Arimathea E-Book

Frank McGuinness

• Herausgeber: Brandon
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

'The great spirit of Frank McGuinness radiates in this magnificent novel. Myriad voices converge on one glistening core; it is a high-wire act earthed in the deepest humanity.' Sebastian Barry It is 1950. Donegal. A land apart. Derry city is only fourteen miles away but far beyond daily reach. Into this community comes Gianni, also called Giotto at his birth. A painter from Arrezzo in Italy, he has been commissioned to paint the Stations of the Cross. The young Italian comes with his dark skin, his unusual habits, but also his solitude and his own peculiar personal history. He is a major source of fascination for the entire community. A book of close observation, sharp wit, linguistic dexterity – and of deep sympathy for ordinary, everyday humanity.

Leseprobe

FRANK McGUINNESS

ARIMATHEA

DEDICATION

For Mary Finn

Contents

Title PageDedicationEuniMargaretMalachySimon O’HagenMarthaColumbaGianniThe Stations of the CrossArimatheaAbout the AuthorCopyrightOther Books

CHAPTER ONE

Euni

He came from out foreign and he spoke wild funny. All the older girls thought he was the last word from the day and hour they set eyes on him but they were stupid, and he would no more look at them than if he was the man in the moon. I don’t know where that shower got the notion that he was the kind of fellow listened to the likes of them. Was it because of the way some of them sprawled in front of him, were they expecting him to draw them or something? I doubt if he even noticed they were making a show of themselves. He certainly didn’t breathe a word in front of me if his stomach was turning at the sight of those eejits. Maybe he was blathering to himself in his own language, so we would never make out what he thought of them.

It was hard to know what he thought. My mother said, he keeps himself to himself, and will you let the poor stranger alone? He has his work to do, he wants to do it and get home. Like the rest of us, he’s missing his own bed. Making all the beds – his as well – that was one of my jobs about the houses, the upper and the lower. We owned two houses down the lane. We weren’t swanky, just that one belonged once upon a time to my Granny and Granda. Anyway, I was saying about his bed, it smelt like none of the rest. It was just always fresh. Mammy changed our sheets once a week and his sheets were washed at the same time, but there was a scent like himself on them, and it was nice, I thought. He must have cleaned himself very thoroughly.

I know he did, for I saw him once. The man is meticulous, my mother told her sisters, my two aunts. In fact, to tell the truth, if I were being honest, I’d say he was pernickety, she whispered. I left them to their whispers but they didn’t know I’d seen him soaping himself at the basin in his room. He was browner than anybody I’d ever seen. And even though he didn’t know I was watching him and I didn’t want him to know, I nearly asked him out loud if all the men were as tanned as he was back where he came from, but I didn’t. Here the sun turns everybody beetroot – especially our ones with our red hair to a man and a woman, especially my mother.

He said to me he liked red hair. Not like his own, that I saw on his chest, wet from the water in the white basin, the hairs black as your boot, and fine as the ones on his arms. Yes, he was meticulous in the morning but by evening time he was anything but. Then he was stained with the colour of the paint.

His clothes were stinking to high heaven by the weekend. Mammy fetched them herself down from his room come Friday night, so they could be soaked and the dirt got out of them by Saturday evening, for it is a sin to wash clothes on a Sunday. A venial sin. But to iron on Sunday – well, that is mortal, and if you do and you die, God will brand your bare back with the mark of a red hot iron. Imagine the squeals out of you suffering that. And the smell of your skin burning. So the Sunday was not a day for work, but plenty of times he did. He would lock the door to stop anybody coming in to annoy him. Not that I did so after he lost his temper the first time I juked my head round to see how he was doing. His face turned the most awful shade and he just roared at me. What did he say scared the living daylights out of you? Mena Kiely asked me. I told her I couldn’t tell because I didn’t understand one word. Mena said, God forgive him, he must have been cursing in his own language. Well, he was very angry whatever he was saying, he put the heart crosswise in me, Mena, I thought I was going to die, honest to good God, I told her. But you didn’t, did you? Mena whispered. And my cheeks burned scarlet. That was because, well, Mena was expected to die at any minute, God rest her. No – no, I mean, God love her. She wasn’t exactly my best friend, but you had to mind her all the time at school, or out playing. She was very delicate and she couldn’t run fast. If you hit her hard she would lose her breath as if she raced all the mile from Cockhill cemetery to the town. We all took a turn to give her a wallop to hear how she panted. She didn’t care the first time you did it because the noise of it was a good laugh, but if you kept hitting her then she’d tell your mother or the nun. Nobody minded her being a tittle-tattle because she was sick, but it meant you couldn’t trust her.

