Anna McPartlin – Best Selling Author & Writer

 A Recollection Of A Love Lost

The year was 1979. In a dark room twin beds were separated by an old dresser with a scratched mirror and under it rested a little stool that seemed too distressed to sit on so instead it was shoved under the dresser and close to the wall. There were two old fashioned wooden freestanding wardrobes at the end of each bed. At one time these wardrobes would have been considered quite expensive and possibly even chic but that time had long passed and before woodworm had taken up residence. There was another dresser which sat under the window which looked out onto the street and across to the green. That was the dresser that held personal items. It too had seen better days and seemed small, the items always seeming to be fighting for space or threatening to fall off its splintered edge.

“Mom?”

“What?”

“Do you need the loo?”

“No. You?”

“No.”

Silence ensued but only for a minute or two.

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you tired yet?”

“Yeah I’m tired. Are you tired?”

“I think so but I can’t sleep.”

“Count sheep.”

“I’ll count dogs, I prefer dogs.”

“Good idea dogs are brilliant.”

“Yeah they are. OK. Goodnight mom.

“Goodnight Bunty.”

“Don’t call me Bunty.”

“Sorry Chickatee.”

“Don’t call me Chickatee.”

“Righto Bunty.”

“Mom!”

Muffled laughter followed. I was seven. My mother was thirty nine. We shared a bedroom in my grandmother’s house. She had left her husband two years before and was slowly losing the power in her arms and legs to multiple sclerosis. She was alone and scared. She had a kid to take care of and a disease that she didn’t understand eating away at her. And still she could laugh. When people ask me about my mom and what I remember most, I remember that.

Separating from your husband in the 1970’s was not an easy option. She didn’t embark on a new life in her mother’s spare room without serious consideration and to be fair to my father neither her life nor mine depended on us fleeing a small town in South Kerry one Monday morning. My father wasn’t a violent or dangerous man but he was a heavy drinker their marriage was loveless and consequently unhappy. My mom was unwilling to settle for unhappy. I remember the late seventies and early eighties background as being a little grey but against it she lit up. Mom hadn’t got much, her family’s fortunes having slipped, her husband’s status and potential frittered away but what she did have was all the more precious because she had sight. She could look above and beyond this place and time and to another where she would glimpse a kind of inexplicable brilliance. Consequently mom knew happiness had nothing to do with a decent house or a great car; she couldn’t care less about money or status or what the neighbours were saying. She knew that happiness could be found in the here and now and in any moment. It didn’t have to be gift wrapped for her to spot and appreciate joy in a mere smile or a laugh or a good conversation or a visit with a loved one, a friend’s kind word or deed, a neighbours unsolicited help. A three and a half minute song could make her soul soar and inspired her to sing along which was unfortunate as her voice, once great was shot to hell leaving those close to cover their ears while she’d repeat the two sentences she knew over and over with a kind of gusto usually reserved for the Carnegie Hall.

Mom was popular, she had friends she could count on and was lucky in their unwavering support of her. She had met most of these friends while working as a secretary in Dublin and London. Her best friend only lived down the road from my grandmother’s house which mom always considered a bloody stroke of luck. Mom loved the word bloody it was most definitely one of her favorites, bloody and gas. A lot of things were considered to be gas. He’s gas, that’s gas, I love a bit of gas and so on. And with respect to the proximity of her best friend’s marital home she was right it was a bloody stroke of luck because mom’s best friend would be the one she would turn to in her darkest hours and the one who made sure that the most mundane details of her life were handled until the day she would die. Her sister was another true friend and the matter of fact care taker who handled the nasty business of ensuring that we weren’t living in filth. My grandmother was nearing 80, her sight was fading and yet it’s likely she could see a little better than mom because the disease affected her vision early on. I was the pair of eyes and because I was a kid I didn’t really notice or care about things like dust or mess or grime. I was also the pair of legs and arms required to vacuum or clean. I was a kind of quick rub here and a quick rub there sort of gal. I favored the Freddie Mercury stand in one position and stretch in different directions mode of hovering and as for grime well lets just say I cleaned around it. My aunt was the one who would leave her four boys and husband’s business to drive across the city to clean out the house when we required saving from scurvy. At that point when it became apparent that our collective endeavors were substandard it was my aunt who would ensure that a cleaner was employed. She’d appear once a week and handle the heavy stuff and for a long time mom insisted that she could still manage the ironing. Every now and then her hand would tire of the heavy iron and she’d find a way to singe flesh.

