Ma, I've Got Meself Locked Up in the Mad House Page 8

  ‘No, no thanks, but I won’t. I have a lot of work ahead of me. It’s going to be a long day, and I certainly need a clear head,’ I said, giving a little laugh but feeling nervous about wasting the time.

  ‘Ahh, yeah! You told me you were in the wine business,’ he said. ‘Are you still flogging wine with that company? What was it called? Hang on. Martin! Bring me over . . . What do you want to drink?’

  ‘Oh, God, no, thanks. I couldn’t!’

  ‘Ahh! Just have something. It will put a bit of colour into them cheeks. You look a bit peaky to me.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, not wanting to annoy him. ‘I’ll have . . .’ I tried to think.

  ‘Have a glass of wine,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, OK. White, please. Do you have Chablis?’

  ‘Ha, ha! Where do you think you are? St George’s Yacht Club?’

  ‘Eh, sorry! No, anything will do,’ I said, feeling foolish.

  ‘No,’ he said, turning back to me, saying easily, ‘we wouldn’t have any call for that over here.’ He laughed.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I said, thinking, for a while there I was getting carried away with meself. It’s all this talk of Georgie, reminding me of the old days, when I was living the high life.

  ‘So, you seem to remember a lot about me,’ I said. ‘Even down to the job I was doing. I still can’t place you.’

  ‘Well, you and the bold rake Georgie arrived in the club one night. We got together after the party thinned out. I invited you both down to my house in Dalkey. Remember?’

  ‘Ahhh!’ Then it dawned on me. The aul chancer! ‘Yeah, indeed I do remember you very well,’ I said, thinking back. The wife was away and the Georgie fella collapsed in a heap on the sitting-room couch. Bleedin mouldie drunk he was. This gobshite invited me to look around his house and admire his ‘etchings’, as he called them.

  When we arrived at the ‘etchings’, it turned out to be a guest bedroom. I stared nervously at the big double bed while he waxed lyrical about the magnificent sea view!

  ‘Come over here, you beautiful creature,’ he purred, grabbing me around the waist to fly me over to the window and look out while he tried to rush his hands and roam his fingers all over me chaste body! I was having none a tha! He wasn’t a man to give up easily. After cranking up the heat to full blast, he thought I might take me ease, climbing into something more comfortable. Me birthday suit!

  NO! I was definitely havin none a that! Then he propositioned me! He’s an awful fuckin chancer. The little rat bag! Chased me all around the bleedin house. I had te keep going to save me virtue!

  ‘I see you have your hair tied up,’ he said, with a glint in his eye as he leaned over to take the drinks from the barman. He handed me the glass of white wine and sipped on a whiskey for himself. ‘You have lovely hair,’ he said, reaching up to touch it. I had it tied up in several knots and secured at the back with a big ivory slide. Then he dropped his hand and lifted his drink, taking a sip, saying, ‘Ah, yes. A woman’s crowning glory is her hair.’

  Oh, fuck! Here we go again. Bored married men and a single woman!

  ‘How long is that hair?’ he said. ‘You must have been growing it for years.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Years. I haven’t cut it since I was a young one,’ I said, thinking, it hasn’t had a cut since the day I left the convent and escaped Sister Eleanor and her bloody shears, as she called that big scissors of hers. ‘How long is it?’ I repeated. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It goes down to me ankles,’ I said. ‘Like Mary Magdalene.’

  He roared laughing, saying, ‘Ah, well now! That certainly was not my experience of you! By the time you left, burning rubber in that taxi . . . Hell’s bells! You left in an awful hurry. It was terrible. I nearly pole-vaulted out the window! Whatever put such a hurry on you?’ he said, looking outraged.

  ‘What do you mean, pole-vaulted?’ I said, looking at him all confused.

  He gave me a sideways look, saying, ‘Tut, tut! Are you sure you haven’t been living in that convent since I last saw you? Think about it! A young attractive woman, and a . . .’

  ‘Oh! I get the picture,’ I muttered, then said quietly, ‘You really are incorrigible.’

  ‘Really?’ he said, grinning, then let it slide off his face when he saw I wasn’t amused.

  ‘No,’ I muttered. ‘The whole experience was not very nice.’ I didn’t care if he wasn’t going to help me raise the money. He wasn’t going to get away with thinking he could piss on me then think nothing of it.