You could trust me though. I’d say nothing to anybody about anything. I had eyes in my head and ears that could listen but that doesn’t mean I would let the world know my own or my family’s business. That’s why it was really stupid for him not to let me see his old paintings. God strike me down dead for saying that because it was holy pictures he was doing. That much I knew for sure from the start because it was Fr O’Hagen brought him to us in the first place. I thought Mammy was going into a fit when she opened the door to see a priest standing there with a smile on his face, and he wasn’t looking for money.

–Good day to you, Mrs O’Donovan, how are you?

–I’m well, Father O’Hagen, I’m very well.

–Isn’t it biting cold for the month that’s in it?

–It is. This June is like an October.

–May I come in? I have to ask you a favour.

She let him in. She even offered him tea. And he took it. I was watching her hands shake as she lifted the boiling kettle from the black range to scald the silver teapot. He was still standing as she put in the tea leaves.

–Sit down, Father. Excuse my manners. Sit down. The tea will be soon ready. Do you like it strong? I’ll just fetch you a cup to drink it out of.

The good stuff was put on the table. White china with gold at the edges we didn’t eat off even on the Christmas. She poured out for him and he sat at our table, Fr O’Hagen, drinking our tea with our milk and our sugar in his mouth. I thought she would offer him a piece of treacle scone with raisins, yet she didn’t. I had already staked a claim for it if he left it or any of it lying on his plate, but it was not to be. He had a big face and I was sure he had a long tongue. I thought he looked like a cat, a black and white cat, but then he came to the point. Would we be able to put up a visitor, an artist, a painter that was coming to the town? A painter all the way from Italy, where the Pope lives, he instructed us, as if we didn’t know where the Pope lived. I could see the shock on Mammy’s face.

–Will he not be wild fussy, Father? All airs and graces – would he not look down his nose at the like of us?

His eyes were scouring the kitchen, catching every speck of dirt as if it were mice droppings. Then he started to lower his voice. He assured her she kept as clean a house as any he’d ever witnessed in this parish, or any other for that matter. She was renowned for her cooking and baking. And the Italians, if they were fussy about anything, it was about their food. He knew that from his own stay amongst them.

–But how will we understand him? Does he speak our language?

There was nothing there to worry about. The painter’s father was a distinguished professor of languages. He would surely have taught his son how to master at least the basics of English. Fr O’Hagen himself still could recall a fair smattering of Italian. Between the lot of us we would make a fist of the words to get us all by.

–I still don’t understand why you don’t ask Anna Boyle, or the Ferguson woman in Ludden. They have houses big enough to take in lodgers. We would be very squeezed–

–If he were to stay here, Mrs O’Donovan, that would be the case. But I was hoping you might let him have the use of your empty house down the road. He could work there as well, uninterrupted. And come here for his grub.

I mentioned to you about my grandfather’s house eight doors down from us. We lived next to the forge where my daddy worked. It was bigger than the lower house because there were rooms above the smithy. That’s where I was born. In the biggest room in the house. Since he died two years and three months ago Granda’s house was empty. That broke my heart. I hated the priest and the painter already because I didn’t want strangers traipsing through where he lived. My mother told Fr O’Hagen that house hasn’t been lived in since the death.

–Then surely it’s perfect.

I’d never heard that word said before. I must have seen it written down, because I knew exactly what it meant, and I was certain as well that Mammy would let this boy from Italy stay. You couldn’t refuse a priest. It’s bad luck and bad manners. He was asking if her husband, our Daddy, would be agreeable to his request also? Where was he? Out walking the greyhounds. She would tell him when he came in. There was one other thing – she was sorry, but she was obliged to ask.

