At My Mother's Knee (25 page)

'Barkenhid six height dabble tu,' my mother answered in her
telephone voice.

'Guess what?' I shouted excitedly down the phone.

'You better hadn't be in trouble, my lad. What are you doing
on a phone in the middle of the day? I hope you watched
yourself crossing that road. They come down that hill at ninety
miles an hour, bloody lunatics they are. A woman I talk to on
the half-ten bus said her sister went six foot in the air and
turned a somersault when she got hit by a bloody lunatic on a
motorbike on that sharp corner by the pet shop . . .'

The pips started to go. I rooted in my pocket for a coin and
put it in as she carried on regardless.

'She was in the General for ten months on traction, poor
thing. Got one leg longer than the other now, according to the
sister; has to wear a built-up shoe . . . was that the pips? Where
are you getting the money from to be making phone calls?'

'I came first in class,' I shouted, seizing my chance when
there was a slight pause in her diatribe. 'First!'

'Oh. Well done,' she said flatly.

'Did you hear me? I said I came first in class.'

'Well, let's be honest,' she said after a moment,
'it wouldn't be hard to come first in a class full of idiots, would
it? Half of them can't even write their own name. Thick as two
short planks . . .' Her voice tailed off and she sighed dramatically.
'I suppose it's better than coming last,' she said, 'but it's a shame
that you couldn't manage to come first at St Anselm's. You'd be
at college now instead of that sh— oh, well.'

Talk about a slap in the face. A kingsize, razor-pointed hatpin
to deflate the balloon of exultation and bring me crashing
back down to earth. My dad was more enthusiastic. 'Well done
you,' he said as he read out some of the more glowing remarks.
'Listen to this, Molly,' he shouted to my mother who was laying
the table for tea in the next room. "English. If he keeps this
up I hold out great hope for a successful CSE result." And this
. . . "Art – excellent. Religion – a studious pupil. French –
shows great promise."'

'Maths,' my mother chipped in from the middle room,
'"Needs to work much harder. Does not apply himself." He'll
never get anywhere in life without maths. Never mind art,
religion or French. What good's that to you unless you're going
to become a French monk who likes drawing bloody cartoons.'

I couldn't win. There was always something for her to find
fault with. Meanwhile, I was changing, physically and
mentally. I would soon be thirteen. My nancy-boy posh voice
had lowered quite a few octaves and my vowels had become
pure Ilchester Square, causing my ma to create blue murder
every time I opened my mouth.

'All that money wasted on bloody
elocution lessons
,' she'd
say, referring to Lulu's classes from the glory days when
she'd had a St Anselm's boy as a son instead of the North End
wacker she was currently emptying a bag of frozen crinkle-cut
chips into the chip pan for. 'Just because everyone else in that
school is common as muck doesn't mean that you have to act
and speak the same,' she'd add angrily, shaking the basket of
chips furiously in the bubbling oil, as if it was every last
common-as-muck North-Ender in the school that she was
frying.

That summer I went to Ireland with my dad to stay at the farm
for a couple of weeks. My mother preferred to stay at home as
she claimed that it was a good opportunity for her to scrub the house from top to bottom with my dad and particularly me out
of her way.

There had been changes at the farm. The house at last
boasted a bathroom and toilet, and an extension with two further
bedrooms
had been built on at the back. My
cousin Mickey
had three children now, so I shared a sofa bed with my
dad in the parlour, not a comfortable experience. Not only was
the sofa bed as old as time, but it provided nightly accommodation
not just for me and my dad but also for a nest of
mice somewhere in among the ancient springs and horsehair.

As well as working on the farm, Mickey was a nurse at
Castlerea psychiatric hospital, and when it was time to cut the
turf or mow the fields patients who were considered harmless
would be released to help, in return for a good wage and plenty
of food. When I got up the first morning my dad was already
up and out. To get to the new bathroom I had to cross the
kitchen, where the temporary labourers from Castlerea asylum
sat in a line at the long wooden table eating their breakfast.
Every eye followed me as I hurriedly crossed the floor in jeans
and a shirt of my dad's. They sat in silence, chewing their
bacon, until eventually one of them spoke. 'Jesus, isn't she a
little young for him?' he said, nodding towards my dad, who
had just entered the room. They thought I was a girl. I stared
at myself in the bathroom mirror. I had thick wavy auburn hair
and long eyelashes, and was slim and pretty. I was horrified at
the realization that I had been mistaken for a girl. I'd sprouted
a couple of pubic hairs but that wasn't enough. I wanted to
shave. My face was as smooth as a baby's: I had the complexion
of a milkmaid.

