Mammy Mary Says

Your Best Friend and you are on your way to her house. It’s a bit cold and you’re both wearing earmuffs. She lives in the Council Estate closest to your Primary School. You do think it’s pretty special to have a Best Friend. It is a soft thing. Like her. Her black curly hair and her giggly laugh. She’s very smiley which is a nice way for a Best Friend to be. You know not all the girls have Best Friends—maybe just the twins and Cara and Elaine, and youse two. Youse’ve been thick as thieves since day one of Junior Infants, cos you were both too shy to put up your hands and ask: An bhfuil cead agam dul go dtí an leithreas, más é do thoil é? Mrs. Swan was dead nice and didn’t make a fuss, she just gave yis spare knickers from her clothes chest up the front at Little Breaktime. It could have been dead scarlet for yis, but Swanny was always great about making nothing out of something. That first day of Primary School was also your fourth birthday, and you’re only a day and a month older than your Best Friend which is pretty special too. 

When youse are alone yis do play loads of deadly makey-uppy games, dress up in your Mam’s old clothes and have the gas talking really posh like about ‘just a sli-ver of cake’, and youse do learn dance rou-tines to your favourite songs youse’d never ever show to anyone else. Youse do often play hopscotch or skipping too—because they are her favourites. And when youse do have to line-up outside, on the tarmac yard, every morning, before roll call, you’re always saying about the stories in Soaps off of the TV, you do draw rubbish pictures of the char-act-ers at home with silly word bubbles in an old copy book, and show them only to her, and when youse were old enough to get pocket money she even agreed to spend some of hers on comics—because that’s what you wanted to do. See, she is best for lots and lots of reasons. 

So youse watched this cartoon kind of a video in Primary School after lunch today. Miss Kane showed it only for the girls in Fourth Class; and there were cartoon girls who grew into grown-up girls. Your Best Friend is laughing now, as youse’re mos-ey-ing to her house, about the boobs on the TV, sticking her chest out and tripping over her feet with the giggles. Then youse’re skipping up The Avenue of semi-private houses and ducking at front walls and hedges and scooting past gates with your chests pushed way out and falling over laughing. You take off your white earmuffs and say: This is my bra, and twist and place it so the two muffs make two boobs. And she looks at you—eyes out on stalks—her cheeks pink; then takes her purple ones off and does the same. Youse’re laughing like mad things now. Proper giggle fit. 

As you pass by Marianne Stewart’s house, whose Dad works for the Union, your Best Friend straightens her back and starts walking dead funny—like that mous-tach-i-o-ed man Basil Fawlty off of the telly—because Marianne’s Mam is very strict and never lets her even outside their front gate to play. Never. Not even after school on a Friday; AND her Mam doesn’t let ANY child inside their house either. Ever. If you want to play with Marianne after school you can only play in her front garden, with the gate shut, when it’s not raining; and Marianne’s a bit snooty too, living on The Avenue, and you aren’t too bothered with her, but your Best Friend has to sit with her in class and likes her, so you’d often have to play with her for your Best Friend.

You still live in your private house on your Grandad’s fields, it’s around five or six fields away from The Avenue. Your Dad is a Farmer. Or, well, he was. He works for the Civil Service down the Country now. You think it must be a lot less fun of a job. He is working down there since he did a Bad Sin, and your Mam won’t let him sleep in your house. He comes up once during the week to take your Grandad to Market, and you and your Little Brother do see him the evening before, in the sitting room, for one hour. Your Big Brother and Sister don’t have to see him; and your Mam doesn’t ever talk to him. Sometimes you do sneak out of the sitting room to find your Mam in the kitchen, to show her that you’re on her side; but she just sends you back in then with the teapot and mugs, and a cup and saucer for your Dad, on the wheelie trolley. 

When your Dad comes to the Village for Market, and at weekends, he stays in his old room in your Grandad’s house from when he was little himself, you had never ever seen the upstairs bedrooms until he moved back in there and you can’t believe your Grandparents, Aunties, and Uncles slept in two rooms that small. 

