Primal Sneeze

That day I didn’t wake on time that day and missed my lift. The first time ever. I was angry with myself. I would have to take the first bus but would be two hours late for work. Two hours late on one of the busiest days of the year. That day the bus came early. The first time ever. I had missed it. We all had. I would be even later.

A couple at the stop decided to take their car. The first time ever. I could travel with them. Half way into the journey the woman remembered something she had left behind and we turned back. Setting out again I seen mo mháthairín walk up toward the church. I waved and smiled. She waved and smiled back. She stood looking after the car. I guessed she was wondering why I was going to work so late. I was never late. That wasn’t the way she reared me.

The receptionist had a message for me. Call home. Urgently.

I sought out a workmate. I needed to tell someone. I needed company. My hands shook uncontrollably. She lit a cigarette for me. I couldn’t hold it. My head spun. My knees were weak. Memories came flooding. Tears too.

Crazy thoughts. Had some force had contrived to delay me that day? Delay me long enough to wave a last goodbye? Her god, perhaps? Not mine. I didn’t have one. But she did. One she believed in and trusted in with all her heart. That I couldn’t believe was something she accepted. That was the woman she was. Open-minded and wise. Uncommon for one of her era. Accepting of everyone. Black, white, Muslim or Jew – we’re all the same, a mhic. We’re just people, just people, a mhic was her mantra.

That day I thought of how the little people were drawn to her unquestioning love. They sensed it before the big people did. Our house was never empty. Always full of children. They concocted the flimsiest of excuses to be there. Never a harsh word. The boldest child would sit quietly, staring adoringly as she told some tale of times past. She’d drop a hint. Never give an order. The children would comply. They would open up and share their troubles and fears. Ones they couldn’t tell their own parents. She’d have advice and consolation for them. As teenagers they would come to her with their broken hearts and she’d fix them as best she could. She was never Mrs to them. Children instinctively used her first name. She was a friend not an adult. And remained one.

As young couples they would come to her with their problems. Even physical ones. Ones that couldn’t be spoken aloud in the Ireland of the 60s and 70s. Their secrets would be safe with her. They brought their babies to be minded. They would be safe with her. Later these children would come to her themselves and the cycle would begin again.

She couldn’t read or write but that didn’t matter. No one though less of her for that. She was wise is so many other ways. Wise beyond her years.

That day when I got to her house it was empty. Full of people, but empty. Silent touches. Hugs. Sobs. Sobs over the phone. Only the dog made noise. Whining, fretting, knowing something was wrong. She was missing. Wasn’t coming back. Animals had always sensed something about her. Stray dogs followed her. Wicked ones lay down at her feet. The ones that bit others licked her face. She had no fear of them. Nor they of her.

That day I recalled when I was six and a young horse shied and threw the rider. It reared and bucked and the other riders couldn’t get near it. I yelled in terror. Frozen to the spot. Afraid it would clear the hedge into the yard and trample me. She calmly walked onto the road and stood in front of it. Waited until the rein dropped into reach and caught it. She wouldn’t have the strength to hold it. The riders pleaded with her to back away. She didn’t need strength. It calmed down as she mumbled to it. Stood with its head bowed and nuzzled her as she admonished it for being bauld and warning it not to do that again. She was protecting me and the rider injured on the ground. She stayed. Soothing it when the ambulance arrived. Siren blaring. Lights flashing. Stroking its neck. The horse remained placid in her hands. Good boy. Good boy. There’s the fella. Easy now. Good boy.

Everyone knew her. When asked, I always identified myself as her son not my father’s. It was easier. Rich and poor knew her and were treated equally. The wealthy neighbour would sit drinking tea in her kitchen with the unemployed labourer. The stable hand with the government minister. They would never been seen together in a pub or even in the church. But there was none of that auld shite in her kitchen – the door is always open; the kettle’s always on; take me as ye find me; lump it or leave it; no airs and graces around here.