Oh, dear God, let me sprout hairs on my face and all over
my chest, and while you're at it the pubic area could do with
being a little more hirsute. It's far too sparse at the moment.
Let thick brown hair (not ginger, please God not ginger) sprout
all over my body. Amen.

When we got home my mother had decorated my bedroom.
One wall was a putrid shade of mustard, another bright red.
The door was turquoise gloss, the skirting boards and ceiling
bright yellow. She'd hand-dyed the carpet a vivid red and had
made curtains and a bedspread from the most lurid floral print
that Birkenhead Market had to offer. I was speechless. It was a
nightmare. What had possessed her to do this? Was she going
crazy? Losing the plot?

'You're always banging on about that one from
The Avengers
and how marvellous her flat is, so I've decorated
your bedroom like it. What d'ya think?' She stood back,
admiring her handiwork. 'I think it's hideous myself, but I
thought you deserved a treat for coming top of the class, so
there it is.'

I'll say one thing for my mother: she certainly kept you on
your toes. She was as unpredictable as the weather and
contrary as a rich woman's cat. I was touched by her attempt
to recreate Tara King's apartment in a room as tiny as my bedroom
and gradually got over the shock of the psychedelic
colours. Eventually I grew to like it. It stayed like that until she
died.

'N
OT YET, HANG ON . . . NEARLY . . . QUICK! COME ON, NO
,
get back, get back I said . . . Now! Come on! Quick,
don't dawdle. Jesus tonight, hurry up, there's a bloody big van
coming.' My mother was paranoid about
crossing roads
. She'd
grab the arm of whoever she was with in a vicelike grip and
hurl herself and her prey across the road at the speed of light,
but not before a prolonged and tense period perched on the
edge of the kerb, her worried eyes scanning the length of
the road, until she eventually decreed that the coast was clear
for the moment and the road just about safe enough to cross.

'For Christ's sake, Mam,' I snapped, trying to shake her
hand free from my elbow as we attempted to negotiate Old
Chester Road. 'Mind me jacket, you're creasing it.'

'I'll put a crease in your lip in a minute,' she said, pulling me
up outside
Mrs Cunningham's chip shop
. 'Taking the Lord's
name in vain in the street. You want to get yourself down to
confession, you heathen.'

Mrs Cunningham's sister appeared in the window with a
tray of fish cakes and gave us a cheery wave. My mother
quickly turned from hellfire and brimstone to gracious lady
and beamed back at her through the glass. The window had
net curtains that were pulled shut when the shop was closed.
On the glass in lead lettering was blazoned 'Cunningham's Fish and Chips. Quality First – Civility Always'. Mrs Cunny's fish
and chips were the best in Birkenhead . . . no, the world.
People came from miles around to sample her peppery fish
cakes, savour her chicken snacks and salivate at the sight and
smell of a mountain of freshly cooked chips, deep-fried in dripping,
surrounding a piece of fresh cod smothered in a crisp
golden batter that melted in your mouth after you'd taken the
first glorious, crunchy bite. There was usually a long queue so
you had to get there early. Mrs Cunny was one of my favourite
people. She had a sly, shy smile and she would chuckle
privately to herself as she wrapped the fish and chips up in the
newspaper and listened to the chatter of the customers waiting
in the queue. 'The usual, love?' she asked my mother, leaning
slightly across the counter, all smiles in a clean white blouse.
'And how are you, trouble?' she said to me. 'Still on the altar?'
My mother gave a nervous laugh and, with the air of a woman
who had suffered, declared that I had given up serving at mass
as I was thinking of joining the
marine cadets
. 'And why not?'
said Mrs Cunny, laughing and throwing me another sly wink.
'It'll put hairs on his chest.' Exactly what I was looking for,
plus some on the face. Thank you, Mrs Cunny, O wise woman
of Old Chester Road.