You know what the Bad Sin is your Dad did. Your Little Brother doesn’t know. So, you’re not allowed to talk about it, not even to your Best Friend. It does be weird in school when the Teachers are going on about the Commandments because you know your Dad did one of those BIG SINS, and you do feel like you shouldn’t like your Dad because he’s a Sinner who Sinned against your Mam; but you do also like your Dad, because, well, he’s your Dad. And, you love him. You love your Dad. 

Your Mam has told you they are sep-ar-a-ted. You know marriage is for life, and no one else’s parents are separated, in fact, you’d never even heard of it before, you know it is against the Church, and you think it is against the Law; so, you do just go on thinking that he’s still your Dad who lives near to his new job. And, because you’re not allowed to talk about it, it’s easy to pretend that none of it is true at all. 

When you do see your Dad these days, he is too ser-i-ous, he does always be wearing suits; but your Grandad only wears suits to Mass on Sundays, and Mass is never ever fun so your Dad’s job must be awful awful. Your Grandad is still a Farmer and you love love love out the back of his house. There are broken old Ford tractors and you and your Little Brother are let climb and skit on them as if yis could drive or harvest the potatoes, which does be gas. Your Grandad wears working slacks with round-collared shirts, knitted cardigans and keeps material hankies in his pockets not paper tissues. He also wears a flat cap in the glasshouses, and keeps his dark grey taller hat for with his Sunday suit. You think he has the best man’s job; and when you give him your kisses hello and goodbye he always smells of outside.

Your Best Friend and you are nearly at the corner to turn right onto her road and you notice she’s stopped laughing and has taken her pretend purple bra off, you keep saun-ter-ing past doing a silly walk like an Egyptian while keeping hold of your white bra under your chin and wiggling your bum and shaking your chest. She yanks your arm and says: No. Stop! You whip your head around to look at her face. She looks like she’ll cry. And she never ever ever cries. You remember even the time her Dad—who works for the County Council—took the bamboo stick down off the top of the TV Unit and hit her with it on the underside of her two stockinged feet, and she just looked at him like nothing had happened. Hah. You were dead proud of her then. You know that Dads have to hit kids when they are bold, and your Dad even used to use his belt, until your Mam stopped him doing that; and you also know, because Miss Kane said so, that Teachers hitting kids is against the Law now. Other than his bamboo stick your Best Friend’s Dad is lots of fun. He gets up very early to work for the County Council, actually he is a Bin Man. Your Best Friend thinks this is a little em-barr-ass-ing and sometimes sings a song about her old man the dustman; but you don’t think it is embarrassing. It’s a job like any other job and it means he gets home from work in the daytime. 

When he comes home he spends time with youse. He always asks about what youse’ve been playing and smiles and makes jokes, and sometimes he sits down and plays with yis on the landing. Your Dad never plays kids’ games.

A little bit, you are scared of her Dad, because he keeps ferrets in hutches out the back, and he knows you think they are UGLY and MAD. You’re not really scared of him, but of the rotten ferrets, and he finds it really funny to bring youse outside when he’s feeding them and let them run up his leg. He does say they are terrible bad biters and he must be careful that they don’t scoot up inside his trousers and bite his ghoulies, and laughs a lot. Then he does pretend, every time, to throw one to you, and you do jump backwards, and everyone laughs. You really wish they would just have a dog or a cat like the rest of the Village.  

Your Mam went to their house re-cent-ly to collect you, which was a bit weird, because usually your Big Brother collects you when he’s coming in from ‘causing havoc’ with his friends. She was inside in the kitchen with your Best Friend’s Mam and Dad for ages, youse didn’t mind because yis got to play until later, but you knew when everyone was saying goodbye that your Mam must have been talking to them about the Big Sin because of how they all looked at you in a slow sad way.

Your Best Friend will be moving to the Village soon, into a semi-private house, you were really put out about this at first because you thought that she would have to change schools but then other kids from the Council Estate beside your school were also moving and a minibus was a-rrange-d by your school for when those houses will get built. So you’ll still get to play in each other’s houses on Friday afternoons, which is great. 