  He stared at me, then lowered his head, saying quietly, ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa,’ as he slowly thumped his chest. ‘No, I behaved very badly. That was very wrong of me. I didn’t realise.

  ‘Look! This is no excuse,’ he said, looking straight at me.

  I shifted myself, dropping my head to one side, and folded my arms, taking in what he had to say.

  ‘You see the women . . . girls Georgie usually hangs around with are what you might call “gold diggers”. Out for what they can get. So, I assumed wrongly. Well, I was chancing my arm! I’m sorry, terribly sorry for putting you through that. I only realised later. You were a nice girl, not someone out to take advantage.’

  I nodded my head, closing my eyes. Letting him know I certainly was not an easy mark.

  ‘Am I forgiven?’ he said, leaning into me, looking into my face and laughing.

  ‘Oh, I suppose. You wouldn’t be the first to try it on,’ I said, sighing. ‘But it’s going to get less and less,’ I said, feeling like letting out something inside meself. Not caring what he thought. ‘I’m getting a bit fed up with men. I might just take meself off, after all, to that Carmelite nunnery.’

  ‘Ah, Gawd no! Don’t be so rash! There’s an awful shortage of good-looking single women at the minute!’ he said, laughing his head off. Then we just sat quietly. Him staring at his drink, thinking, and me wondering how the hell I was going to ask him now about money.

  ‘Now! Tell me,’ he suddenly said, lifting up his jacket sleeve to look at his watch. ‘What brings you here? You didn’t say. Are you still with that wine company? Are you going to try and sell me something? Is that it?’ he laughed, looking around me to see if I was carrying something.

  ‘No!’ I laughed, looking at him, then pulled out my tobacco to roll meself a cigarette. I licked my way around the paper, thinking how I was going to approach this. Pity he knows people I know. I don’t want him knowing my business.

  I took a deep breath and plunged in. ‘It really is lovely meeting you again,’ I said, beaming at him. ‘It certainly is a surprise meeting you here. I didn’t know you owned a pub,’ I said, looking around.

  ‘Oh!’ he said, throwing his eye, taking in the place. ‘I have a lot of other interests. In fact, I’m only here because I have some staff problems to sort out. Martin is my new bar manager. I’m showing him the ropes. Then let him get on with it. I have another meeting in half an hour. I better get moving shortly. So, tell me, what brings you here?’ and he mooched closer to me, leaving little space between us.

  ‘Have you heard about the young fellow who went over the balcony last night?’ I paused, waiting for his reaction.

  ‘Oh, yes. That was a terrible business,’ he said, shaking his head sadly. ‘Why? Did you know him?’

  I nodded, saying quietly, ‘Yes, yes I did, very well,’ looking him squarely in the face.

  He studied me, wanting to know more. But I left it at that, leaving him to draw his own conclusions.

  ‘That’s why I’m here. His name is Harry. He’s . . . was twenty-eight years old. Now he’s lying in the morgue, up in the new hospital, waiting to be claimed. But there’s no money to bury him. Just a grant of a few quid. It will only cover the coffin, a shroud and one car. That’s it. Two hundred and fifty pounds is needed to open a grave. Today. If the money can’t be found, then he will end up in a pauper’s grave.’ I looked at him, not wanting to show him how upset I really was.

  He stared at me, thinking. He looked confused, then stared
at me more intently. Then I saw his eyes soften with compassion and then curiosity, as he blinked, trying to work out what exactly was my connection.

  ‘I was hoping you would be able to raise some money, maybe run a benefit or something. I know he is very well known and liked around here.’ I hesitated, holding my breath. ‘Is that possible?’ I asked, staring into his face, seeing the concern in his eyes.

  He said nothing. Just sat still, staring at the table, thinking. Then he very slowly started nodding his head, like he had made a decision. Without saying another word, he very gently put his hand over mine, covering it, still sitting on the table. ‘Would you like another drink?’

  ‘No, thanks. I really better get moving,’ I said, feeling very anxious about the time, and worrying about the money.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll have to move too,’ he said, sighing, looking worried himself about the time moving on.

  Then I suddenly said, ‘Listen, I’m sorry, but what’s your name again? Mine is Martha.’

  He reached back, laughing, then grabbed my hand, saying, ‘I was afraid to ask! Martha! Lovely name for a lovely girl. Paul!’

