The Granny (21 page)

“Did you, Marion, really?” Agnes asked.

“Of course I did. And on Sundays, I said, we have to visit Dolly.” They hugged.

“Oh, Marion, what was I like without you?” Agnes was thrilled.

“It’s only right, Agnes. I can’t be ignoring me chief bridesmaid,” Marion said.

It took a moment for Agnes to get it. “Bridesmaid? You’re not . . . !”

“I fuckin’ am, Agnes Reddin. White dress, reception, the whole fuckin’ nine yards!” They squealed as they hugged and danced around in a circle, burning cigarette holes in each other’s cardigans.

On her next visit, Agnes told Dolly of Marion’s good news. Dolly said she was pleased, but she didn’t look it.

“What’s wrong, Dolly?” Agnes asked.

“
What’s wrong?
This is wrong, all of this. I done nothing, for fuck’s sake!” She began to cry.

“Keep it down, there,” a guard called.

“Oh, fuck off, you!” Dolly called back.

“What?” the guard asked as he stood.

Agnes stood also. “Nothing, sorry, we’ll keep it down.” The guard sat. Agnes went back to Dolly. “For Christ’s sake, Dolly, calm down. Don’t get him mad,” she chided.

“Fuck him, and the likes of him. You only see them at the gate. Bastards! Pretending to search us and squeezing our breasts. Watching us in the showers and playing with themselves in front of us. Pushing their truncheon down your knickers and shoving it between your legs.
Bastards!
”

“Stop!”
Agnes yelled. “Please stop, Dolly.” Agnes began to weep. So did Dolly. Dolly placed her hand across the table onto Agnes’ trembling hands.

“I’m sorry, Agnes, I’m just having a bad day!”

“No. I’m sorry, Dolly. You should be out of here by now. I haven’t done enough to get you out.” Agnes was overcome now.

“Stop, Agnes, you couldn’t have done any more. Now, stop it!” They sat in silence for a while, the nightmare that was Dolly’s life too big for Agnes to contemplate.

“You’d better go, Aggie. Tell Marion I wish her luck, and I do, really.” Dolly got up and left the room. Agnes made her way from the room slowly. She felt completely powerless. She was.

Marion’s wedding was a great affair. In her wedding dress and standing just four feet eight inches, with heels, and about the same width, Marion looked like a delivery of flour bags. But she glowed with happiness, as did her new husband. Tommo and Marion were joined together in the Church of St. Jarlath by the “new” priest, Father Pius. This attractive young priest had just returned from the missions in Africa. He stood smiling at the altar, for this was his first wedding ceremony in his native land since his ordination. The female members of the congregation watched the priest more than the happy couple. One could hardly blame them. He spoke each word of the Mass in his deep but soft tone. When he went to the tabernacle to fetch the Host, he seemed to float along in his colored vestments; with a deep tan, and his long hair slicked back with Brylcreme, he made a hundred hearts flutter. Father Pius was the only priest in the parish under sixty years of age, so he stuck out like a sore thumb. The queues for his confessional on Thursday nights were huge, while the other priests sat in theirs alone.

The wedding breakfast was held in the Clarence Hotel, and Tommo really pushed the boat out. Grapefruit cocktail, stuffed chicken breast, and sherry trifle, all devoured by the eighty or so attendants. Marion’s plate had a special addition, steaming chips covered in vinegar. Agnes looked divine. She wore a lavender satin dress with a wide purple waistband and matching crown. After the meal the tables were cleared and pushed back to make room for the dancing and drinking. When the band struck up, Tommo and Marion took to the dance floor for their first dance as Mr. and Mrs. Monks. Everybody clapped, and then there was a rush of women over to the “new” priest to ask him to dance. He declined respectfully and crossed the room to ask the chief bridesmaid to dance. Agnes accepted. The dancing pair were glared at by every woman in the place, the older ones disapproving of the young priest’s forward behavior and the younger ones filled with envy. When the dance finished, Agnes thanked the priest. He walked her back to her seat.

“How is your mother?” he asked. Agnes was little surprised at the question.