By the way, that time your Best Friend’s Dad hit her with his bamboo stick youse were only whispering, but her Mam, Mary, who doesn’t have a job job—other than being a Mam, kept moaning because she couldn’t hear Coronation Street. Yeah so, what you mean is, most all of the girls’ Mams are housewives usually with some-of-the-time jobs. Nearly all of the Dads have a job; or they do try to have one. Since last school year there’s a girl who moved all the way out here from Town-Town and her parents are REALLY young—and she’s an ONLY CHILD. Imagine! Imagine how quiet her house must be. So, this girl’s Mam has bobbed hair; and a job of her own in Town-Town. She goes in and out to TOWN every day. You think it’s in a like Bank or something. In anyways it’s not a job in the Village, or a some-of-the-time job from her own house, or another woman’s house. It’s not a job like cleaning, ironing, sewing, or minding kids—it’s a job like a Dad’s job. You think she could be an A-ccoun-tant. Or maybe nearly an Accountant, cos maybe you heard she has to do more tests. Who cares! She has a Dad’s job! She has her own shiny black briefcase, much much nicer than your Dad’s gicky wine one, wears make-up on weekdays, and you do think she blow-dries her hair every morning, because it always looks soft, and oh! it’s blonde, you forgot to say it’s all blondie and fancy. You don’t even remember what this girl’s Dad does; because it was so so cool to hear that her Mam had a Dad’s job, you stopped even listening to all what the other girls were asking about.

Your Best Friend wants to be a Wife and a Mam when she grows up. You don’t; you do think it is a hard life, with no money. You don’t know yet what job you want to have; but you do know you do not want to be a Teacher. You like your Teachers a lot, and they like you because you are quiet and always do your ecker. Mrs Swan has her own kids and Miss Kane doesn’t. You can only have kids if you’re Married. You know you def-i-nite-ly don’t want to end up sad and poor like your Mam if your Husband does a Big Sin, and you’re really not all that mad into minding kids or playing with dolls. Being a Teacher looks a lot like being a Mam to heaps and heaps of kids. No thank you very much! You really like drawing and playing and dancing, but messing is not a job so you still do not know what you would like to be. But, you love your Best Friend. You love your Best Friend’s sweet soft smiley face and don’t want her to cry; so you do a funny dance and start going around the corner again. She hits you on the arm. Her cheeks are bright red, she says: My. Mam. My. Mam. Might. See. Us. Your Best Friend really might cry. You feel squishy and sick but your head feels full and tight at the exact same time. You look at her and say: It’s ok. It’s funny. She chews her lip and says: No… 

You take your white bra off and put your mittened lámh out, then your Best Friend puts her mittened lámh in yours. Youse walk on around the corner—hand-in-hand—together, turn the key in the poxy brown front door, go into her house and on down to the kitchen and Mammy Mary is at the half-opened back door pretending she wasn’t smoking her John Player Blue. She tells youse she’s going to make tea and toast—with grilled cheese on it; which is more than a bit special. Youse smile at each other.

And Mammy Mary says: Girls, wash your dirty hands. 

Lauren Foley (she/her) is Irish/Australian and bisexual. Her stories are published internationally. She has Systemic Lupus Erythematosus (SLE) and is disabled; the majority of her writing is dictated. In 2016, her story “K-K-K” won the inaugural Neilma Sidney Short Story Prize with Overland Literary Journal and was shortlisted for the Irish Book Awards Short Story of the Year. She was shortlisted for the Hennessy New Irish Writer of the Year in 2017 and nominated for The Pushcart Prize. Lauren was awarded a prestigious Next Generation Artist’s Award in Literature from the Arts Council of Ireland in 2018, and subsequent Artists’ bursaries. She is the recipient of two Varuna Fellowships, two Tyrone Guthrie Residencies and a Cill Rialaig Residency. Her creative nonfiction piece “I Don’t” is published in The Art of the Glimpse: 100 Irish Short Stories, ed. Sinéad Gleeson. Her debut short fiction collection, Polluted Sex, is forthcoming with Influx Press in 2022.

Twitter: @foleywan_kenobi Website: laurenfoleywriter.com.  

24 February 2022