Bibliofemme: Extras

'I'm off now, Mammy,' I call from the hallway. One hand poises above the latch, the other clutches the brown bread I baked earlier, wrapped in tin-foil. It warms my palm. A steamy doughy smell escapes the silver covering.

'What's that, Nuala?'

I shrug back around the door and poke my head into the front room. 'I'm off now.'

'No need to shout. I can hear you. But not while you're sneaking out.'

Sneaking out? That's a laugh. I shake my head and grimace. I've been hiking across the fields at half-seven every evening, except Sundays, since Tommy-Joe and I started to step out - eight years ago. We've known each other since we were children of course; being neighbours, but only commenced our courtship following his mother's death. God rest her soul.

Mammy's chin moves up and down in silent chomps as if invisible teeth chew on particularly tough meat. Her lips are lost, sucked into a mouth too large to accommodate only a tongue. Her small eyes are still keen though. She can spot a field mouse in the low lying pasture before a hawk has focused. Mammy peers from sockets crinkled and swollen to walnuts from restless, arthritic sleep.

'What's that?' Her over-worked chin juts at my hand.

I sigh, impatient to get going. 'Ah, Mammy, it's only a bit of bread for his breakfast.'

'If he married you, then you'd be there to make his breakfast, instead of traipsing the fields like an auld heifer panting to be bulled.'

'Mammy!' I say. More resigned than mortified. I'm used to it. It's the same thing every night. Except sometimes I'm a toadstool, left to rot, while all the young buttons are picked around me. 'Mammy, you know he's waiting until the probate is sorted out on the farm. And as you rightly know his mother died suddenly and left no will. There's his older brother in London to consider.'

'Died suddenly? Tommy-Joe Whelan wouldn't know a sudden movement if Christ himself leapt off the cross.' Her mouth moves rapidly now, gums grinding, spurred on by irritation. White specs gather at the corners, like leftover Holy Communion. 'Nothing takes that long. Not even around here.'

I hold tight to evaporating patience. 'The legalities take forever, Tommy-Joe says. Anyway, better go. He'll be waiting. I'll be back by ten.' 'Of course you will. Once he's had his dinner.'

'Bye, Mammy.' I leave her to swim in her oversized clothes. During the past few years Mammy's body has shrunken, but her mind has remained fast. Stockings wrinkle around her spindly legs like folds of flesh fallen from her wasted frame. She sits in the big chair, pulled up to the fireplace, although the hearth is empty. The kitchen range is enough to warm the small house at this time of year. Although the tiny bathroom extension is always cold enough to freeze your wee-wee mid stream, Mammy says.

'Off with you, so,' Mammy calls. 'To lover-boy.'

I know Alzheimer's is a curse, but guiltily I wish it would strike at around half-seven each evening and leave again as I return from Tommy-Joe's at ten o'clock. I say an Act of Contrition to purge such thoughts, but Mammy's derision is as sharp as a butcher's knife and mostly I'm her flint.

Smoothing my skirt down, I notice a fraying seam. I'd like to go back and change, but Mammy has delayed me. Hopefully, Tommy-Joe won't notice. It wouldn't do to go calling on a gentleman looking less than your best. I pull my cardigan down to make it less obvious. My blouse is lemon with a frilled front. It looks smart beneath my navy cardigan. I check my collar is buttoned up.

I swerve off down the lane. I'm taking the road this evening. My walking shoes need mending so I have my good Mass court shoes on. They're usually carried in a bag until I reach the end of Tommy-Joe's lane where I lean on the pillar and change into them.

With my head down I turn left onto the road and follow it up towards the crooked stone bridge that straddles the trickle that separates Tommy-Joe's farm from our end field. Brown bread presses to my bosom. A bosom I've noticed recently has almost merged with my spreading waist-line. I must see about getting a new brassiere in Mooney's next time I travel into town. Maybe one of those uplifting ones I've seen advertised. I laugh - that would make Tommy-Joe look up from his newspaper, right enough.

A big shiny car rounds the corner at speed from the direction of Tommy-Joe's. I fumble and jump onto the grassy verge. Losing my balance I take an extra step forward and land my left foot bang into muddy ditchwater. Heaving myself out I lose the bread and it tumbles straight into the dyke with a great splash.

