Friday reading

Letters within letters today as Deb slowly discloses her side of the story to Lucy

Oh God. The letters. Those letters. I couldn’t make head nor tail of them at first. The name of the sender scrawled on the back was Mary Smith. They were usually only a page long, two at most. I could tell straightaway that they were some kind of love letters. But weirdly not to Betty. They were about Mam. And of course they were written by a man. Trouble was I couldn’t make out his name or at least he didn’t give it. Just put an x on the bottom of the page. The writing was so bad, so full of scratchings out and words stuck in between lines that it took me a while to read them. God bless Betty if she could get sense out of them.

He’d always begin with ‘I hope this finds you well as it leaves me.’ After that there’d be a couple of sentences about the weather and how he was settling into life in Manchester and how he’d found a job but the pay wasn’t great howandever he’d stick it out until something better came along. They were like lines from a headline copy book – do you know what I mean? – all generalities and nothing real. Then all of a sudden he’d switch to the pleading.

Embarrassing. Cringe-making apologies about the ‘thing that happened’ and how he didn’t know what came over him but that she (Betty this was) looked so nice in her yellow dress. And Dolores had been acting funny. It wasn’t like he didn’t love her but he needed to make her see him again. And would she (Betty) put in a good word for him because his heart was broken. That was why he left so quick. After Dolores blew him out he said he had to make a clean break and he got it into his head that if he made something of himself maybe she’d forgive him and they could start again. Once he got himself fixed up with a job he’d be right as the mail and he could make a good home for both of them. He’d make sure of that.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Sometimes he seemed to be replying to letters from Betty and as far as I could make out she must’ve been telling him there was no hope and he should move on with his life. The last one he wrote was addressed to her in Berlin. It was very short – no palaver about the weather and the job. He only said he was going to take her advice and get on with his life. He had met a nice girl he said. She was a nurse and he thought they might hit it off. He ended by telling Betty not to write back to him, that he’d be leaving that address the next week. He wished her the very best in her life, that she was right to get away too from Dublin and Ireland and all the old gossip and the backbiting and the everyone thought they had a right to know your business.

  I turned the pages upside down and back to front and took a magnifying glass to the scratched out words but I couldn’t make head nor tail of them. There was a name at the bottom of the last letter: Jim. Nothing else. The part I didn’t get was why Betty’d kept the letters and then why Mam had them and kept them. If she read them she must’ve known who they came from and you’d think she’d want to burn the lot of them. At least I would if I was her. But I wasn’t and I’m not. I have to keep reminding myself of that.

Jim. I wondered was that my dad’s name. I refolded the letters and tied up the bundle as near as I could to the way it had been and slid it back into the paper bag. That was when I spotted a little note written on the outside of the bag ‘For Deb’. Had Betty saved those letters   for me? Mam must have got them with Betty’s ‘effects’ after she died. I didn’t know whether to be sad or angry. I wished Betty was there then. I could have talked to her about my mam and all the things Jim didn’t write.

I put the bundle of letters under my pillow that night, wondering would I dream about my dad, the way sleeping on a piece of wedding cake makes you dream of your husband to be. We had tried that one with our cousin Orla’s cake – do you remember? We weren’t at the wedding but Mam and Denis went even though Denis didn’t really get on with Uncle Seamus. Mam came into our room in the middle of the night and put the little bits of cake wrapped in paper napkin under our pillows. Next morning she asked us did we have interesting dreams. When we shook our heads she was very disappointed and explained to us about the cake. I think she regretted it when she changed our beds because of course we forgot all about the cake and it was well mashed into the sheets and pillow case by the end of the week.

  Well sleeping on the letters didn’t bring any revelations. Only a headache. Next day I told Mam I was sick and I wasn’t going to school. She narrowed her eyes at me the way she did when she didn’t really believe you.

Then she cottoned on and said, That’s all right, Love. You go back up to bed. I’ll bring you a hot cup of tea and a slice of toast.

I’ll never forget the look on your face when she said that.

And you said, Maybe I’ll stay at home too. I’ve got an awful cramp from my period.

And Mam said, Go on out of that. You can’t fool me. It’s not due yet.

And you said, How do you know?

And she said, Because I’m your Mam.

And you flounced out and slammed the door so hard the glass in it rattled.

That girl will be the death of me, Mam shook her head. Go on with you back to bed, she said to me.

Which I did. But when she came up with the cup of tea and toast I had all the letters spread out over the bedspread. What’s that you have there? She asked me. Something for your art project? Yes, I said. I’m going to make a collage and I’ll put all these letters into it. She put the mug and plate on the bedside locker and bent over to look at the pages.

  For one moment she hung there still as stone. Next moment her head whipped round and I swear there were sparks coming out of her eyes. What are these? Where did you get them? She barked. Her hand swiped at them.

 No! I screamed. They’re mine! I grabbed her arm and our eyes locked, each of us willing the other to back down. She was strong, our Mam. Her jaw went hard and I never saw so clear right into her eyes. At the same time my jaw was clenched tight and I wasn’t going to blink first.

 With a big sigh she sagged down onto your bed. I didn’t think you had it in you to go snooping.

 I had a right to, I said.

 You didn’t. You’d a right to ask me questions.

I did ask but you wouldn’t answer the only question that mattered, I protested.

 She hung her head for a moment. So what did you learn from the letters?

 Not much except I don’t think my dad knew about me. And he loved you.

 Huh. Not much is right. And if he did why do you think he was writing to Betty all the time?

 Because you blew him out. He said so.

 With good reason. She spread her hands and looked at them. It was a long time ago, she said. There’s nothing to be gained from raking all that business up. Lookit, poor Betty is gone and we’re here and we have a good life and we should thank God for that. And you should be grateful to your Dad who provides for us. He’s a better man than that fella’ll ever be wherever the hell he is now. Or ever was. In fact I hope he’s in hell.

  Stop it Mam, I said. You’re overacting now.

  Don’t be pert, she said.

  You can’t just tell me half the truth and try to bury the rest of it. That’s not fair. What about when I have a baby. Won’t he have the right to know who his granda is?

  She got a fright at that. Don’t. You haven’t? If that Fogarty fella has so much as touched you I’ll give him what for. And your Dad will box him into the middle of next week.

  Dad – Denis wouldn’t harm a fly. I laughed. And no I’m not expecting. Me and Fogo are careful.

  Ah no, not that! Don’t tell me you’ve—?

  It’s no more than you did.

  Stop it. I’ve heard enough. She clapped her hands over her ears. Jasus. I need a fag. She jumped up off the bed and made for the door.

  Here, I offered her one from the pack I had hidden under the mattress. It’s a little crumpled but it’s ok.

  She sat back down on the bed while I knelt up on mine and lit a fag each.

  I don’t believe this, she shook her head.

  What? That I’m all grown up now? Or that you’re going to have to tell me the truth.

  She shut her eyes, tilted her head back and drove a long stream of smoke from her nostrils. Any of it. All of it.  

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