That day I tried in vain to count all the times she’d been unwell. How she’d prepared me for the worst before her heart operations. Stern warnings to be brave. Just in case. But not to worry. Her god would take care of everything. Then laughing, ah shur they’re just putting in a new spring is all. That’ll keep it ticking for years and years.

That day I pictured the two of us. On the way home from a hospital again. An eye operation to remove an abscess. An operation that didn’t work. Now one eye less. Did the false one hurt? Feel funny? Could she see well enough? A fit of giggles. Your father will be right for once – Like he always says, I do only be half watchin’ the telly.

That day I was taken back to cold dreary Januarys. She’d take me to the travel agent’s after shopping. We’d gather brochures. Hers were always sunny beaches. Spain. Mine more exotic. Places we could never afford. We never had a holiday. But we’d make plans. Pick destinations. Pick rooms. Study flight times. Tried guessing the weight our suitcases would be. Suitcases we didn’t have. Couldn’t afford even if needed. They were dreams that kept us busy on dark evenings. Someday, a stór, we’ll have money and we’ll go. We knew we never would. But dreaming was good. Sharing the dreams, better.

That day I remembered us going to watch the marching bands on Bodenstown Sunday in the 70s. Mainly bands from the North. The players would rest between tunes. But the drummers kept up a marching beat. Drums so loud I’d cover my ears. Then the leader would toss the baton high in the air and they’d begin again. And (young) Rody MacCorley goes to die / On the Bridge of Toome today. The words meant little, but the music and the beat was uplifting. The colours. We cheered and waved at the kilted pipers. As we always did. A shot was fired! Women screamed. Men ran. Scuffles. Someone fell. Was he shot? A car was overturned. Set alight. A Dhia, I didn’t think they’d bring it down here she cried. Why? Shur we’re all the same. Why don’t they know that? I was slapped against the bridge wall. My cheek bloodied by the stonework. Covered by her coat. Covered by her. Smothered. Pressed to her bosom. In case there was another shot. She’d take it. Not me.

That day I remembered other music. Music she loved. Ag Críost an síol, ag Críost an Fómhar, In iothlainn Dé go dtugtar sinn. She’d hum it. Never sing it. Songs of her god. Songs of other things too. My first smile that day was remembering how she was so taken with one then in the charts – Brim Full of Asha by Cornershop. Everybody Needs A Bosom For A Pillow / Everybody Needs A Bosom. I remembered how she’d protected me with hers and realised I’d none now. No emotional pillow. My smile turned to tears again.

That day I cursed her god. Why so cruel? There was some money now. She could go to Spain if she wanted. Not that she would. Her house had just been renovated. Comforts she’d never had before. Mod-cons to do the work. Not that she used them much. Just five short months to enjoy it. Then her god did that? And to one yet so young. With so much more to give.

That day was exactly ten years ago today. The memories of it are still vivid. The memories of the years before it have come flooding back. That’s all I have. Just memories. No real keepsakes. Possessions meant nothing to her. Things didn’t matter. Where’s the new electric kettle I got ya gone? Ah, so-and-so’s one broke, so I gave her a lend of it. Shur I’ll be grand with the auld one ’til she brings it back. She won’t, you know. ‘Tis only a kettle. She needs it more than I do. Ara, doesn’t matter, a leana. People mattered. Especially children. That day I arranged her funeral. In the house of her god, as she would have wanted. The one outside whose gates she had fallen and breathed her last mere seconds after I’d seen her. There would be children bringing the gifts. Children doing the readings. The prayers. Singing. So what if they cried at the pulpit and couldn’t read? So what if they let the offerings fall with the shaking? So what if they sang with hoarse voices? I would would be crying, shaking and hoarse too. Everyone who knew her would. I was. They were. Today, ten years later, I still am.

Mo mháthairín, cinnte. Ach ár mháthair freisin. For that she was to everyone who knew her.

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