My Mother Wore a Yellow Dress (11 page)

These yearly visits served Eddie's twin objectives of seeing mother and pursuing the salmon that teemed in the Moyola river. I say ‘pursue' because, for all his fishing expeditions, Eddie never seemed to catch anything. He would squeak back to the house after three
hours or so, empty-handed. We'd learn that he'd caught ‘one or two wee tiddlers like', that he'd tossed back in again.

While he was engaged in this fruitless exercise, mother would be away at the shop frantically buying an assortment of ‘sweet stuff' for his tea. There was no getting away from the fact that Eddie had a very sweet tooth; he had the belly and dentures to prove it. So a sugary mess – a dentist's nightmare – was laid on for his return. There were Mr Kipling's French Fancies, Battenburg cake, jam tarts, Swiss roll, chocolate biscuits, custard creams, chocolate eclairs, the whole gooey lot assembled for his ‘highly refined' palate. I would have loved one tenth of what was on that table, but mother was adamant that nothing would be touched until our guest had had his share. She was unstinting when it came to Eddie; after all, he'd come a long distance on that dangerous contraption, from the great hell-hole that was Belfast, just to see her.

We children were exiled to the yard while he feasted and would take turns to go and sneak a look round the parlour door to see how he was faring. We lived in the vain hope that he'd leave a few morsels behind. He rarely did; maybe a half-eaten custard cream that his stomach had rejected in a final act of rebellion and good sense. We loved the ‘Yankee' visits more than Eddie's, with very good reason.

After the binge he'd ease his ample little frame into a chair by the fire and place a lighted John Player in the corner of his mouth. There the cigarette remained, joggling up and down as he talked, the ash falling casually and unnoticed onto his lap. He'd sit there regaling the parents about the awful happenings in Belfast, his eyes watering and forehead pleating with the effort of his testimony.

Eddie drew the dreadful pictures and my parents coloured them in. They were astonished at his obvious skill in dodging the bullets and bombs on a daily basis. My father would wonder how he'd managed to survive thus far without a mark on him. Eddie put it all down to the speed of his legs and a keen sense of detecting danger, though when you looked at his fat belly and short legs you did question his ability to walk fast, let alone run.

His departure held for us as much fascination as his arrival. We all gathered in the yard to watch him get into the protective clothing. He now had difficulty buttoning the leather jacket. Then he'd don the helmet and gloves, and revert to the mysterious being from another world.

My parents' parting words included warnings. ‘Look after yourself in that wild place,' mother would say, ‘and safe home, Eddie.' And with that he'd trot with the bike a bit, before jumping astride it and away they'd go, farting blue smoke and playing merry hell with the gravel and dust. We'd remain standing in the yard to hear the last of that roaring farewell.

‘God, that could be the last time we see wee Eddie,' my mother, ever the optimist, would say, ‘what with all that bother in the city.'

Yet he'd be back the following year without fail, having survived the onslaughts to tell us yet more of his grisly tales. My brothers looked forward to Eddie's visits in the same way we sisters looked forward to seeing the Yankees. To them that motorbike was the embodiment of masculinity, just as those elegant stilettos were the epitome of womanhood for me.

Sadly, all good things come to an end; in the case of Eddie's visits the end came as abruptly as those of the Yankees. The circumstances were, however, far less traumatic.

It all started when two of my sisters landed jobs in the great city of Belfast and went to live there. They discovered to their bemusement that it was not the fearful war zone Eddie had painted. In fact they could live in relative safety. There was the occasional bomb in the city centre. There were also isolated pockets or flash-point areas where violence erupted more frequently, but you avoided those places if you could.

Eddie had also claimed that he worked as a civil servant in Stormont Castle. This had really impressed the parents, Stormont being the seat of the Unionist government.

For a wee Taig like Eddie from the Falls Road to actually get a job at the very heart of the Establishment was no mean feat. My mother claimed that it was a miracle in itself and proof – if proof were needed – that her humble relative could climb the career ladder without missing a step.