–Look around you, Father. We are poor people–

–It will not matter–

–I’m thinking of his keep. We couldn’t afford–

Fr O’Hagen assured Mammy there would be no question of this family being out of pocket during the lodger’s stay. The priest himself would provide a weekly rate to cover bed and board. The visitor would expect nothing fancy. He’d never set eyes on the man before, so he didn’t know what size of an individual he would be. As a race, the Italian people, they did tend to be thin and lithe, so he doubted if we would be entertaining a glutton to devour us out of house and home. Mammy was glad to hear that. So, have we a deal? We have.

That’s the way he landed in with us. As the priest was leaving, Mammy asked what was it this boy was coming to paint? A new Stations of the Cross, in the chapel. It was time we had one. Wasn’t that right?

The lower house was always locked to us after Granda passed away. I didn’t mind because without him it smelt like the taste of sour milk. I think Mammy thought the same. That’s why she scrubbed the place room by room, me coming after her giving her a hand. She said you’re never too young, girl, to learn how to clean a house from top to bottom. That will be your job for life.

–But I’m going into the factory when I leave school–

–You’ll leave there when you get married. Every man expects his wife to have his home shining like a new pin.

She was emptying dirty water down the sink. It splashed against her hands. They were rough red, hard as the floors beneath our feet. She was sweating a bit from the work and she used a blue towel to wipe her face. I told her I really didn’t want to go into the factory. She stopped and looked at me. Then she took the soaking floor cloth and rinsed it dry. She asked me what would I do instead? I told her I would love to be a nurse. I was a bit breathless because it was a big secret, so I didn’t see her shoot the cloth at me until it stung my face. It was the shock of it made the tears spring into my eyes, because it wasn’t that sore. Then she just said, how in the name of Jesus would the likes of us get to be nurses? Tell me how, you stupid bitch? You’ll step through that factory door and you’ll earn your pay making shirts. That day will be coming soon enough. You’re no different from the rest. You have to rough it. Learn that. Get on your knees and help me put a shape on that scullery.

I did as she bid me. I never looked at her. I knew not to when she was in a temper. Eyes boring into her always drove her mad. I still managed though to sneak a look and here’s the strange thing – she was doing something she very rarely did. Standing still, looking straight at me, saying nothing.

The painter, he used to do that at times as well. Stand still, looking. Looking at the stupidest things. Leaves, his hand, the table beneath his plate. I asked him what was he looking for? He said one day he’d tell me. I said, go on, tell me now, go on, tell. He said not to be nosy. He didn’t say it – he just touched my nose and he laughed. I went all red because I never as much as touched his hand before that. He laughed his head off when he saw me blushing and I couldn’t understand why there was what felt like tears in my eyes because I wasn’t sad or it wasn’t as if he hit me. I got very quiet and he asked me was I all right?

I didn’t answer him. I just kept on making his breakfast. Mammy trusted me to do that much. I watched his egg boil in the saucepan. I knew exactly how long to keep it in the water for him to like it. I don’t know why this day I didn’t take it out when it was ready, but for some reason I let it stay in longer there and didn’t lift it out. I put it in the eggcup and carried it to the table. I didn’t watch him when he cut the top off, for I was buttering his toast with all my might. I expected him to give out to me, but he said nothing. When I looked over I saw him putting a giant knob of butter into the yolk and mix it all through. He still barely looked at me as if he didn’t notice I gave him a hard boiled egg on purpose, so then, for badness, I said, butter costs money.

He rose up from the table. He took the egg in his hands. He put it on the floor, he put his boot down on it and smashed it into a million pieces. He looked me straight in the face. I pay you money, he said, good money. I get nothing from you, from your family – I get nothing from you for nothing. Do not forget that, because I do not, nor will I let you. Do you remember?

I nodded. I was broke to the bone. And the yellow mess on the floor was like dog skitters when the greyhounds had the runs. I think he believed I was going to cry but I would not give him the satisfaction of that. He might think he was a smart alec from Italy but I wasn’t going to let myself or my breed down in front of him by blubbing over what he did to a stupid egg. Let him go hungry. I’m from Donegal. We don’t let anybody walk on us, no matter what they are or where they’re from. Anyway, wasn’t I in the right? Butter does cost money.

