A home of her own

She was dead or would be dead very soon. Nora had laid the groundwork, dropping hints to neighbours, passing comments to the doctor and to family of course. Nothing too obvious. Letting them drag it out of her about her concern: that her mother was starting to ‘ramble’, that she was not taking her pills right, that she had to be reminded to take them and to be watched like a hawk to make sure she did. But it was Nora that was making sure the mother didn’t take them right. All for a home of her own. It was not as if she didn’t earn it.

           Nora called in that evening to check on her.

           “The soup’s cold,” was the first word out of the mother’s mouth.

           “I just warmed it in the microwave.” Nora said.

           “It’s cold.” The mother said again, holding out the bowl.

           “Here, give it to me and I’ll warm it so.”

           Nora popped the bowl in the microwave, muttering to herself. She watched the bowl twirl around in its little light-filled chamber until it pinged. She gave it one more stir when took it out and brought it over to her mother who was sitting beside the fire at her small fold-out table.

           “It’s too hot.”

           “Blow on it.”

           Her mother barely bent her head and gave a feeble puff.

           “Look here. Let me.”

           Nora took it from her and blew on it. She gave it another stir and handed it back. Her mother spooned a small bit into her mouth then scrunched her face.

           “What’s wrong?”

           “That’s not the real Knorr soup.”

           “But isn’t that what you always get in Doyle’s?”

           “It doesn’t taste great.”

Nora sighed again and went to check the cupboard for something else to give her to eat.

           “Your brother used to make me lovely soup. I remember him bringing home a chicken soup once from the Tech. He was the only boy who did Home Economics. A great lad to do that Mrs. McCarthy always said.”

           A great boy, my ass. He only did Home Economics because Stephanie Fitz did it. After all his bother she wouldn’t even go out with him after.

           But Nora said none of this to her mother.

           “Johnny’s coming home, you know.”

           “What?”

           Nora dropped a can of baked beans onto her foot. It rolled across the floor.

           What was he doing that for? Sure, he always had excuses every Christmas. Even though her mother was forever on at her to get him to come home as if Nora had any power of him. He did what he pleased. Then he fecked off to Australia and leaving her to care of their mother.

           “Yes. He sent me a card from Australia saying he was coming home.”

           “When did you get that?”

           “Oh. A few days ago. Says he misses home and wants to see his Mammy again. He’s a great lad.”

           “You never mentioned that.”

           “Oh, I’m sure I did. I’ve ordered the dinners to be delivered from Morton’s on the sixteenth.” She pointed an aged-spotted hand to the corridor. “Could you fix up his old room? I have the bed clothes in the airing cupboard. And dust the pictures. And open the window.”

           She had kept it like a shrine to him, with his old Arsenal Football posters now peeling from the walls.

           “Why isn’t he staying in town? I thought he was rolling in it.”

           That’s what he boasted in his letters anyway.

           “Ah, why would he do that, when he has his own room here?”

Why indeed? Were all those stories about getting a job with one those big companies even true? He barely passed his Leaving Cert, before he left for Australia with a few mates. Most of the time he was going from job to job, working in construction or something and sending letters home bumming for money.

 While she, Nora, got the good Leaving Cert and went to work in the offices of the County Council. But nothing was said of that. Of her being the sensible one. Nothing was made of her getting her own flat in town and buying her own car. Or of her later trying to buy a house when she and her fiancée, Michael, wanted to settle down. He even wanted her to ask her parents for a site for the house. But her father was still farming then. That was before Michael had had enough and left for England to earn a few bob.

Now she was in a small flat in Church Street with rising damp and a tiny kitchen. Her job had been outsourced to India. She worked part-time in Finnegan’s, the local grocery shop. It was barely enough to make ends meet. But she wouldn’t give her mother the soot of it to ask to move home because then or ever she’d have to wait on her hand and foot.

Nora stomped down the corridor to Johnny’s room. The same old grey duvet draped over the bed. She bet there was still old socks under the bed and God knows what else. Her mother wouldn’t let her change it.