“The same, Father. Thanks for asking,” she replied, not really giving any information.

“I have seen her down at the shops. A fine woman. Would you mind if I paid her a visit?” he asked.

“No, I wouldn’t mind.” Agnes was not fond of the clergy, but liked this one.

“I will, then,” he said, with a smile in his voice. And he was gone, knowing that the feet would be danced off him by the night’s end.

Agnes returned to her seat and to her thoughts, which were now very confused. It had nothing to do with the priest. It was the letter she had received that morning. It was typed, so she was able to read it; she had difficulty reading if the words were handwritten. She opened her handbag and took it out again. It had the large red maple leaf on the top, and in gold the words “Embassy of Canada.” She read it again.

Dear Miss Agnes Reddin,

I refer to your application for an emigration visa and assisted passage to Canada, more specifically Toronto, Ontario, some time ago.

At the time of your application, this embassy informed you by post that you were below the age for consideration. However, it has been kept on file, and as you are now of the age, your application has resurfaced. Should you still have an interest, I have been asked to inform you of the following:

Pending the outcome of a medical examination, which will be paid for by this embassy, your application has been successful. You should make arrangements to have the medical check through this office within sixty days of receipt of this letter. You should also supply this embassy with your Irish passport so the visa can be attached.

Yours sincerely,
Mr. Stanley DeBruin
Visa Section

She remembered her excitement back when she had made the application, at the thought of a new life in a new place. So much had changed since that day. How could she leave now? Connie would be alone, Dolly would probably be in prison for the rest of her life. She folded the letter and placed it back in her handbag. When she looked up, he was standing right in front of her. Marion was holding him by the arm. She had ushered him over to the table.

“Agnes, I want you to meet Redser Browne,” Marion announced.

“Hello,” Agnes offered.

“Yo, babe!” he replied. He was a good-looker, and well dressed too.

“He’s a friend of Tommo’s, and he’s the best jiver in the Ierne Ballroom. He was looking for someone to dance with, and I told him that you were the best one here, didn’t I?” She asked the young man with the flaming red hair to confirm this.

“Yeh, she did. Do yeh wanna dance, babe, or what?”

Agnes took to the floor with Redser. Within minutes they had taken over the floor. This man could dance, and Agnes loved it! They danced and danced, taking just short breaks, during which Agnes would throw back a vodka, then back on the floor. By night’s end her head was spinning, and Agnes had had the time of her life. He asked to walk her home, and Agnes was pleased.

On the way they talked a little; actually he talked, and a lot. His name was Nicholas Browne. The name Redser came for the obvious reason, his ginger mane. He was twenty-one, a year and a half older than Agnes. He used to work down in the coal yard; that’s where he met Tommo. He was surprised to be invited to the bash, for he didn’t really know Tommo that well, and always thought him to be a retard. Agnes didn’t like this comment, but then reconciled it by admiring his honesty. By the time they reached her home, Agnes knew everything there was to know about Redser Browne. They stood outside her building.

“Well, here we are, this is me!” Agnes waved her arm across the front of the building as if it were Buckingham Palace.

“Great!” said Redser as he bounded up the steps. Before she knew it, they were sitting at the kitchen table sipping tea. Agnes was very drunk and wanted to go to bed, but Redser just carried on talking and talking. Until at last he realized he was overdoing it.

“Jaysus, I’m sorry, love. I always do that when I’m nervous. You know. Talk.” He was embarrassed.

“Not at all, it’s very interesting,” Agnes lied. That’s when it happened. Out of the blue, he leaned over and kissed her. A long kiss. She melted. He ran his hands over her body. Agnes lost track of where they were, and for a moment thought,
How many hands does this fecker have?
He laid her on the floor. And undid his zipper, producing his member.

“What the fuck is that?” Agnes asked in a small terrified voice.

“Yeh babe, it’s big, isn’t it!” he boasted.