Only eejits waste it. During the war in England and across the border in Derry people were panting for a pound of butter. I said that to him. Do you not know the shortage of the stuff there was and there still is, mister? We had a war here, you know, maybe it didn’t happen in Italy. Jesus, his face was a panic. I thought he was going to beat me. He took the spoon from stirring his tea. He started to beat it on the table. He said, you know damn all about the war. Do not dare to say you suffered during it. Italy did. Ireland did not. Do not ever talk to me about the war.

He walked off, not touching hardly a bite of his breakfast. I said to him he’d better put something inside his belly. He would faint maybe if he didn’t even have a sup of tea. That’s when he started to laugh. I thought it was because the word belly slipped out of my mouth. Then he said, I will die if I don’t drink tea, is that so? I said, he might. Nobody could survive without tea. He said I was right. Nobody could. Pour – pour. I did, and he drank the mug down in one go. He said, are you content now? I eat.

I nodded, but I couldn’t care less. All I was worried about was he’d tell Mammy and she’d be raging I hadn’t done my job and she liked people to carry out what she asked them to do. That comes from being a forewoman in the factory before she had wains. I didn’t hear that from her, but the whole town knew she was the youngest woman ever to be made that high up in all the years they made shirts in this place. She wasn’t one ever to show off. She hated big heads as much nearly as she did liars – and by God she hated liars – so she never talked a lot about what working there was like, but it was well known she was wild fair to each and every one working under her. All hands were fond of her.

She wasn’t of course always that fair to me. It still came as a big shock when I was lying on the bed one summer’s day and she must have wanted me out of the house because she shouted at me, asking why nobody my own age bothered with me? I wanted to say, that’s just not true, but it was in a way, and I’ve been wondering why. Here’s my answer. It’s because I’m friends with Mena. And because she’s not well, people must think the same about the two of us. That we’re not right in the head. She has something wrong on the outside – everybody can see that – but they notice nothing untoward about myself so they can imagine something’s wrong inside of me, that in some way I’m just like her. I suffer because I don’t turn my back on her, like the rest of them laughing, calling her gimpy or pegleg or humpyback, God forgive them.

The painter didn’t laugh at her. He was very good to the poor soul. Always asking her questions and listening carefully to what she’d answer. I couldn’t believe the way he’d sit talking to her about everything under the sun – school, her Mammy and Daddy, what she wanted to be when she grew up. She said a nun – everybody says a nun – and he told her she would look beautiful. That’s when he gave her a lovely drawing of her face. Well, I think it was her face, but you wouldn’t know for sure. He said it was of her. I heard him saying that. But she looked more like – she looked more like – I can’t say for sure, but Mena, she said, that’s not me. Don’t say that’s me. He said nothing as she hobbled away, leaving the lovely drawing behind. I picked it up and asked him for it, but he said nothing. Just put it all rolled up in his pocket. I said to him that it was a pity he destroyed it like that for even if Mena didn’t want it, her mother and father would. A present, a bit of thanks to them for all they put up with her. She has a wild bad temper at times, flying off the handle for no reason. She is a handful, in her own way. He’ll learn that, as I did, and I’m her best friend. Her only friend, as I’ve said before, and I’m paid back for it by nobody else wanting to play with me unless there’s not another being in the lane – then I’m made welcome to join in.

That night I had a dream about me and Mena. We were standing at the very edge of the pier. We were holding hands. I could see our parents – her ones and my own – standing a good bit away from us. The next thing I knew we must have fallen in because we were stuck in the water not panicking. Our mammies and daddies though, they were roaring and crying and calling at us to come back to them, to leave the sea. It was as if we weren’t listening, for we did nothing to reach them. Then I let go of Mena’s hand and I could see tears tripping my mother, so I tried to get back to them on the pier, and my da’s hands, they grew like a giant’s, and they caught me miles out in Lough Swilly and carried me back. But Mena, she never looked at us, safe as if she was walking on the earth. She just kept floating, and in the dream I could see why – the painter was waiting for her in a white sailing boat. And the strangest thing of all about this is that Mena couldn’t swim. She wouldn’t put a foot into the water for all the money in the world.

But he could swim. And he did, first thing in the morning, every day of the time he was staying in the town, no matter what the weather was like. He’d brought a black swimming costume with him. Black with red stripes. I know what it looks like because my mother washed it when she did his clothes along with the minister’s and his niece’s garments. I never spied him take his dip because it was always so early I’d still be asleep in my bed. And he bathed only in the men’s bay where ladies weren’t supposed to watch fellows walk half-naked into the sea. And anyway what is it to me seeing him like that? Didn’t I give him his breakfast and see him in his singlet, white as an angel next to his brown skin?

