Stories from Ordinary Lives: the authors

It was at this stage the kitten’s claws got caught in my rosary beads which she dragged out of my hands, and, rolling on the floor in an attempt to free herself, she made the loudest cat noises ever heard.Mam jumped up, I thought she was going to free the kitten but that was not the case; she administered discipline to both my ears with both hands almost simultaneously, as the other family members covered their faces so Mam would not see them laughing.‘

Standing at the graveside, backwards, no, not backwards but yes, backwards, backwards and forwards, inside out and back to front, upside down, but mostly numb. Not the numbness where awareness is totally blocked but where that same awareness is sticking its dagger into you, though you can barely feel its pain. The gifted numbness that gets one through at a graveside.‘

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‘The next morning, after exchanging gifts, we set to trying to make space for 17 people for a sit-down meal in our not terribly spacious sitting room! Our guests were to arrive for 3 pm, but some came earlier to join in the fun. What still amazes me is that, despite the fact that the disparate elements of the meal were being prepared in different parts of Jerusalem, they all managed to arrive within a few minutes of each other and we all sat down to a hot meal. After the initial amazement of our ‘local’ guests that we were going to eat a pudding that was several months old, they all enjoyed the ritual of burning the pudding and eating it, some surreptitiously breaking dietary laws to do so.’

‘During the war we would also pick the blackberries to sell.  The buyer came out from Wexford (he also bought eggs and chickens and turkeys for the Christmas season).  We would pick them every day for a week and have them in buckets.  When picking for eating, tarts and jams, we were very particular but the blackberries we picked to sell were used for dyes so we picked everything in sight, mushy ones, firm ones and even threw in a few green and red ones.  You can imagine after a week what they looked and smelt like.  The buyer would weigh them and we would feel rich as he put the money into our hands.’

‘The chicks got bigger, and bigger and bigger. Not a sign of an egg being laid – my father was bereft. The chicks were all cocks and the odds of them laying eggs were astronomical. They also got very noisy and the neighbours began to complain, especially when they launched into the dawn chorus. My father and mother had a conference. We began to have chicken for dinner every Sunday for the next 10 or 12 weeks, and the roosters began diminishing in numbers and in volume.’

‘This step was wide where the walls met in the corner and here I could sit and arrange my toys or draw pictures on the top steps. I saw all the comings and goings at the front door and listened to what was going on in the kitchen. I sat quietly on the step; Blackie, my cat, always came and sat beside me. I dressed and undressed my dolls and coloured in my pictures while Tom did the rest of his homework. Sometimes, the Latin words came into my mind and Blackie always started to purr when I whispered “mensa, mensa, mensam” quietly into his furry ear.’

‘When a rash appears, Mam realises that I have scarlet fever, an infectious disease; I am the seventh child in the family, so Mam knows all about kids’ illnesses. She knows I will have to go to a fever hospital for treatment straightaway, but, she hasn’t the heart to call the doctor on Christmas Day.

Early on St. Stephen’s Day the doctor comes, and, sure enough, an ambulance comes hot foot to take me to Cork Street Fever Hospital. In the next day or so our house will be ‘fumigated’ by the Health Board. This means that they set a canister of smoky disinfectant in the bedroom and close the door for a few hours. Mam knows all about this.’

‘Days like these didn’t happen too often. Everybody was out of the house, so I could search every nook and cranny and find secret stuff an eight-year-old was not supposed to see. This day was better than most because wicked auntie Brigid, who was staying with us for a few weeks, was away for the whole day. I headed straight for auntie Brigid’s bag. This was like winning a medal on sports day as it was usually my two older brothers who got to search her bags first.’

‘I was a fussy child and so was my younger brother, although our other siblings just ate what they were given. Perhaps Peter and I, coming at the end of the family, were indulged by my mother who certainly made sure to only put things we liked on our plates – and both of us hated vegetables. On the rare occasions that my mother didn’t cook dinner, our older siblings also indulged us, but sometimes my father cooked dinner and then there was no indulgence, no pushing things to the side, no matter how long it took, no matter how many tears, things had to be eaten. Sometimes, when my father’s back was turned, one of the others would lean across, spear a sprout or a parsnip and swallow it quickly, rescuing either Peter or me from a vegetable. And then one day, my father cooked cabbage.’