Mrs Cunny was extremely wise. She didn't trade in idle
gossip and was, as the sign said on the window, always civil to
her customers. She expected and got the same in return. She'd
run the
chip shop
with her husband during the war and after
his death took it over herself with a little help from her two
sisters. Sometimes the mask would slip and she'd snap at the
elder sister who was, to use the parlance of the day, a bit slow.
This sister would drag an enamel bucket into the shop from the
kitchen at the back and proceed to chip the potatoes in a contraption
at the end of the counter. She put the spud in, pulled
the lever and hey presto! The spud became chips and joined the
others in the white enamel bucket underneath. If you weren't careful you could catch a finger in this machine and chip it
along with the spud. The slow sister would chat to the
customers from behind the counter as she chipped away, so
Mrs Cunny always had one eye on her to see that she didn't
lose a couple of fingers. There were plenty of near misses. No
wonder Mrs Cunny was jumpy when her sister became
animated and lost concentration. 'For God's sake, Jeanie, leave
that alone and have a look at those peas.'

Mrs Cunny rose every morning at four thirty to go to the fish
market. She always did the job herself, picking out the freshest
fish with a professional's eye. She was a supreme mistress of
her craft. I've tasted plenty of perfectly good fish and chips
since but nothing holds a candle to the magic Mrs Cunny could
weave over a piece of cod and a King Edward.

Much to my parents' disappointment, my run on the altar of
St Joseph's Church had been a short one.

My old pal from
St Joseph's School
,
Franny Mooney
,
suddenly turned up in class one day. His peripatetic parents
had settled in the North End and Franny had been transferred
to Blessed Eddy's. He hadn't changed much, still small and
slight with bright ginger hair, an irresistible target for bullies.
Franny was resilient, though; he knew how to bob and weave
with the blows. Ever resourceful, he had a lucrative sideline as
an
altar boy
.

According to Franny, funerals were the biggest moneyspinners.
A family bereft was inclined to tip the urchin with the
mournful face who stood so beautifully at the graveside of
the recently departed more than handsomely. 'And if you can
make yaself cry, then they'll have a whip-round for you, make
a bleedin' fortune,' Franny added gleefully, rubbing his hands
and praying that a plague would strike Birkenhead and wipe
out half the Catholic population, providing him with lots of
profitable employment.

When funerals and weddings were thin on the ground
Franny bragged that he would help himself to a couple of quid
from the collection plate. I couldn't do that. I was cursed with
a conscience and would've been terrified of reprisals from the
Almighty. Not so Franny. The flames of hell obviously held no
fear for him. Money for sweets was his top priority and so each
Sunday he cheerfully relieved the collection plate of a pound or
so, treating it as a legitimate payment for services rendered.

Apart from cleaning up in the way of tips, the other incentive
luring me towards joining the altar boys was the shoes they
wore. They were made of shiny black patent leather and
peeked out from underneath the boys' scarlet tunics as they
moved in a slow and dignified manner about the altar. I
thought those shoes were the last word in elegance and
couldn't wait to get myself kitted out in full altar-boy drag,
complete with a pair of the shiniest patent leather shoes ever
seen in the diocese, and strut my stuff on a Sunday morning.

I duly delivered myself to the priest's house, attached to the
side of the church, for Father Doyle's inspection.

'Serving holy mass is a sacred act,' that good man said. 'You
must take time to learn what is expected of you and then perform
those duties with humility, devotion and profound
reverence.' Providing I got the shoes I'd be happy to lie
prostrate on the altar steps wearing a hair vest. I bowed my
head respectfully, trying to look like a perfect candidate for the
post. After all, he took Franny on, didn't he?

I was handed over to the senior altar server for instruction.
He was a religious zealot in his late forties whose one ambition
in life had been to become a priest. This had eluded him for
one reason or another, and the realization that it was now too
late to fulfil his dream had left him more than a little bitter. He
didn't want any new kids on his block and made his feelings
loud and clear. 'You do nothing,' he hissed. 'You understand?
You stay kneeling at the side of the altar throughout the mass and do fuck all. D'ya hear me, you little bollocks?' I was shocked
to hear a man of God using such
language
. No one in our family,
apart from Aunty Chris and then only when she was pushed to
the limit, said fuck. Plenty of fecks, but no fucks.