I asked him once did he believe in guardian angels? He said he did, and that he’d seen his own. I said that was an awful lie. Nobody was allowed to do that, but he insisted he could when the mood took him. I said I don’t believe you – if you did, tell me what the angel looked like. And I bet him he couldn’t. What will you give me if I can? I’ll give you nothing, I say, because I’m going to share my great secret – I can see them too, I can see them.

That stops him in his tracks. He asks me what do they look like? I say I’m not allowed to tell him. He says he understands. Nobody should reveal things like that. I think to myself that is just jealousy on his part. I’d be dying to know. So I tell him I can reveal only this – girls have a guardian angel dressed in pink, boys have one dressed in blue. He looks straight past me, as if there’s somebody listening to us. He nods and says, I’m sure you’re right, yes, you’re right, but in that case I have to ask you a question, why is your angel dressed in blue? Only sometimes, I say.

It just slipped out. I nearly run out of the room. How did he know that? This boy might be too smart for his own good. I don’t know why it is I am breathing funny, but I am and I can say nothing. He takes advantage of that, knocking the wind out of my sails.

–Why are you sad? It is a most beautiful blue. It is the right colour for your red hair.

–Do all red-haired girls have a blue guardian angel? I asked him.

–No. It is very special.

–Does it happen in Italy or only in Ireland? I wanted to know.

–It does not happen in Italy.

–How often have you seen it?

–Not that often. You are special, he said.

But I’m not. No more than Mena is beautiful. I’ve wondered since I met this man, what was wrong with him? Now I know he’s a liar. And I’m feared of liars, for as I’ve said, Mammy hates liars. Above all else, she hates liars. I’m not cruel and I’m not stupid, she always declares, but I would hang all liars. It’s why we’ve always told the truth. And it may be why nobody likes me. Somebody asked me once – it was Peggy Jennings who sat beside me in third class – she asked did I like her new brown shoes? Because I said no, she turned against me. I did say as well they would look better on a horse. I said it for a joke, but she turned her face from me. That’s you all over, she hissed back. You’d sicken a goat. Is it any wonder nobody can stick you. At least I don’t smell.

I told Mammy Peggy Jennings said we smelt. Our house smelt, our clothes. She said our house was like a byre. And Peggy’s mother, she wondered often if the people who let Mammy do their washing and scrubbing knew the state of her own house, they would lock the door on her. I should have known there was going to be bother when she said not one word. Just listened and listened. Letting me blabber on. And I couldn’t stop until she asked me, is this the truth? Honest to God, it is. All right, she’d heard enough, she would call round to the Jennings and sort this out. I went green.

Why in God’s name had I picked Peggy Jennings? Why had I not spun that smell yarn about another girl, any other girl, for there is one saying in this town that everyone agrees on, it is God spare us from the Jennings. What had I started? What would Mammy do? She asked if I would go with her and confront Peggy. I said I didn’t want to and I hope she wouldn’t either. Why would that be? Surely I’d want Mammy to stand up for herself. Peggy Jennings had insulted this family. We needed to show that breed we would not take it lying down. Give me my coat, and get your own, I’m not letting them away with that. I didn’t move. She said, what’s wrong with you? I was holding my stomach because there was a pain in it like a stick down my gullet. Why are you saying nothing, why has the cat got your tongue, wait a minute, we don’t have a cat, you must be silent for another reason – what is it? My stomach is wild sore, Mammy, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Was it something you ate? Did you have a feed of sour apples? Were you progging fruit in Louis O’Kane’s orchard? No – no – I wasn’t, I swear. Then why should you have an ache? I told her I didn’t know. Maybe I was in need of a dose of syrup of figs, she wondered. Would that clean me out?

I could smell the syrup of figs through the glass of the bottle in the press. I could feel the stickiness of it on my face still after I spat it all out the last time they tried to choke it down my throat. She knew it was the worst thing she could threaten me with. I told her it wasn’t that bad, I didn’t need medicine. Was I sure? I was positive. Absolutely positive? Absolutely certain? No doubt in my head. She had a look in her eyes that I knew better than to answer her. So I just stood there but could not face her, keeping my eyes to the ground.