“Blast,” she’d say, “blast it anyway.” She’d curse the iron. She liked the word blast it wasn’t uttered with the same kind of frequency as bloody or gas but it was another favourite. “Blast it again.”

She’d request a cup full of cold water and plunge her hand into it. “Oh that feels good.”  She’d smile while wriggling her slim fingers. “It’s almost worth the blasted burn.” Mom liked to do for herself and for me and for granny. She was afraid of help, afraid that if she admitted she needed help it would reveal desperation, more than that she was afraid that those helping would see that a single mother with and old woman couldn’t take care of a little girl and that little girl couldn’t take care of her single mother and an old woman despite all our best intentions. The Social Welfare was omnipresent and in the distance watching and waiting. In reality their modus operandi was purely to ensure each one of us was safe and properly cared for but at the time their silent surveillance was akin to vultures aligned on the branch of a tree waiting for a dying animal’s last breath. Mom knew that time was tick tocking by and with each tick tock our little family unit was coming closer to its end.

Mom liked our cleaner because she was interesting and always had a story about something going on in the Ballymun flats. Tea and biscuits would be laid on and mom would settle by the kitchen table while our cleaner would regale a recent dreadful event. We’d be riveted both mom and I.

“Well you’re never going to believe it.”

“Go on.” My mother would urge.

“Only another young fella over the balcony.”

“Jesus,” my mother sighed shaking her head from side to side, “from what floor?”

“Oh off the top.”

“Jesus,” she’d repeat, “I presume he’s a gonner?”

“Oh yeah, bleedin Batman wouldn’t survive that fall.”

“God help him.”

“I know. Still to be honest he was a bit of a scumbag.” Our cleaner would nod to herself and my mother would push the biscuits under her nose. She’d take off a yellow glove and partake of a snack for a moment or two. “Drugs.” She’d whisper suddenly conscious of the presence of a child. It would appear the image of a dude diving off a fourteen story building and going splat was suitable however the word drugs was deemed too harsh for my little ears despite the fact that I spent a good portion of my day divvying out my mother’s drugs for her bladder, tremors, constipation and pain never mind the particular type of trail MS treatment that changed from month to month from my grandmother’s low blood pressure, arthritis and sleeping pills. My mother would nod her head. “Desperate,” she’d say momentarily comforted that someone else had it worse off than her, “I’ll say a little prayer for him and his poor family.” My mother liked to pray she got a real kick out of it and she would have prayed for the poor man and for his family and later when our cleaner had gone she might even shed a tear for them because she knew what it was like to lose.

“Mom are you crying?”

“No.”

“Are you sure.”

“Positive.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too Bunty.”

“Don’t call me Bunty.”

I think our cleaner made a real effort to arrive to our humble abode armed with the most terrible tales just so the poor woman whose kid had to carry her from chair to chair could feel lucky even if it was just for an hour or two a week.

Our neighbours were great characters. My favourite was a nice old lady five doors up who dressed impeccably and from an by gone era with lace up black shoes, a tiny heal, various pencil skirts below the knee, thick tights, cardigans closed at the neck and sealed with an ornate broach. She wore her silver hair in a twist rather than a bun so that her look was elegant and not in the least bit severe. Our silver haired friend would take on the weekly shopping and with three people it amounted to three or four bags. She’d return laden down and assign the various items to their place amongst good china on tired shelving. She and mom would talk together before joining my gran who held court in the sitting room. Mom would employ what my gran referred to as her new fangled walking frame to get from kitchen to hall and hall to sitting room. It her so long to journey from one place to another, she’d joke about requiring sandwiches and a flask.

Our neighbours to the right were a young couple with two kids. He was a karate instructor and I think he drove a van. She was a housewife and I’m not sure but I remember something about her and an ability to sew. Maybe she just sewed for us but mostly she was in charge of lighting and cleaning out the fire each day of winter. My mom would thank god for her because it was bloody dirty work. She’d arrive every day with a bit of local news for which mom would be ever grateful. She was a nice woman small in stature with short brown hair. She favoured jeans, sweatshirts and sensible shoes. Given the chance my mother liked to dress up; she liked her hair to be done and for as long as she could maintain her weekly visits to the salon she did so. She loved pretty dresses and high heel shoes unfortunately the shoes remained in the old freestanding wardrobe at the end of her bed. I pulled a pair of extra high stilettos out once and tottered into the sitting room just as our fire making friend had set some turf alight, so busy was I tottering that I nearly tottered into the fire. Our neighbour caught me before I landed in the grate head first while mom could only watch with horror; her failing legs preventing her from being anything but an unwilling spectator. I remember she cried and our fire starting neighbour made tea. I remember I was miffed because the shoes were confiscated. I also remember that night when we sat on the sofa watching TV she kept her arm locked around mine the whole time.

