Last Summer in Ireland. Anne Doughty

said I’d just been looking at books and buying some notebooks.

      ‘Not surprising they disappeared, is it?’ I said to the empty room, as I wiped my eyes again. ‘That was in another country and besides the wench is dead.’ She was hardly a wench, but she was certainly dead.

      Joan was right. You really couldn’t guess what was going to jump up and hit you and there was no use pretending it didn’t hurt. Here in my hands I held a dream that had been taken away, not just by the loss of my precious notebooks which I couldn’t afford to replace, but by all the pressures and obliqueness a mother can bring to bear on a daughter.

      If I were being charitable I might try to justify her action by saying she was simply ensuring I had no possible distraction from my work for A level. But the facts wouldn’t support me even if I tried, for no matter what I wrote, she always found a way of suggesting that my writing, like my reading, was a self-indulgent activity even when school and exams were long behind me. It could have no value whatever, because she could never see any connection between it and earning my living.

      ‘Have a bit of sense, Deirdre. When did reading a book ever pay an electric bill? Tell me that? An’ where would you’n Sandy be today if I’d sat on my backside and scribbled at stories or read books?’

      I put the notebooks down where my dripping tears could not spatter the bright covers and hunted in the pockets of my jeans for a hanky. There wasn’t one, only a screwed up pink tissue with a lipstick print on it. I unfolded it meticulously, wiped my eyes and blew my nose.

      Then, suddenly, I heard my own voice echo in the empty room, a voice I barely recognised. Strong and firm, with no trace of tears or the choke I could still feel in my throat, it said: ‘So what are you going to do now, Deirdre Weston? You’ve got your notebooks back. You’ve got a life of your own. There’s no one to stop you now. What about it?’

      I hadn’t got an answer, but I got to my feet, picked them up and carried them along the landing to the table in my own room. As I set them down, I nodded reassuringly to the golden eye of the kingcup I’d brought up from the small marsh of the stones. Something would come to help me.

       4

      I still don’t know what possessed me, whether I was overconfident, or curious, or prompted by some inner need I couldn’t explain, but on the Sunday morning after the funeral, I decided to do what I hadn’t done since I’d packed my bags and left home for good. I rang Mr Neill, our one and only Protestant neighbour and asked for a lift to church.

      The short journey into the city was no problem. It was a beautiful sunny morning, the light spilling through the newly-leafed trees. William Neill is a retired farmer who knew my father well. He talked about the weather and the sudden surge of growth in the fields and gardens in just the way my father would have done. It was as we drove down the Mall, I realised I should never have come. It was seeing Mother’s parking space that did it.

      The moment we drove past the spot, waves of nausea hit me, my light spring suit felt like tweed and the strong white shape of the Courthouse began to waver uncertainly. It was here, under the trees, by the side of the broad, green oblong that lies like an oasis in the heart of the city, close by the grey-faced church where she worshipped that we arrived well before the service was due to begin for the express purpose of ‘seeing all the style’. No one who passed within range escaped her comment. She knew everyone and everything about their affairs.

      ‘See you later, Deirdre. I’ll leave her parked opposite the Orange Hall in case you’re out first. I never lock her. The boyos would be afraid to steal her, she only goes for me.’

      I just about managed to say a thank-you as William drove off to the parish church in a cloud of fumes, leaving me standing at the foot of the worn stone steps that led steeply up to the dark vestibule of the plain, square Presbyterian edifice I had been forced to visit week after week, month after month, for all the years I had lived at Anacarrig.

      By the wrought-iron railings children were eyeing each other. Newly released from Sunday school, they shoved and pushed surreptitiously, while keeping a watchful eye out for their parents who would soon be arriving for the service.

      ‘If anyone speaks to you and asks you how you are or how you’re doing at school, just say, “Very well, thank you.” That’s quite enough. Don’t tell them any of your business. People only speak to you on account of me and they don’t want to listen to any of your nonsense, especially on a Sunday.’

      No, it was absolutely no use telling myself Mother was dead. Her presence was as tangible as if she were alive and well. And she’d be there inside as well, waiting for me.

      I still wonder why I didn’t turn and walk away then. Perhaps someone spoke to me, but it’s more likely I simply lost all power to act. I just went on into the building, walked down the aisle as I’d done so many hundred times before, and sat down in our family pew. I even bowed my head in prayer. ‘Only for a minute, of course. You don’t keep your head down and pray for this one and that one, you can do that at home. People will think you’re showing off if you do that. Just do what I do and you’ll be right.’

      I jerked my head upright and stared at the wooden pulpit, the focus of all that went on in this particular rite. No cross, no candles, no stained glass. Just a large wooden box of a pulpit and behind it, blocking the east end, the pipes of the organ. As a child, my eye had gone round and round the church looking for some interesting feature to rest upon. There had been nothing then and there was nothing now, except the broad pastel spaces of the unadorned walls and ceiling. Through endless hours of boredom I had covered those spaces in drawings and paintings. Bigger than the biggest drawing book, or the generous sheets of grey paper for free expression in school, those spaces were my comfort, my defence against the torrent of angry words which poured down upon us, Sunday after Sunday.

      At the age of twelve, when I learned that Michelangelo had painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, it came as no surprise to me. I simply assumed he had suffered as I had and had come up with the same solution to save his sanity.

      A door clicked open at the foot of the pulpit and the choir filed in self-consciously. I had once been a member of that choir and a Sunday school teacher as well. I had read the lessons on Children’s Sunday and sung solos at Harvest. I had been complimented afterwards by various old ladies and the good-natured verger and then I had been stripped down by Mother.

      ‘You weren’t nearly loud enough, couldn’t hear you behind a wet newspaper. You must remember half those men at the back of the church are deaf.’

      ‘Then why don’t they sit at the front?’

      ‘Don’t you be cheeky with me. You know perfectly well that no one sits at the front.’

      There were never any answers to Mother, only the answers she expected from you. And woe betide you when you couldn’t come up with them.

      She would sit throughout the service, her large family Bible unopened on her knee, a look of concentration on her face. Once home again, over lunch, she would declare her verdict on the congregation. It always seemed to me she was more acutely aware of the sins of her fellow men and women than the Almighty. Had He been a member of her staff and fulfilled His promises of retribution so ineffectually, He would most certainly have been given the push.

      ‘I don’t know how that man can sit there on a Sunday with his shoes shining, the way he’s carrying on with your woman in Lonsdale Street. Bold as brass he is, goes in and out, doesn’t care who sees him. Brings her bunches of flowers. At her age. And him with two good-looking sons and one of them the manager of Lipton’s.’

      A voluminous, black figure appeared at the foot of the pulpit stair, mounted purposefully, ran his eye over the congregation and threw his arms in the air.

      ‘Brethren, let us ask forgiveness for our manifold sins.’

      I bowed my head gratefully. I prayed for the energy to stand up and slip noiselessly down the aisle, now,