money clubs.

And all the knick-knacks. Powder compacts, manicure sets, workboxes, brush and comb sets in imitation tortoise shell. In imitation leather cases. Gifts for aunties, nieces and friends.

The chemist’s windows filled with bottles of scent. Evening in Paris in its blue flask and pictures of the Eiffel Tower. Phul Nana—hints of the mysterious East about its wrapping and riotous coloured bottles of Californian Poppies.

Outside butcher’s shops geese and turkey hung suspended by their feet, fully feathered round their necks. The snowy down blood stained. The glazed eyes gazing unseeingly. The smell of their flesh, of their undrawn innards. There were smoked and unsmoked hams, halves and whole, ox tongues lolling on enamel trays, silverside, brisket and tail end of corned beef steeping in barrels of brine. And on the southside of the city, from Aungier Street wafting through the narrow streets and alleys as far as Saint Stephen’s Green, the rich smell of Jacob’s Oxford Lunches baking. And at home my mother would be checking the ingredients for her Christmas pudding. Ingredients bought over many weeks in small quantities and hidden about the house to stop them being raided by me, my brother and sister when our sweet tooth got the better of us.

The flurry of activity as she washed the currants and raisins, chopped the candied peel, grated nutmegs, measured out spice. Mixing and stirring the lump of suet to be shredded, the pudding cloth to be boiled and greased. The mixing and stirring.

Her regrets that she wouldn’t have time to slap up a few rolls of wallpaper. Her frenzied air, her frantic movements. The beast on her back that drives women in the run up to Christmas into believing that unless presents were wrapped, food prepared, the house cleaned, the holly and the ivy behind the pictures Christmas Day wouldn’t arrive.

My mother shedding tears as she recalled our Christmas trees from Mount Jerome. Depressed one minute, manic the next. Laughing and singing. Fortifying herself with another cup of strong, sweet tea. Wind surging in her stomach from not stopping for a meal.

Racking her brains as to how she could afford a present for us. Recalling the last Christmas before my father died. Her eyes filling with tears, her voice hoarse with sadness as she said, ‘Nearly three years buried and no still no stone over him.’ Her spirits lifting and an expectant look on her face as she heard the rattle of the letter box and hurried into the hall to see what the postman had delivered. Never opening the letters until she had studied the handwriting, post marks and stamps. Second guessing who they were from as she turned them over several times. An English or American stamp would transform her face with an expression of joyful expectancy.

She’d take out the cards and letters, put them aside as she peered into the envelopes for cheques or dollars. Finding none she’d search the cards and letters. If there was no money she’d say of my English grandfather, ‘The mean old bastard wouldn’t you think he’d remember his orphaned grandchildren. And he wallowing in it. Money that your father helped him make.’

The oversight of the American relations was forgiven for often during the year they did send dollars. And she’d console herself. ‘The money could be delayed in the post because of the war. Maybe it’ll arrive after Christmas.’ Her disappointment was for us. For what we’d be deprived of. The fancy socks from Cassidy’s in O’Connell Street for me, a doll for my sister and a tool set or bus driver’s uniform for my brother. For herself she wanted nothing. Only to have the means to surprise and delight us on Christmas morning.

But she lived in hope. Turning her thoughts which she spoke aloud to what the grocer would give her for a present. ‘Maybe this year it’ll be an iced cake, though they’re like sawdust. Can’t hold candlelight to one from the Monument Creamery. And if not a cake surely to God a thick fat red candle. If he insults me again with a calendar that you can buy anywhere for tuppence I’ll tell him what to do with it. And I’ll never spend another farthing in his shop.’

We never had poultry for Christmas. Only once in a relation’s home had I tasted turkey. Our dinner was half a Roscrea ham given by an aunt. after boiling and skinning it my mother pressed fresh breadcrumbs into its coat of fat and toasted it on a trivet before the fire. With it we sometimes had stuffed steak. A thick piece of round which she slashed to make a pocket and filled with delicious stuffing then stitched up the cut. Jelly and custard for our pudding. Christmas Pudding was served cold sliced and eaten like cake. And whether or not the grocer had given her the pink iced confection there was the cake from the Monument Creamery. Made as she was fond of telling us from the best ingredients in the land. And always she managed a present for each of us no matter how small.

But first and foremost Christmas was a Holy Time celebrating the birth of Christ. Animosities temporarily forgiven if not completely forgotten. Confession and Communion. And for the majority of mothers an early Mass. Before I grew up, which was considered to be when you went to work, I always went with my mother to six o’clock Mass. There must have been mornings when it was misty, when it rained. But my memories contradict such times. I feel an exhilarating cold. See a sky full of stars as she and I walked to Saint Kevin’s in Harrington Street.

The majority of the congregation were women. The majority like my mother had probably been up all night putting the finishing touches to jellies and stuffings, wrapping last minute gifts, preparing the vegetables for the following day.

The crib was up and the baby Jesus lying in it. All over the country fat red candles would have burned on window sills from which the curtains were drawn back to light His way.

