Gretta Mulrooney - Araby

‘Ye’d hardly ask a diabetic child to stand while a fine strong fella like yeerself lolls in a chair,’ my mother said loudly.

Defeated, he picked up his rucksack and stomped away.

‘Would ye look at the cut of him,’ my mother said to the woman next to her. ‘He looks as if he was dragged through a ditch backwards. Would ye like a chicken leg?’

A small triumph accomplished, my mother puffed up and moved into social mode. Conversation ensued with the swapping of family details. She was all graciousness, sympathizing about her companion’s bereavement and promising a novena. The reek of vomit pervaded the decks and people staggered by, mouths covered with handkerchiefs. After a while I rested my head against my mother’s cushiony arm, my nose on the indented circle left by vaccination. The slippery material of her Tricel dress shifted scratchily beneath my cheek, its polka-dot pattern dancing under my eyelids as they drooped. There was a familiar smell of warm sweat perfumed by the face powder she applied for public appearances, imparting an odd orange glow to her skin. At other times I might have been pushed off because she was too hot or my forehead was too bony but now she was in good humour and replete with chicken. So I dozed, hearing my mother’s voice in the distance; ‘… me son, Dermot … off to a good position in Hong Kong … ye can’t beat a bank for security … oh this one here, Rory … I had terrible trouble … these hot flushes are pure murder … aren’t nerves the devil incarnate …’

I woke just after midnight to find that my mother had a splintering headache and we had to go and find if they had any Aspirin at the First Aid station. The chicken was fighting a rearguard action in her stomach. Everyone around us was asleep, heads dangling. Snores lifted and dipped with the ship. We rambled like drunks to the deck above, following the arrows to First Aid. My mother slapped the bell on the counter and after a minute a stout woman dressed in a nursing outfit appeared. She was as fat as my mother and her uniform was tight, trussed around the middle with a wide belt. She had various badges marching across her chest, attached with safety pins.

‘Yes?’ she said in a Welsh accent, her chin jutting.

My heart sank. I knew that this woman would be more than a match for my mother who wasn’t keen on the Welsh. She thought them squat and shifty. A Cardiff man had once overcharged her for a pound of bacon in Cooper’s on the High Street.

‘I’ve a terrible head,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Have ye any Aspirin?’

‘I don’t dispense Aspirin,’ the nurse said in a clear ringing voice. ‘Passengers can’t expect that kind of thing. I’m here for emergencies.’

‘Just a couple would do,’ my mother pleaded, holding her right temple. ‘I’ve a darting pain just here. It’s me time of life …’

‘Can’t do, Aspirin’s the sort of thing you should bring with you,’ the nurse said combatively.

‘Ah now, surely it’s not too much to ask,’ my mother challenged, her tone stronger. She pushed her glasses up her nose, a sure sign that she was ready for a fight.

‘Company policy, see,’ the nurse stated with satisfaction. ‘Emergencies only.’

‘So if I cut me wrists ye’d give me an Aspirin?’ my mother demanded.

The nurse looked disapproving. ‘I’d get your head down if I was you,’ she said, dismissing us and moving back towards her office.

‘I wouldn’t expect much from an ould jade like you,’ my mother snapped. ‘An ould jade held together with safety pins. Ye and yeer ould boat – safety pins is all that’s keeping you afloat.’

The nurse slammed her door and my mother gave the desk bell a farewell ringing slap. Honour satisfied, we rolled back to our seats. I was thankful that the ship was asleep and there had been no witnesses. My mother cooled her temples with 4711 cologne and we broke into the grated carrots. They tasted fresh and sweet in the sour-sick air of the cabin. Midnight feasts were the best ones, my mother said, digging me in the ribs and chuckling. She downed a fizzing bottle of soda water and, burping loudly, said that that felt better, it must have been the wind giving her gyp. She crossed her ankles and waggled a foot, saying that we’d the back of the journey broken now. Her right arm around me, she clasped my head into her huge swell of bosom.

‘Settle down there now, dotey,’ she said, ‘and we’ll be in Cork before ye can blink.’

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