One fateful day mother decided to pay Eddie a surprise visit at his place of work. To her astonishment she bumped into him emerging from the ladies toilet, steering a trolley laden with cleaning agents and a mop bucket. The embarrassment of this unexpected meeting proved too much for poor Eddie, and sadly we never saw him or his mighty BSA again.

O
NE
F
RIEND
, M
ANY
S
TRANGERS

T
hroughout the trials of raising us virtually single-handedly and putting up with the mood swings and demands of an uncaring husband, my mother attempted to achieve some sense of dignity and balance in her life. But it was extremely difficult. Father could sulk for hours over a trivial matter: at the dinner not being hot enough – even though he had delayed coming to the table when called. Whatever she cooked was never right; it was too hot, too cold, overcooked, underdone. ‘You'd swear that man had been raised in Kensington Palace, so you would,' my mother used to complain to a neighbour.

His behaviour was that of a truculent child. When he was out doing the farm work, there was a tenuous kind of peace indoors, but on his return the air would darken and our talking cease. Whatever elation we had been experiencing we'd gather in again, and we'd trim our sails before the coming tempest.

Father did not like to see us happy; he found displays of happiness offensive. Consequently we learned to modify our behaviour to suit his moods. For him life was for enduring, not enjoying. In father's presence hope receded, intention died, ambition cracked. He liked to show the underside, forever turning up the fissures and the faults as if to say: Look, this is how you really are, all frayed and flawed just like me, so don't even try.

One day he came into the bedroom I shared with my sister Rosaleen and tore down all our posters. It had
taken us quite a while to collect and display all our favourite pop stars, yet he could not afford us this very minor indulgence. We dared not ask why he'd done it. So we remained quiet while he vandalised our little treasures and cried silently when he'd gone.

He'd interrogate mother over the amount she'd spent on an outfit she'd bought. She therefore learned to adjust prices for his benefit in order to keep the peace. She knew from experience that honesty meant a sullen silence that could last for hours. Often she'd end up hiding her purchases rather than face the inquisition.

My mother had one ally during these trying years. She was something of a surrogate sister, and her nearest neighbour.

Helen lived across the road from us with her elderly parents in a big, pebbledashed house. She was the dutiful daughter to a possessive mother and father. Helen, like my mother, was rarely idle. She did not have children but she did have a farm which she managed by herself. In addition she was the cook, cleaner, carer, gardener – and did whatever other work demanded her attention in the course of a busy day.

For me she will be for ever 25, this being the age she was when the toddling me became aware of her. I have a photo of the teenage Helen. Her mother is seated and Helen, wearing a Fair Isle cardigan, is resting her hands on the older woman's shoulders, like two loving epaulettes. The women cannot bear the intrusive lens and gaze off with feigned interest at something out of frame. They were private individuals, not used to being the centre of attention: guarded, passive, unassuming.

Helen's appearance did not alter much with the years. She had curly auburn hair and wore harlequin glasses which made her look deceptively serious. She was all
goodness and dependability, with a kind and gentle demeanour much like that of my teacher Miss McKeague. She was one of those rare adults I could connect with as a child. Her look and smile seemed to say: Yes, I know all about you: the pain and joy of all the stages you will go through: the present child, the future girl and – far off – the woman you'll one day become.

Helen was an only child, the product of a late marriage and thus hindered by over-protective parents. She was caught between a wish to marry and not wanting to desert them; this inner clash kept her bound and committed to their needs until they died. In her thirties she was finally free to marry, and she did so to a lovely man, at last experiencing the happiness that was her due. Now and then, when my parents had a day away, mother would entrust my two youngest brothers and me to Helen for safekeeping.

I loved Helen's house, a large mysterious place with many rooms, stairways and secret passages. There are certain features of it that will not fade. They stand out as familiar reference points in what was really a home from home; the polished boldness of the kitchen floor, with the same range and scrubbed table as mother's; the armchairs by the fire with the limp, crocheted cushions, where Helen's mother sat and knitted and her father smoked or dozed.

In the hall there was a hatstand with an oval mirror reflecting an effrontery of china and brass; several figurines and an ornamental kettle balanced precariously on its ledge, with an umbrella bucket by its side. Mother claimed that Helen could display all the frills and baubles she desired because she didn't have a ‘clatter of youngsters' to go upsetting things, which was undoubtedly true. Part of my fascination for the house was bound up in this medley of curios and knick-knacks.