“No, really, what is it?” Agnes asked. She had never seen a grown man’s penis before. Too late. In the next ten minutes, Agnes lost her virginity on the floor of her mother’s home. It all happened so fast that she didn’t fully understand what had happened. She was so confused, she felt dreadful about doing “it,” but at the same time she loved it. Somebody wanted her and it felt good . . . or bad. Five minutes later, Redser was gone. Agnes bathed herself until the water went cold. She spent her time in bed equally between smiling and sobbing through the night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Father Pius kept his word and became a regular visitor to Connie. She never once recognized him as a priest or even a friend. He found he had to reintroduce himself every other visit. He didn’t mind. He enjoyed the visits; if nothing else, they kept him busy. He needed to keep busy; he was finding it difficult to settle in his new parish. After the relaxed environment he had enjoyed in Africa, the parish house felt like a prison.

The Church of St. Jarlath is a very settled and conservative church. Surrounded by its huge population that is packed with Catholics, it has a ready audience. Each Sunday, all of the Masses were packed, so in their complacency the older priests of the church were very set in their ways. Father Murphy
always
said ten o’clock Mass, Father Augustus
always
eleven o’clock Mass, and Father Angelus
always
twelve o’clock Mass. There was no nine o’clock Mass, as that was when the priests were usually having their breakfast. So, for the early morning Mass-goers, there was only the seven-thirty Mass. All three of the older priests hated doing the seven-thirty Mass. Usually the priests took turns in saying the early one, along with their own Mass later. This way they would only have to do it once every three Sundays. Now, with the arrival of a new young priest, they could all sleep a little later each Sunday and leave the early Mass to the “young buck.” Lowest in the pecking order and all that. The new priest, Father Pius, didn’t mind this at all, his only gripe being that once his seven-thirty Mass was finished he had the whole day ahead of him and little to do. So, at breakfast one morning, he asked the elderly priests if there was any way he could assist them in their Masses. They all looked at him and then at each other, the same thought going through all of their heads
Share the altar? No chance.
Father Pius knew that this was what they would be thinking and immediately allayed their fears. “I’m not talking about sharing the altar or anything like that. But I must be able to help in some way? I play the organ, you know.”

The priests all exhaled with relief. “Oh, the organ; well, then, why don’t you play at my Mass?” Father Murphy asked graciously.

“
Really,
Father, could I?”

“Absolutely,” Father Murphy replied, and they all went back to their breakfast. Well, if Father Pius thought the priests were set in their ways, it was nothing to what was to come. For the lay people who served the church were even more set. Father Pius was to discover this when he arrived at the organ the following Sunday to perform at Father Murphy’s Mass. Here he met for the first time Johnny Brennan. Johnny had been pumping the organ at St. Jarlath’s for forty years. Father Pius introduced himself and Johnny grunted, didn’t shake hands, and just waved him away.

“I know, I know who you are. I saw you saying your Mass last week.” He winked at the priest. “Nice and quick, good man, keep it moving.”

“Any requests?” Father Pius asked. Johnny looked at him with a puzzled face.

“Requests? What are you feckin’ talking about?”

“I just thought you might like me to play something. I mean, is there anything that you particularly like to hear in the church?”

“Aye.” He nodded toward the congregation. “The sound of them feckers’ feet all leaving. That’s what I like to hear, Father. Now, sit down there like a good man and don’t be boring the arse off me.” Johnny disappeared behind the organ to prepare the pump.

Smiling to himself, Father Pius sat down at the huge keyboard. He turned and pulled at the knobs, setting the strings, bass, and rhythm to his own liking. Father Pius loved playing religious music. But he also loved experimenting, sticking in a little “twiddle” at the end of this eight-bar or a little “toodle” at the top of the next. It made it different and a little bit more enjoyable for him and, he hoped, the recipients of the music. With his right hand he did a quick up and down the scales, adding a little jazz riff at the bottom of the scale. He looked over his shoulder. The congregation were seated. There were three minutes to Mass. He thought he would begin with “Adeste Fideles.” A beautiful hymn. He turned back to the keyboard to see the head of Johnny Brennan peeping out from behind the keys. Father Pius jumped, startled.