There was another memory of Christmas, smiling to myself I recalled it. I was sixteen and for the first and last time for many years got drunk. Langers. Legless. Stocious drunk. It was a Christmas Eve and I had been to confession. Before going my mother had told me of the words she had had with her next door neighbour. ‘The cheek of her telling me where and where not my son can kick a football. But I was well able for her. Don’t you think because my husband’s dead you can browbeat me. I’m paying my rent and my child’ll kick his ball wherever he likes. An oul’ bull driver that’s what she is. And don’t you ever recognize her again. D’ye hear me,’ she called after me as I went out of the room.

Passing the neighbour’s house on the way back from confession she tapped the window and beckoned to me. I went to her hall door and knocked. ‘It’s open,’ she called, ‘come in love.’ She and my mother rowed constantly and each time I was forbidden to ever recognise her again. They seldom stayed bad friends for long and in any case I would have ignored the ban. I was very fond of the woman. She was warm-hearted and could always make me laugh. Barely five foot with a face as wrinkled as a tortoise. Never without a cigarette in her mouth and the smell of drink about her. She had done a stretch in prison for robbing money from a house where she cleaned. She had told me about it.

‘Ten shillings, that’s all it was. For a horse. A dead cert. I put three on the horse and released Jack’s suit from the pawn. He had to have it for a cousin’s wedding the next day. If the horse had come in I’d have put the fecking ten shilling note back. Imagine the badness of some people. Reporting it to the police. Anyway I got on great with the wardress. She never saw me short of a smoke. ‘You’ve an honest face,’ she said, ‘I know I can trust you. Not like some of them in here. A gang of robbers the lot of them.’

She brought me into the parlour, a small over-furnished room with a blazing turf fire and in honour of the season festooned with garish paper chains. ‘Did your mammy say anything about the words we had?’ she asked while pouring red liquid from a bottle.

She filled two tumblers. It wasn’t Vimto nor red lemonade. There weren’t any bubbles. ‘She said something about a football,’ I said taking the proffered glass.

‘She’s very hasty. Sure I meant nothing by it. My fella’s an oul’ divil about footballs. Anyone would think he was never a child himself. So tell her I’m sorry. That’s why I called you in so you could give her my message. Drink that it’ll do you good. A drop of port wine’s good for young girls.’ She sat down beside me. I liked the taste of the wine. It was very sweet.

‘How are ye getting on in work?’

I told her. She’d worked at the tailoring and knew some of the older women in my factory. I kept sipping the drink while we talked. And she kept topping me up. I felt in great humour. Laughing at everything she said. Then I began to feel sleepy. ‘It’s the heat of the fire. Take off your coat, you must be roasting,’ she advised.

‘I won’t, thanks all the same. I’d better go in. I’ve been gone this long time.’

‘I’ve got a little present for you. I’ll slip in in the morning and bring your mammy a taste of my pudding and the presents. I’ve got something for the children as well,’ she said at the door. ‘Goodnight and God bless you.’

My head felt queer. A lightness in it. And the few yards to my own house had me walking crookedly. I reached through the letter box, pulled up the string with the key attached. The key didn’t slip in easily. I was fumbling with it. Then I knocked with the knocker. My mother opened the door. There was no light in the hall. She couldn’t see me properly until I was in the kitchen. When she did she shouted, ‘Where were you? Who have you been with?’ I started to giggle. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow,’ I laughed loudly and swayed. ‘I’m going to bed now.’ I began to strip off. For a few seconds she stared in amazement at what I was doing. Undressing was something you only did in privacy and with great modesty.

‘Sacred heart of Jesus!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ve been drinking intoxicating liquor. Look at you standing there in your skin. Thanks be to God your brother isn’t here.’

I was stripped down to my woollen vest, yellowed from many washings and shrunken so that inches of my bum was exposed. Her hand slapped it hard. ‘Get into the bedroom.’ She followed me. Her hand slapping, slapping my bare skin. Her voice, which sounded far away, telling me I’d never be able to hold my head up again. I was destroyed. I was a drunkard. And I kept on laughing and she slapping. ‘Wait’ll the morning,’ she threatened. ‘Wait’ll it’s daylight. I’ll kill you, so I will.’

I collapsed on the bed. The ceiling came down to meet me and I thought I was going to die. My stomach heaved. I lifted the corner of the mattress and vomited through the bed springs. Then I fell asleep. She woke me roughly. My head was on fire, bursting with pain. ‘Get up this minute. The smell is turning my stomach.’

In my shrunken vest exposing my nakedness of which I was now embarrassedly aware, I got up and began looking for my clothes.

‘Put that on you,’ she said, handing me a dressing-gown, and go in to the kitchen.’

Sitting by the fire I could smell Jeyes Fluid as she washed away the vomit.

She had calmed down and when eventually she brought me hot, sweet tea her interrogation began. Her bluey-grey eyes bored into me making it almost impossible to lie. And in the long run I told her where I’d had a drink.

‘The curse of God on her trying to corrupt my daughter. But wait till morning.’ Then she launched into the perils of drink. All the men and women destroyed by it. The broken homes. Neglected children. ‘And remember this, a drunken woman is a sorrier sight than a man face falling. For a drunken woman neglects her home and worse still her children. The curse of God on that oul’ reprobate to try and lead you astray. Will you be well enough to come to six o’clock mass? After your carousing you won’t be able to receive. But God will forgive you.’

It would be at least ten years before the ceiling ever came down to meet me again.