If she had this house she would do it up right. She would throw everything out. All the old cuterfugles her mother kept cluttering the place up. Even their grandfather’s old gun over the fire. Paint over the shiny pink walls. Take up the lino and put down carpet or even those fancy floor boards with under floor heating. Get a kitchen fitted with and maybe take down the internal wall like your man Damon Bannaher always did in those houses on the telly.

“Oh to have a little house of my own, with a hearth and stool and all. Out of the winds and rains way.” She recited as she dusted of the dresser.

She remembered the old poem well. Sr. Consolata always said she could have been a writer if she wanted to. If she applied to college she could have done Arts. But she could imagine her mother looking at her as if she had two heads if she did that. So she did a few courses in computers and typing in the local FAS centre before getting a place in the council.

Now Johnny was coming home. No doubt he would wiggle his way into his mother’s affection, not as if he was ever out of them. He’d be down the Horse and Jockey boozing it up with old mates before spending his dole in the bookies before long. While she would be sent running around town buying him cooked chickens for dinner that her mother had ordered. She bet he got the place even. The thought twisted painfully in her.

She knew from her father’s will that he had left the house to his wife while she lived but it was to go to her on her mother’s death as she was the eldest. At least her father had some sense. He wasn’t fooled by dear Johnny. He had liked her Michael too. But that was before he died of a heart attack while driving the tractor in the low field. After his death there were debts to be paid so the land had to be sold. Nora had no real interest in farming anyway. It was the house she wanted.

Now Johnny boy was coming home

Her mother called from the sitting room.

“In a minute,” Nora replied.

           Her feet took to the dressing table in her mother’s room. Slowly she unscrewed the top of the little brown plastic pill bottle. The small white sleeping pills fell into the palm of her hand. Looking at them her heart fluttered like a caged bird. She looked at her reflection in the speckled mirror. God she was getting old. Crow’s feet around her eyes and mouth. Who would have her now? Was she to end up like those old women in dirty ole coats pushing one of those rolly shopping bags around Finnegan’s stocking up on cat food . Not if she could help it.

She ground the pills together between the pages of an old Woman’s Way magazine with the end of a drinking glass. She filled it with 7UP and stirred it until the pills dissolved.

“Here mother, take your evening pills. I’ll go make some beans and toast.” She said when she came back to the sitting room, trying to keep a calm look on her face.

Nora busied herself taking the sauce pan and getting the toaster. Then the thought struck her.

“I have to pop to Finnegan’s for some bread.”

Surely by the time she was be back her mother would be dead. She could pass the comment to Sheila at the counter about her concern for her mother’s erratic pill taking again, like a good daughter, before taking her time to get back.

The road was dark by the time she headed back. A stiff breeze made Nora pull up her collar of her coat on the walk home. What was that sound? Was it a dog? Those Connors never cared for it properly. A howl came again. This time she knew it wasn’t an animal. A long mournful olagón drifted towards her. Dear God, was that the banshee? Had it come for her mother?

Guilt and fear hurried her step. What had she done? She was such a fool. After all he episodes of Midsomer Murder she’d watched who did she think she was to get away with it. She would be caught for murder. She ran like the blazes up the boreen to the house.

The chair was empty.

“Mother! Mother!’ she called running through the corridor down to the bedroom.

No one there. The kitchen was empty too. So was Johnny’s bedroom, and the bathroom. She went out the back and called again. Where in God’s holy name was she? She ran to the old shed. Maybe her mother had tried to start the old Ford Cortina that Dad had left, to get to town to a doctor.

The cry came from right behind her, more pitiful than before. Nora turned and screamed.

***

“Office, I thought it was one of those robbers you hear about on the news. You know the type that preys on old people living alone.” Nora’s mother placed a shaky hand over her heart.

“That’s all right Mrs. Ahern. Calm yourself. Here have a cup of sweet tea.” The young officer bent over her in her chair by the fire.

Nora’s mother sat back in her comfortable chair and sipped the tea. Did her daughter think she was a pure fool and not notice she was trying to fiddle the pills? At least he husband, Brendan’s shot gun had finally come in handy for more than shooting crows. Now her Johnny could come home and take care of her like she always wanted.