–You don’t have a wild pain, do you?

–No, Mammy.

–In your stomach or anywhere else, do you?

–No.

–That was a lie, wasn’t it?

–Yes, Mammy.

–And so was everything you told me Peggy Jennings said, wasn’t it?

–Yes.

–A lie?

–A lie.

–A pack of lies?

–A pack of lies.

I was expecting the worst clout of my life to knock me into a corner. But it didn’t come. She just left me standing looking at the kitchen floor. Then she sat down in her chair. I couldn’t bear to watch what she was going to do. And she still did nothing. Nothing at all. She just left me standing there. The two cheeks on me were burning. I was on fire with shame. And she kept on sitting, even though she should have been getting the tea ready, but she did not stir.

I thought about Daddy coming in from the forge, starving, wanting his food. The younger ones were roaring. They must have been getting hungry. But Mammy just sat as she was, not bothering about anything. I think if I say I’ll give her a hand, she might be less cross – that is if she is cross for I don’t know what mood she’s in. I’ve never seen her not moving like this. Will I put on the kettle? Will I draw the tea? Should I butter some bread? Is Daddy having eggs? She doesn’t answer. I ask the same questions again and at long last she just says, you stay where you are. My wee brothers are now squealing like stuck pigs but she doesn’t seem to notice. The crying brings Da in from the forge next door, all smelling of the fire. He looks about him and listens. He asks what’s the commotion for? Has there been a murder? Mammy stands up. She puts her two hands on my head. She turns me round to face my father. He doesn’t know what is happening. He says, so what in Christ’s name is going on in this kitchen? She lets go of my head. She points her finger at me. I hear the words she’s saying to Daddy. Look at her, look at our daughter, we have raised a liar. That’s when I burst into tears and tell Mammy I’m sorry. Tell Daddy I’m wild sorry. And that’s why to this day I’m feared of liars.

A couple of days after that Daddy got me a ribbon – a white one, really long, and he said when Mammy had forgotten all the bother about Peggy Jennings I should get her to tie it in my hair. So I asked that Sunday and she did. She kissed my hair again, as she kissed it every Sunday. The Italian painter asked me why didn’t I wear it every day? I said, are you simple or something? I can only wear it on a Sunday. Why don’t you wear your nice suit every day? Same reason, isn’t it? You have to keep your good clothes to go to Mass. He was walking up the lane with me to the upper house for our Sunday dinner. I could smell it as soon as we opened the front door.

First we started with soup after Daddy has cut the sign of the cross on himself and so did we all before eating. Mammy always put any flowers she found on her walks in a wee vase on the table for the big dinner, and Daddy always cracked the same joke – I’ll just remove the whin bush from the table before we start eating. Mammy raised her eyes up and called him a gulpin of a man. Those flowers came from no whin bush. She knew better than to bring gorse blooms into a house. She’d always heard it was considered unlucky. What is whin please? What is gorse? Gianni asked this one week after hearing it repeated so often. Explain it to him, Daddy told me. Gorse – whin – they are the flowers of the mountain. Our mountain is called Fahan Hill, I spoke slowly. Fahan Hill, he said after me, and for some reason we all burst out laughing, even the little ones, because we were looking forward to a lovely feed as Mammy ladled out the soup, smelling of beautiful vegetables and milk.

I love to stir them all around in the plate, the carrots and leeks, the barley and lentils, the wee bits of spud and white parsnips. Eat your food, Euni, it will grow cold, your soup. Mummy’s voice is polite when Gianni is around us. Soup, he says, and points to the plate. We all nod. Soup, yes. Slap up your sloup – there’s plenty more in the slaucepan. Daddy roars laughing when he says this because our old neighbour, Maggie McFadden, she would always say that when she drank soup. That’s what he tells Gianni, and Mammy says, how would this man know who Maggie McFadden is. Slap up your sloup, there’s plenty more in the slaucepan, he says it again just to annoy her.

