Teeth is though. Worse you than me. All rotted yours. Nothing even like milk. Just keep an eye it’s normal after all he’s had. His news’ll come in and should be fine. Not black, she said and threw them out. Spoiled not washed or washed enough. And would not keep them in a matchstick box. Mine are safe. Don’t touch. Safely in my head. When yours weren’t you wouldn’t like to see the look on her face. Being reminded. So you make secret seconds in Wrigley’s spearmint gum. Stick in the gaps in case she said open up. She says wash your teeth God’s sake every other child has theirs. But the doctor said. You could have kept a few I’m sure. Yes Mammy. Don’t just yes Mammy me. Mammy yes. You said always yes when I did no. Poor teeth yours and not the fifty p’s I’ll sue. For no good reason either. Lucky. Blessed I was. Your second lot were hard sturdy. And you take care. Though you’d have liked them better then, I’d say, than now.
3
We’re living in the country cold and wet with slugs going across the carpet every night. Now when you are seven eight. Me five. This house, green growing up the outside.
You and me having slug scum races from the doorway to the source where is it. Get that dirty thing out of this house I don’t know where they get in. We wondered ever, seeking slug nests in the sofa. Under the grate and found a lizard running hell for leather in the ash. Come in with the coal black buckets but it was hot too hot. Under the fire in cinder we rake back and forth. It bolt out you were faster still than me. Scoop it up in time it might have been a newt I think. Get a jam jar get it. Stuck in that twig. I wallowed in its turning eye. Sickish in my throat, thinking it feels scum like slug roads. Never you ever touch it. A slap for every word of warn we get. Never. Ever. Touch. That. Dirty. Thing. It’ll. Give. You. Warts. That. Is. Di. Sgust. Ing. Still we kept its jam jar in the shed until I broke it it died of fright you said and threw it at the cat who ran. Fat cat full of shit. Oh-e oh-e oh-e what you said. Yellow squirting if you touched him. Don’t. Pick. Up. That. Dirty. Cat.
Blasted in the winter. Pelted and rain rush under the kitchen door. She slap it with a broom away. Bunch up papers under there. Look at that. Streaming down the walls and windows full of damp. God forsaken house it is look out it’s lashing down.
You and me swimming star wars in the puddles of it. Lino reefs of other worlds. My dirty fingers picking bigger holes. And made the stairs Niagara Falls and threw men over tied with wool. Lie on our stomachs eating piece of bread with butter sugar on top. A glass window Mammy I want one. Don’t get it on my floor.
Howl winter all through the night that year in the trees where we climbed on and the hedges on the road. No cars here. No one comes. Things crying in the fields for me. Say they want me and coming down the walls for. She’s coming Mammy. Who? The banshee. Don’t be silly. Sure isn’t your brother here? Won’t he mind you if anything comes along. Should I close the door or leave it open? I don’t know. Shut bad out or shut it in? Worse you. And said They are coming. For you and me. Stop it. Coming for us and we’re without the knife. What knife? The one that goes with the magic machine. What is it? Makes the noise for killing bad things. A big dark tunnel bangs. How do you know? That’s what I had, me shouting it burns awful ahhhh. The doctor said fire came out my eyes. He didn’t. He did and these aren’t mine. They are so. Mine melted. These are goat’s. Goat eyes and the devil wants them back. My throat’s closing. Shut up. Ugh shut up. Mammy? But wakes me in the night. Goat eyes riding off into the sky.
Always in the house, drifting round the stairs or sitting by our puddles little beast in your head. Sleeping happy homed up your brain stem now and fingers only strumming on your bad left side. Don’t you knock your brother’s head. You stumble. Not that bad. And walking into doors a laugh. Is blind eye at side like in eyelid? No. Lake water? No. Like glass? You said it is like nothing at all. It must be something what? And words, trace stammer of. At school why do you talk like that? Notoriety it likes maybe. It’s in your sums X and red lines through a copy book for no no no. Wrong, the teachers writing, I explained this all to you. Wrong you do not understand. Wrong not listening paying attention in class. Again. No, you were not.
