And I think about how different all of this would be if I had been married to you. I should have proposed the moment I met you. I had the ring in my pocket the day you died. Imagine.
Tom puts a pint in front of me, widens the circle to let me into the group. I smile along with what the men are saying, doing what I can to remain present.
Anna hated me when I gave up the fags. She said I was like a dog. She was the one like a dog when I told her your news. Looking back, perhaps it all reminded her too much of Mammy, dying as Peggy came to life. Maybe she was afraid the same thing would happen to you.
‘Holy God swapped Mammy for Peggy. Didn’t he?’
We used to all say, smiling, as though that little line would make things alright. The day she died was so silent, despite the new baby crying. It was the deepest silence I’ve ever known. And while the rest of us slowly let the sound back in, I don’t think that Anna ever did.
‘How’s your sister getting on, Brendan?’
‘Oh, Tom, I keep out of it. It’s the Bon Secours one day and then the Sacred Hearts the next.’
Perhaps we didn’t give Anna enough time to grieve Mammy before making her a mother to Peggy. Perhaps I shouldn’t have celebrated Peggy so relentlessly. It was only so we didn’t grow to resent the child who suddenly made parents of us all.
‘I suppose a nun is a nun, at the end of the day.’
‘Try telling her that. The decision has her driven demented.’
It was happy news, you being pregnant. I know we weren’t married, but we would be married. Sure everyone knew we weren’t far off it. ’Twas just that things came in the wrong order. Baby first, marriage second. I don’t understand why people get their backs up about that sort of thing. It sickens me, actually. There were too many good things tarnished by a pregnant woman without a ring on her finger.
Despite all my odd feelings towards god, when I think of the baby I am compelled to bless myself. In ainm an athar, agus an mhic, agus an spioraid naoimh. Isn’t it strange, what your emotions draw you to?
I’m ready to go home, I can’t keep up with what these men are saying. Just as I am about to suggest it, Tom says to Bill,
‘Sure we’ll have one more for the road, will we?’
All the men agree, and so I am staying put.
But it’s alright, because Teresa stands before me again, this time without her cigarettes, but with a bag of buttermints. I take one from her, and smile. Turning away from the lads, I take a deep breath of her.
‘I’m Jack O’Leary.’
‘I know.’
Betty
‘I WAS WORRIED BECAUSE WEhaven’t any reeds collected at home.’
Peggy tells me, sitting at my kitchen table. Today, we had the first cold kiss of February. White light coming in on the table, a pile of reeds spread out before us. Her legs dangle from the chair.
‘I thought we’d make them in school, but we just watched while teacher made one. We used always make one each in my old school.’
Such a great talker. I suppose it could be that she doesn’t get much of a chance to talk at home. Now that I’ve got her started, she may never stop.
‘I was afraid that there would be no reeds left in Ballycrea, and I wouldn’t get to make any cross.’
Later on, I will have to show her the pond, and how many reeds grow there, so that she doesn’t need to worry in the future.
‘What do you make of the school? Do you like the other children?’
She is at such a lovely age. So keen to talk and share opinions, so eager to know things.
‘It’s better than my old school.’
‘What was wrong with your old school?’
‘They used call me bastard.’