  ‘Ah, that’s it!’ I said. ‘Now I remember. You and Georgie went to school together.’

  ‘Yep, we did,’ he said, laughing at the mention of Georgie’s name. ‘The Jesuits!’ he grinned. Then he loped off, weaving in and out of the tables.

  I lit up another cigarette and took a sip of the wine. It burned its way down my neck, making my head fuzzy. I hadn’t eaten much today, or any day for that matter.

  He came back, heading straight towards me with purpose in his step, looking very serious. My stomach started fluttering with nerves. God! I hope it’s good news. I need to get that grave sorted out.

  I looked up nervously as he bent down towards me. He put his hand in his pocket and took out a white envelope, then gave a glance around to see if anyone was watching. I held my breath. Afraid to hope.

  ‘Here! Take this,’ he said, sliding an envelope across the table, pressing my hand over it. It felt very bulky! ‘Take this, it will see you through. One thing, though!’

  I looked up at him, waiting for the catch, feeling a momentary sense of disappointment.

  ‘I would prefer if you didn’t mention this to anyone. Especially around here,’ he laughed, looking around him. ‘It wouldn’t do to let them think I’m a soft touch!’

  I laughed with relief. ‘No! I’m absolutely discreet.’ Then I stood up.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, looking at me. ‘I will arrange with Martin the manager to organise a fund,’ he said, putting his hand on my arm. ‘Don’t worry about that; everything will be looked after. You just go and do what you have to do.’

  I stared at him, not knowing what to say, feeling overwhelmed by his kindness. Then he hesitated. ‘Perhaps we might meet some time? Do you still live in the same area?’

  I hesitated.

  ‘I’m not married, you know.’

  ‘You’re not?’ I said, sounding shocked. ‘But I assumed . . .’

  ‘What? I had a wife and six kids tucked away? No, no. Oh, I was married once, as a young fella with no sense and no money. She left me after a couple of years. So that was that,’ he said, shaking his head, thinking mournfully about his mistake. ‘We’re well divorced. No kids. No ties!’

  ‘Oh!’ I said, looking at him in a different light. ‘Listen, Paul,’ I said, reaching to touch his arm. ‘You have no idea what this means. I really am very grateful for your kindness,’ thinking his lovely blue eyes go very well with his stony-grey hair! ‘By the way, Paul, I’m still living in the same place. Close to Georgie’s place. I might see you around when I’m passing the yacht club. Only passing, mind. I wouldn’t have any business going in there,’ I laughed.

  ‘Great!’ he beamed. ‘Give me your telephone number, and I will ring you. Would you mind?’

  ‘No, I’d be delighted,’ I said, peeling off a page from my notebook and scribbling down my phone number, then handing it to him. ‘Thanks again, Paul,’ I said, taking his hand to shake it.

  ‘It was nothing. Think nothing of it,’ he said, waving away his generosity.

  Then I turned and waved, saying, ‘I hope to see you again, Paul. Take care.’ Then I was out the door, heading for my car.

  I leapt into the car, slamming the door shut, then whipped open the envelope. I could feel me heart hammering in my chest. Oh, what did he give me? I thought, clapping eyes on the money. Dear God! If only I could get enough to cover the cost of the grave! I counted out the twenty-pound notes. Five hundred pounds! I stared! Jesus Christ almighty! The man is a saint! I wanted to cry and laugh. Oh, Harry! You should have waited. There is still a lot of goodness in the world. Then I felt the hot tears stream down my face. Happiness at meeting goodness. There is still hope! And deep loss and sorrow at losing you, Harry. But you are going to have your own grave, and I will get you a headstone. You won’t be forgotten as long as there is one of us left, especially the poor ma. At least she will have the consolation of being able to visit you, and your gravestone will let everyone know you existed.

  I turned the engine on, wondering what time it is. I never carry a watch. I don’t like to be dictated to by time unless it’s necessary. I pulled the car around, heading off to Glasnevin Cemetery. I hope it’s not too late. Maybe I’ll make it there before they knock off for home. But I can always do it in the morning. I felt a quiet calm inside me, a stillness. That man will never know he gave me more than just money. It’s true! Kindness goes a long way.