It’s clear it’s clear it’s there it’s there. Cosy kernelled in your head. It must have strings pulling all the time. Sly in affection. Nasty thing. Having a chew. Nails dug for claws. Her blind spot I think when you were small. No you’re better. No you are, turned her good eyes blind.
4
Whose is that car? Do you see it she said, parking at the gate? Oh God let it not be the PP and the state of the place. Who’s that now? Don’t pull the curtain back. No it isn’t. Well he’s coming up the path. Oh Jesus Mary and Joseph. Go wipe your nose you.
Daddy. I didn’t recognise you. You gave me the fright of my life. I didn’t know who it was at all. Is the car different? I thought that. Surely you didn’t do all that drive today? Sacred hour. It’s a terrible long old journey. Come in God and sit down. Anyways you’re looking well.
That’s it. Is Mammy with you? Ah no of course. Ach she’s not able. She said that alright before. And can the doctor not give her something, just to relieve her a bit? You must be worn out. Will you have a cup of tea?
Come in here and say hello to your Grandfather. He’s come all the way to see you, isn’t that right? Just slip on that kettle as you come past. And can you get any sleep? Desperate at your time of life. Come you in and say hello like your brother. Oh god, look at the face on that. Would you not think about getting some help in? No she’s not a bit shy. For a break in the mornings even? Will you have a sandwich with that? I haven’t made a start on dinner. So we’ll not eat til six I’d say. You know, I haven’t a thing in the house. Sure I wasn’t expecting you. I’ll just nip out. It’s only five minutes down the road. No stay where you are. You’ve driven enough. You sit there and talk to your Granda while I go get the messages. Oh now Madam’s away upstairs. Don’t mind her. She’ll be down soon enough exercising her ears. You tell Granda the result of your IQ test. Average. Yes. Now isn’t that good? It is. You know well what I was worried about. Look, I’ll talk to you when I get back. No now it is good love. Daddy I didn’t mean to snap. No of course I’m glad you came. Look let me go get these few things in. You show Granda your Octons love. I really won’t be long.
That man was sterner stuff than us. A right hook of a look in his eye all the time. Thin tight gelled hair. Moustache brown eyes. Clark Gable-alike when he was young, she said. But every man was I think then, when she was growing up. Under the thumb of him. Under his hand. Movie star father with his fifteen young. His poor Carole Lombard fucked into the ground. Though we don’t say those words. To each other. Yet. They were true God fearing in for a penny in for a pound. Milk soaked mackerel for every Friday night. Mass every morning for all children over three and the wrath of God for anyone saying Jesus out loud or even in your head. For what’s unsaid’s as bad as, if not worse. Saturday til afternoon dedicated to praying with his wife — when none of the little could enter without a big knock. Such worshipping worshipping behind the bedroom door. With their babies and babies lining up like stairs. For mother of perpetual suffering prolapsed to hysterectomied. A life spent pushing insides out for it displeased Jesus to give that up. Twenty years in bed and a few after this before she conked. Ah desperate for him in his nice tweeds with his nice cane. Seven sons to carry his coffin. Seven daughters to follow and cry and one extra to make him martyr — surely toddlers die but she would have been the best. Sons for breaking chairs on the backs of. Daughters to shoo from the bath for a wee. Rich-ish husbands or they got a crack in the jaw. Chaste-ish wives or the boys got more. Goodfornothinglumpofshitgodforgiveyou. Ours got for her wedding a glare though he paid. He, at least, knew how to behave. Though a man like our father could be nothing to him. Not to lick his boots. Not to be his dog. Of course he wasn’t even surprised when he ran off. Walked she said. I knew it would happen for what could you expect? Psychiatrist indeed and what rubbish is that? Poking in vegetables heads for a living or calling good people mad. He knew the type. Didn’t even guess his son was sick. Busy thinking he was so great, no doubt. What kind of father is that you tell me? She didn’t, or he wasn’t a brain surgeon either.