But she’s not annoyed. She goes to get the beef out of the oven. The spuds are roasting pure gold. The meat smells like the best taste in your mouth, and she cuts big slices for the two men, leaving it to wait for the green cabbage and soft potatoes that her giant spoon puts so delicately in front of them to eat. That’s fit for a decent man to eat, Daddy smiles and takes his pile of dinner from her. So does the Italian painter, and he has the same amount of roast as Daddy has. Mammy has the next most – I have a fair share – enough to stuff me – and the baby boys get their bit as well. Before she starts to eat, Mammy will open two bottles of stout, giving one each to the lads. It is the only drink that is allowed in our house, and Daddy never ventures into pubs because he is good-living and wouldn’t thank you for getting fluthered like some, no names mentioned, as Mammy always says, and then mentions the name of every drunkard in the town. Daddy asks the Italian, does he enjoy Guinness? Guinness, the painter says, raising his mug, and him and Daddy hit their mugs together. You boys would drink wine, wouldn’t yous, in Italy? Gianni nods. Mammy takes a sip of her milk, eyeing them both. She says the only whiff of wine you’ll get in this place is on the chapel altar. And Fr O’Hagen doesn’t share it, Daddy says. That’s enough, Mammy gives him a cross look, more than enough.

We all eat every bit of the delicious dinner. Gianni takes a bit of bread and wipes the gravy that’s left on his plate. Daddy does it too – the first time I’ve seen him do that. Mammy says to go easy on the bread – leave room for dessert. She has made a red jelly. She loads it into bowls. I ask Daddy does he want to hear a joke. He asks me to tell it. I say, would you like to come to my party? Go on, Daddy, tell me – would you like to come to my party? He says, yes, we’d all like to go. Do you know what you’ll get to eat? What will we get? Custard and jelly and a punch in the belly. Mammy’s sitting beside me, and just for a joke I punch her in the stomach. Mammy lets out a big roar. What are you doing, girl, what do you think you are doing? Daddy is shouting at me. Are you trying to kill the baby?

I don’t understand what he is chatting about. The two babies are sitting at the table. I haven’t touched them. And Mammy is saying, I’m all right, Malachy, for Jesus sake I’m all right. She doesn’t know. Euni knows nothing about these things, she was only playing. Daddy walks Mammy slowly outside. The bowls of jelly are sitting in big red lumps. Gianni hands me one of them. He nods at me to tuck in. But I can’t. I just shake my head. Then he asked me something I’ll never forgot – not to my dying day and they lay me in the clay at Cockhill.

–Did you not know your mother is having a baby soon?

–What do you mean?

–You will have a little sister or brother.

–Why?

–Where do you think your mother and father got you?

–The coal boat. It comes into the pier to deliver all the babies as well. Nurse Kelly goes down and collects them. Then she has to wash all the dirty dust from them and bring them home. Everybody knows that. Maybe they do it different in Italy. Do they?

–Yes, they do.

–How?

–It is not a coal boat.

–Then what kind of boat?

–No kind. It is a bird brings them. It carries them in its beak.

–Where?

–To the baby’s parents.

–How does the bird know where they live?

–The baby has its name and address written on its wrist.

–Are you telling me birds can read? Do you think I’m a complete eejit? What kind of stupid people are they in your country? Believing that nonsense. Have you ever heard the like? You shouldn’t tell Irish people that kind of thing. They’ll all think you’re not right in the head.

–So I should tell them in Italy about the coal boat?

–Why shouldn’t you? It’s the truth.

–How do you know?

–My mother said so, she never tells lies.

–Maybe not.

–No maybe about it. You have to believe me.

–I do.

One thing I notice about Gianni. He speaks English a lot more around me when I am on my own than he does when he’s with big people. He’s always putting questions to me. I give him as best an answer as I can. It never contents him though. Daddy and Mammy walked in then and that stopped our conversation. Mammy told me to eat my jelly. Everything was grand. Daddy said my hair looked really nice with the ribbon in it. He said it was the best bargain he’d ever bought. And he told me I was a good girl. He said to Mammy as it was Sunday maybe we should have a wee dram, the three of them. She looked funny at him. He asked Gianni would he like a dram of whiskey? His treat? He went up to their bedroom and came back with three glasses smelling of the strangest stuff. Him, Mammy and the Italian started to sip it. Best of health to the company, Daddy saluted them. Mammy said, don’t let this be a habit – no harm in a drop at Christmas or Easter, but certainly not every Sunday. Not in this house.