  13

  * * *

  I threw the shopping bags in the back of the car and climbed in. Jaysus! I’m glad that’s over. I hate shops! I always start to rattle and shake. I never got over the old days. I still expect someone to creep up behind me and land their hand on my shoulder, saying, ‘Will you come with me, please!’ and I’m caught. Oh! My stomach lurched again, and I felt myself shake all over just thinking about it.

  Right! Stop yer carry-on! That was centuries ago. Now! Where’s that tobacco? And I gave myself a shake to clear my head and pulled out my tobacco to have a well-earned smoke. I sat puffing and peeled my eyes down the list of things to do and marked them off one by one. Grave? Done. Removal from hospital to church? Five o’clock this evening. Right! That means I better give that gobshite in the funeral home a phone call just to check he will arrive at the house by four o’clock to collect everybody. Harry’s wife? Social welfare found her. She’s arriving this evening. She’s living in London. Her sister will be collecting her from the airport. Burial? That’s after the eleven o’clock Mass in the morning. So the priest is sorted. Flowers? Two wreaths. One from the ma saying ‘Son’, and the other from the family saying ‘Brother’. Clothes? Black for the ma. I bought her a white blouse, black mohair cardigan, black skirt, black stockings and the bloody black headscarf! It took me hours searching for that. The ma had to have her scarf. Bleedin black hat wouldn’t do her! Then I snorted, giving a big laugh. The sight of the ma in a black hat? Definitely not! She’d probably get herself arrested. They’d think she’d probably escaped from the nearest loony bin! Me? I got the same. Without the scarf! Food? Sister Eleanor is bringing the chickens I gave her to cook. She can leave them in the flat in the morning before we set off for the funeral. So there’s plenty of grub, and she said she would get Sister Benedict in the convent kitchen to rustle up a bit of baking. Quiches, sandwiches and stuff. So, I think that’s the lot.

  Now! What’s next? Now I get myself home for a shower, a quick bite of something to eat, then it’s out the door and make haste to the ma’s. I have got to get her ready, then speak to the priest about readings for the Mass. Who will be reading what? Dinah can give a reading. I will probably end up getting into a row with the priest; they like to control everything. Not this time, me boy! Oh no! Harry belonged to us, and I put plenty of rearing into him when he was only a baby. So, to hell with you, Father!

  I slammed the front door shut behind me and tore out to the car.
What happens to the time? Three o’clock! I better move fast. The car is arriving at quarter to four to collect everyone and take us to the hospital.

  I raced down the hill, the lights still with me. Have I got the stuff for the ma? I glanced in the back of the car. The bags with the ma’s clothes sat there. Good! And the grub. A bit of ham, tomatoes, bread, butter, milk, tea, biscuits and other stuff. It will keep them going until the morning, when Sister Eleanor brings over the cooked stuff.

  The traffic was still light. It won’t start getting heavy until around half past four. Good! It won’t matter then.

  I saw the flats just ahead of me in the distance; no one can miss them. I sighed in me breath, feeling everything was under control. Good, I’m nearly there!

  I rounded the bend, passing the shops, then slowed down, taking care to watch out for the kids. They can come tearing up, shooting out from nowhere. Jaysus! They would put the heart crossways in ye. Then I braked suddenly as an ashen-faced, haggard-looking junkie stepped out in front of the car. He was covered in scabs, with red bloodshot eyes. He staggered straight out in front of me, then stopped in the middle of the road, noticing me for the first time. He stared, waiting for his face to twist in annoyance, then started to wave his arms at the car. ‘Fuckin wait, will ye! Ye’ll knock me down, ye bleedin cow!’

  I sat there, staring at him calmly, waiting for him to get over his frustration of me driving and him walking. Satisfied he’d sorted me out, and I was well and truly in me place, left sitting here waiting for him to decide when he was going to get moving again, he swung his head, then shifted his body around to follow his head and stared across the road, judging the distance to the footpath.

  I waited. A few seconds of him thinking how to manoeuvre this, and, yep! He’s off! Straightening up. One leg first, quickly followed by the other. We have a stagger! Now he’s moving and racing towards the footpath. He never takes his eyes off that path, mesmerised by it. Pause. Lift one leg high into the air. Slam it down on the footpath. Balance. Now lift the other one. And he’s off! Heading straight into the shopping centre to organise his next fix. Jesus, help us! The Dubliners are being wiped out with the cursed drugs!