The year I turned ten we endured an extremely cold winter. So cold that mice appeared to take refuge in every house on the street, like a plague belonging to another time, every household was up in arms while knee deep in mice droppings. Our neighbour from across the road, a giddy woman with lots of boys took charge of us ensuring her husband trapped our house. Mom mortally frightened of mice put on a great show of pretending she wasn’t in the least bit perturbed by their unwelcome presence until one day she leaned over and put her hand in the bread drawer unaware that our over zealous neighbour had trapped it. Luckily for my mother’s left hand the trap was already filled however stroking a dead mouse did little for her mental health. There were screams and shaking and a lot of bloody hells and blast its.

That year when the snow came every day we saw at least three neighbours each one making sure we were warm and fed and cared for. They always had time to put on the kettle, chat or laugh about such and such in the newspaper or down the road or on the tele. My friends liked my house as it seemed to them that I had free reign and yet they weren’t naive enough to think that my world was anything that approached their idea of normal.

 “Mom.”

“What?”

“Can I play with your walking frame?”

“Use the one from upstairs.”

I ran upstairs to acquire the now spare walking frame. By this point mom could no longer make it upstairs. The heave-ho-push-on-three method had served us well but that time too had past and now the dining room was her bedroom.

“Got it.” I yelled to my pal.

“So.” She said.

“Gymnastics.”

She looked at me cautiously. “Gymnastics?”

It was then I began to swing out of the bars and I don’t know how the thing didn’t just topple over but it didn’t. Of course I was too big for it but my half cocked swinging and leg twisting seemed to be stimulating enough to encourage my pal to have a go. She started off all smiles swinging away and then slam her head hit the wall and wham her back hit the floor. The walking frame was lying on top of her.

“What’s happening?” Mom screamed from the sitting room betraying a mild form of hysteria

“Nothing.” I lied.

My pal was now crying.

“I hear crying.”

I was panicking. “Everything’s fine.”

“Oh God what’s happening,” there were tears in her voice, “don’t make me crawl in there.”

I was probably smart enough to know that by the time she did my pal would either be dead, in an ambulance or half way home.

“Mom its fine.” I was holding my hand over my pal’s mouth. She was wild eyed and possibly wondering why in the hell I was suffocating as opposed to helping her. To be fair I knew she was fine, no blood and that fact that she was flaying around like a lunatic as I held her down using the walking frame as leverage meant no broken bones. After I made her swear she wouldn’t shout I let her mouth go.

“Are you alright?” I asked sheepishly. She checked herself by feeling her head and then she stood and shook herself off.

“Fine.” She said.

“Want a biscuit?” I asked.

“Anything but those rotten orange jelly ones your ma likes.”

And that was it. She forgave me. I’m still not sure why I held my hand to her mouth all I do know is that it had something to do with the fear in my mom’s voice.  

My gran used to fall a lot and unsettlingly these falls usually coincided with a visit to the bathroom. Mom and I would be watching TV. Gran would head off to the loo approximately three minutes later we’d hear a thud.

“Mother?” Mom would call up.

“I’ve fallen.” Gran would call down.

My mom would look towards me; I’d sigh as the fall never seemed to occur during an ad break.

“Anna’s on her way up.”

I’d make my way up to the bathroom and two times out of five she’d be on the floor with her knickers and pants around her ankles.

“Knickers up or down darling?” Mom would call up to me.

“Down.” I’d shout.

“Bloody bad luck Bunty.”

“I’m not deaf Patricia.” My gran would interject.

“And don’t call me Bunty.” I’d add then I’d whip up gran’s pants as fast as I could, eyes half closed and facing the wall. We’d spend another five to twenty minutes depending on her position working out the best way of getting her into the standing position without either of us breaking our backs.

“On three gran.”

“I’d prefer it on four.”

“On four.”

“Hold it.”

“What?”