I bless myself to stop me from breaking one of the Commandments. 'In the name of Jesus!' It doesn't work. Dark brown stains blot my legs. Like Mammy's liver-spotted skin. My foot squelches, ringed in russet like a dark ankle sock. With quick movements I wipe my shoe back and forth on the tall, rough blades of grass. I retrieve the bread, if only to feed it to the pigs. One shoe flaps up and down as I march on. Tommy-Joe will be anxious. He knows I like to be punctual. Soggy leather scuffs across my corn as I wipe my feet at the back door to the small hall.

'Only me. Don't worry. Just had a bit of a slip on the way,' I sing out keeping my irritation to myself. I step over Wellies caked with clay, making them two-toned and brush through the coloured plastic fly-curtains into the kitchen. 'Car nearly ran me over. Took a lep into the ditch and destroyed my good shoes. Look.' Tommy-Joe turns his head fractionally. His eyes leave the television moments later.

'Is it yourself, Nuala?'
'It is that.'

I bustle over and deposit the bread in the sink. Rinse the dirty cups. Three. Brown ditchwater drips like strong tea from the creases of the foil. I inspect the round. Dark and spongy, only a quarter remains unspoilt. 'I can save a bit of this for your breakfast. Sure a drop of ditchwater won't hurt a handsome fellow like you.' I laugh and I'm joined by the canned audience on the telly. 'You'll have a cuppa while I clean myself up, then I'll get dinner on.'

I disengage the peeler from the metal tangle of the cutlery drawer and sigh at its constant return to chaos. Spuds tumble into the sink like the roll of a drum. I chatter on to Tommy-Joe as I chop the carrots and hammer the sirloin. I angle my body so the unravelling skirt seam goes unobserved. Tommy-Joe is sprawled in the old lumpy armchair. (Slumped, my mother would say on Sundays, when she comes for lunch). She can be uncharitable sometimes. Says we should take one of those sight-seeing day trips from the chapel after Mass instead of always pandering to Tommy-Joe. But he works so hard. It's the only day he has to relax. Tommy-Joe has on the Fair Isle tank-top I gave him a few Christmases ago. I had hoped he'd keep it for good wear, but he likes it so much he wears it round the farm. Shirt sleeves bunch up at the shiny billiard balls he has for elbows. Big hands link across the swell of his belly. 'Could be a second store for Arthur Guinness,' he joked once, patting it.

Sitting opposite him at the table a while later I have a cup of tea as he enjoys his evening meal. I'd usually have a slice of bread, cheese and pickle now, but I'll leave what's left of the bread for him. 'What do you say we turn the telly down and have a nice chat?' Without realising I've let Mammy's comments get in on me. Maybe I should bring up the probate again.

His eyes remain on the flickering images. 'News coming up now, Nuala.'
'Oh, right. You'll want to see that, then.' I get up from the table and clear his plate. 'I'll cut a few slices of that fruitcake I brought over last night.'
'Gone.'
'Gone?'
'I had visitors.'
'Visitors?'
'For afternoon tea.'
'Afternoon tea?' I snort with laughter, thinking he'll wink and join me, pulling my leg about having afternoon tea. He darts a serious glance that stems my mirth. I sniff a little, move to the bin, scrape the plate. Remaining where I am for a moment I remove the folded hanky from my cardigan sleeve and blow. Never told me he was expecting visitors. Afternoon tea, you wouldn't be minding. Who could that have been? Who on earth would Tommy-Joe be entertaining for afternoon tea of all things? The tap gushes and hope floods me. 'Was it your solicitor? About the probate?'

He points the remote and turns up the volume. 'Something like that. Now, the news.'

A few days later expectation flutters in my chest like a baby bird testing its wings. I didn't see Tommy-Joe yesterday; he had an appointment in Limerick city. I took the opportunity to take myself on an excursion into town to buy that much needed brassiere. New shoes too. Jesus himself couldn't save my courts.

Mammy squints at me from her chair.
'What's got into you?'
'What do you mean?'

'You look all…uplifted,' she says and I titter. 'Singing and dancing about with a big red face on you. Do yourself an injury at your age.'

She could be right. My blood's been bubbling through me with anticipation, so I've no doubt that it's turning my face to beet, but what of all Tommy-Joe's activity? Visitors for afternoon tea and trips to Limerick. Sounds to me like things are on the move for us.

'Would you like to use the toilet, Mammy?' I call. 'Before I head over to Tommy-Joe's?' Bony knuckled twigs fall short of doing her fingers job. 'Yes. But warm your hands first.'