Daddy laughed. He said he was married to the worst wife in the world. The Italian was a lucky man to be single. Mammy didn’t seem too pleased. Then out of the blue Daddy said, the painting, how is it going? Are you starting to make a fist of the job? When can we see what you’re at? Little did I ever think there would be any man drawing the last journey of Our Blessed Lord through Jerusalem to Calvary in the big room of my parents’ house. Well, come on, let us in on the secret – how is the painting coming along? Gianni said he could not tell. Too early to know. But he did have one thing to ask. Fire away, boy. Could he come and watch Daddy in the forge? He needed to see horses close up – for the Roman soldiers. Daddy just looked at him and shook his head. Mammy must have noticed how the Italian was taken aback. Daddy was very silent all of a sudden. She said me and her had a fair bit of washing dishes and cleaning up to do. Would you lads not like to stroll down to the football pitch? There would surely be a match on a Sunday.

Gianni said he would like to but Daddy told a lie. He said he wasn’t much of a football man. Not his game. Anyway, he fancied a wee snooze after a big dinner. No, not much interest in football. Boxing – that’s what he’d choose if he had to pick his sport. Boxing. Did they have much of it in Italy? Gianni said there was quite a bit, but he’d never been a fighter. Then we’ll have to train you, won’t we? Daddy told him.

CHAPTER TWO

Margaret

Custard and jelly and a punch in the belly. God love my Euni, but the child thought this was the funniest joke in the world. I’ll never forget her face when she saw the reaction to her thumping me in the stomach. Now I’m not saying it wasn’t sore – Euni is like her father, always the blacksmith’s daughter, not knowing her own strength at times – but still and all I think we should have watched what was said. Especially in front of the Italian stranger. Christ knows what he must think of us.

Not that he’d ever let much out of him. That’s all for the best. He’s here to do the job Fr O’Hagen is paying him to do. Let him do it. No distractions from the curse of drink or of women either, for that matter. It wouldn’t do, would it, for a man hired to do the painting of Our Lord’s agony to be out gallivanting with the smart girls in this town. Not that I think any of them would touch him. They would run a mile if he went near them. There’s nothing wrong with the way he looks – he knocks the like of our specimens into a corner, that’s for sure. Dark eyes, jet black hair, beautiful skin – I even think our wee Euni has a notion of him in her innocent way. But Jesus Christ, the women hereabouts would hardly look at a man from Derry, let alone marry him, if it meant hoofing the fourteen miles to live away from their mammies’ firesides.

But then, I should talk. Look at myself. Am I one to talk about upping and outing and seeing the world over the railway bridge? What did I do? I married Malachy O’Donovan. He was reared six doors down the lane from our own house. I was born a McCarron. The middle girl in a house full of three daughters and two sons. I went to school until I was fourteen. Then went to the shirt factory with the smell of the books and chalk still on me. Got married when I hit nineteen and had our Euni by the time I was twenty-one. What age must she be now? Twelve, or is it thirteen? Wouldn’t you think I’d know the age of my only daughter? The two boys came soon together, one after the other, a while after Euni was born. She’d been the only one for too long. She got too used to it, and I admit we did dote on her, Malachy especially. Naturally enough she liked him spoiling her. Maybe without our knowing it she heard us too often talking to her like an adult and not a wain. That’s why she is what some call advanced for her age but I call being a right wee granny at times. Maybe it’s why she has so few pals except for that unfortunate Mena one. She is not long for this world, but then who is, God spare all belonging to us?

Malachy says I’m worse than Maggie Mourn, the ancient woman all in black who makes her living washing the dead of the parish. I think that might be exaggerated just a bit, but I am inclined to look a little on the gloomy side. Always have, always will. And I did warn him when we were courting that if he thinks I can be relied on to dampen proceedings, then wait until he knows my sisters Tessie and Seranna. I once was boiling an egg for my dinner – it was a Sunday, I wasn’t rushing in and out from and to my work – and didn’t I lose track of time entirely? Just sitting there, doing nothing. I thought that egg must be ready. When I sliced the head off it, it was as raw as if it never touched water. I made the mistake of observing to Tessie, look at that egg, it’s not cooked, is there anything more annoying?