“You’ve got me now?” She’d ask for the one hundredth time.

“I’ve got you.”

“OK on five.” She’d say.

“I thought we said on four.”

“I heard four.” Mom once roared from the bottom of the stairs.

“None of your business Patricia and now we’re going to have to start again.” Gran shouted while straddling her own left leg. Falling happened a lot in our house. Falling was a way of life.

The house to our left was interesting in that the rows would be loud enough to hear through the walls. She was a lovely woman who was extremely glam in a pre-drag queen Bet Lynch way and often cared for me after school when early on mom didn’t know her husband was a maniac (my mother’s phrasing not mine) and while she was looking for work and before work was no longer an option. He was an angry sort, he arrived home once when I was there, he was shouting and shoved me out the door with such force I fell to the ground. At the time mom still used a walking stick. I made the mistake of reporting the incident. She marched into the garden and banged on the door waving her stick and roaring through the letter box that she’d bloody kill him. Later that evening her legs gave way she fell onto the floor and couldn’t get her up for nearly an hour. While lying on the ground she mentioned the fact that it was probably a good thing the man hadn’t answered the door as it was likely she wouldn’t have been able to deliver upon her threat. My grandmother stepped over her and sniffed. “That’s what guns are for Patricia.” She then pottered on in search of a glass of whiskey while giggling to herself. My mother joined in as did I. I often laughed when I wasn’t sure of the joke only because individually both women had infectious laughs but especially so in chorus. Anyway back to my neighbours to our left. Some time after that pre-drag Bet did leave the angry man. Many years later when I was visiting mom in the home she told me that she’d heard a rumor that when pre-drag Bet had sought separation it became apparent that the angry man was already married as a result their marriage was deemed null and void.

“Lucky cow.” My mother had said smiling.

I had just turned eleven when my grandmother took her last fall in our bathroom. It was the middle of the night. I slept heavily then and I didn’t hear her scream. At the time I was living on a combination of wham bars and macaroons which to me was the diet of the Gods however my mother and all those around us were troubled by my refusal to part take of the ‘Meals & Wheels’ that was now being delivered to our door. I’m not sure if it was the lack of good food or merely sheer exhaustion that kept me in my stupor but my grandmother’s continual cries, my mother shouting, the sound of her crawling, the arrival of fire starter and the karate man, the ambulance men or even the fire brigade men didn’t wake me. The next morning when I did wake I noticed the black rubber stretcher marks on our wallpaper from the top of the stairs to the bottom.

“What happened?” I asked.

Mom was crying. “Gran is in hospital but she’ll be fine.” The game was up. It appeared to the outsider that the old woman had broken her hip, the young woman was helpless lying face down on the hall floor and the kid in the bedroom was in some sort of coma. All the while the old woman roared on “Anna can do it.” The people who came to our house that night disagreed. That morning when mom cried it was because she knew it signaled the end.

Gran never did come back instead she was moved from the hospital and one unnecessary hip operation later to a home where she would live for a few years sharing with a woman who’d suffered a stroke and repeated the words ‘Ya pie’ all day. The nurses were kind and they didn’t mind when she called them Anna. When I visited I didn’t mind when she called my by my male cousin’s name and persisted on talking about rugby.  My estranged father’s sister took me in to her home in Kerry where I would grow up with four foster sisters and a foster brother and lived the life of a normal teenager. And mom well she considered herself lucky enough to find her way into the Royal Hospital Donnybrook and there she was taken care of by staff as though she was family. She had friends her own age sharing her circumstance, she was a member of the drama club, she sang with the Christmas choir, again much to my embarrassment, she had an oratory where she’d disappear to pray for us all. It was shit don’t get me wrong but I rarely saw her without a smile on her face, her friends and the nurses were as she’d put it, gas. On visits we talked a lot. We laughed a lot.

I was only 17 when she died one summer afternoon in 1989. Today I’m 34 so my mom has been gone for exactly half of my life but I knew her and I still know her now. She said to me once that all heroes don’t wear costumes. She was referring to all those who helped us stay together for as long as we did. She was right; we had six extra years together because of those around us propping us up. I got to know my mom and she got to know me because of the matter of fact sister, the best friend, the cleaner, the fire starter, pre-drag Bet, the mouse trapper, our silver haired pal and so many more. And so from both of us and people like us we’d like to say a big thank you to all you heroes who don’t wear costumes.