Later I speed across the fields in my mended walking shoes, brand new shiny courts swinging in a plastic bag by my side, hitting my thigh in jaunty rhythm with my stride.

I lean on the gate pillar and carefully change into my new shoes. Very smart. I take a steadying breath. I proceed up the lane. Coming through the back door I sense a change. Something in the atmosphere has shifted. A sweet, spicy fragrance lingers in the tiny square hall. Flowers? Has he bought me flowers to celebrate? My heart vaults in my chest as I sweep through the fly-curtains.

I come to an abrupt halt. My eyes dart around the kitchen taking in all the familiar features as if avoiding something. Draining board cleared of dirty dishes, gingham tablecloth, tea towel hanging from a bent hook, worn patch of lino at the sink. Eventually, they come to rest on the lumpy chair. There's my 'flower'. A fragile exotic bloom with skin the colour of milky tea looks at me and smiles with a tiny mouth the colour of the Sacred Heart. Black satin hair is scraped back behind a delicate, tilted head.

I hear Tommy-Joe's voice somewhere to my left. 'Is it yourself, Nuala?'

No voice comes, so I nod, gazing at the beautiful flower, breathing in the unfamiliar fragility of the scent. The corner of my eye catches Tommy-Joe shift from foot to foot as he rolls up his already rolled-up sleeves. He wears the trousers and waistcoat from his dark funeral suit. 'Come in, then. What are you standing there for?'

I try to do as I'm told. One foot edges forward a fraction but a heavy weight pins my legs. Abstractedly I wonder if it's my new shoes. I manage to lean on the back of a kitchen chair.

My head turns towards Tommy. The baby bird in my chest evolves into a vulture. I feel it rip my guts apart.

'Mai Lu, this is Nuala.' I wait to hear how he'll describe me.
Nuala is my long-standing girlfriend.
Nuala and I are courting.
Nuala and I intend to marry as soon as the probate is sorted out.

'Nuala is a great old friend of the family.' Knuckles push through my skin as my hands clench. I expect to see grizzly bone sprout through. My mouth moves silently reminding me of Mammy. 'Nuala, this is Mai Lu.'

I wait to hear she is the girlfriend of his gallivanting brother, just returned from London.

I wait to hear she is an exchange student, here to study agriculture. I wait to hear she walked up the wrong lane. 'My new wife.' I wait to hear if my heart will start beating again.

*** 'Is that you, Nuala?'
'Yes, Mammy.' My hand remains on the latch and I rest my forehead on it.
'You're early.'
'Came home through the fields.' I look down to see I haven't changed my shoes.
'I'm glad. I need the toilet again. I don't think that cabbage agreed with me. What are you doing out there?'
'Just wiping some muck from my shoes, Mammy.' I toe off my new courts and head into her.
'Well, what had Tommy-Joe to say for himself?'
I cross somewhat dazed and hitch my arm under her armpits to lift her easily out of the chair packed with cushions. 'Not much.'

'Never has if you ask me.' We shuffle towards the kitchen and out to the extension. I bend onto one knee; rub my hands together before lifting her skirt and hooking my thumbs into the elastic at her waist.

'What do you say we take one of those day trips after Mass this Sunday?' I ask too brightly as if it's always been an option. I lower her down.

'What about Tommy-Joe's lunch?' I hear the incredulity in her voice without tilting my face up to look at her.

'Oh, I'm sure he'll manage.' I stand and fold my arms across my chest and feel the stupid brassiere beneath. Strong overhead light glints off Mammy's tight pink scalp through her sparse hair. Unexpectedly, I feel a rush of love, but brace myself for the onslaught. No doubt she'll have noticed the change in my pallor, ruby blood blanched to milk.

Mammy lifts her head and looks at me keenly from her porcelain perch as she strains against constipation. Her chin works to curdle her spittle around her lips. I'm braced for the tirade she's waited to deliver for nearly a decade. I've been a foolish old cow for eight years and we both know it. I wait for a long moment.
'Do you know something, Nuala?'
This is it. 'What's that, Mammy?'
'I'll look forward to that trip on Sunday.'
I nod.
'And do you know something else?'
Maybe now. 'What, Mammy?'

She squeezes my hand. 'This extension would freeze the arse off Our Lord himself if he cared to visit. Help me up, love. I think the cabbage is staying put.'

The End

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