It was the parlour though that I loved the most. If it was raining we'd be put in there by the fire with a book or a jigsaw. Every five minutes Helen's apprehensive mum would look in with a host of concerned enquiries, her well-meant intrusions making us uneasy. She was not used to having children around. We were an unexpected luxury in her unchanging days.

The low-ceilinged parlour was a grand room and I felt special being part of it, like a decorous jewel that had been placed there to lend it a further polish. I remember that you stepped down into it because often I would forget and tumble in instead, causing Helen's mother a brief spasm of alarm. The only life in the still space was a roaring fire that made its blazing statement on even the hottest day. Two china spaniels kept guard on either side of the mantelpiece and a gilt-framed landscape hung above it. In front of the window stood a highly polished round table. On its gleaming surface Helen would spill out a puzzle and I'd sit for ages trying to solve the riddle of its scattered pieces.

In the corner of the room there was a china cabinet. The flames from the fire vivified a crowded display of teapots and silver, porcelain and glass. These were ancestral wedding gifts and sovereigns, pieces not intended for practical use but to be exhibited as proud reminders and evidence of past enthusiasms.

My mother didn't own one of these contemporary status symbols. Her humble wedding presents would not have run to filling a single shelf let alone a whole cabinet; besides, she was never allowed the money to ‘throw away on such nonsense'. She blamed the lack on her spirited offspring, but that was not really the case. Helen's house held hoards of unbreakable beauty my poor mother could never aspire to: lengths of ribbon and delicate lace, lavender sachets in drawers of
embroidered linen, crocheted place mats of deft needlepoint, all wrought by Helen's clever hand.

The main attraction for me was the flight of stairs. Going up them made me feel I was rising above myself. The twelve stairs in Helen's home ascended mysteriously and enticingly to a corner of paradise: her bedroom. When I'd hear her coming in from doing her chores I'd run out of the parlour and sit looking longingly up those stairs. She knew the signal well.

‘Now,' she'd say, ‘I wonder what you're lookin' up there for, Teen.'

And I'd always say: ‘My face, Helen. I want my face pretty, Helen. Please, Helen, please.'

She'd smile and tease me with: ‘But you
have
a pretty face, Teen, you wee rascal.'

She knew that compliments would not placate me and, without further ado, she'd take me by the hand, to lead me up to her room to be transformed.

Mother would surely have envied this room. It held a dazzling array of objects I'd never seen before. There were pictures in silver frames, biscuit tins stuffed with letters and old photos and, what arrested me the most: the jewellery and make-up, the mother-of-pearl hairbrushes and cut-glass bottles of scent that cluttered the dressing-table. Here was gathered together all the grandeur and glare of the accoutrement a women needs to amend God's lapses.

The wardrobe was stuffed with frocks, crinoline petticoats and pairs of white stilettos. At the weekend, when she went out with her fiancé, Helen would emerge from that bedroom a different woman; her hair brushed free, the nails and lips an urgent red; silver bangles crowding her wrist. The stiff, full skirt of her dress was as buoyant and generous as a ballroom dancer's. Gone was the farm worker in the old
wellingtons and tattered overalls, and in her place stood a movie queen.

The highpoint of my day was my transformation before this altar to vanity. I'd sit up on her velvet stool before the mirror while Helen assisted me in the gaudy conversion of my face. First came the scarlet lipstick which she'd unsheath from the golden tube and help me hold steady. Then the shadow, which I could just about manage, stroked in splodges with a clumsy forefinger; after that a squirt of scent behind the ears and on the wrists.

The jewellery was next: strings of fake pearls and a sparkling, rose-shaped brooch that I adored. Then the bangles and a pair of earrings whose grip almost made my eyes water, but the pain was worth it just to see the lineaments of my plain little face changed so wonderfully. The nail polish was too demanding so Helen would put a tiny dot on each nail and help me down off the stool and into the finishing flourish: a pair of high heels. I was a princess then, a Yankee; with a few bold strokes I'd been restyled as one flashy lady indeed.