After Mass

You could not distinguish their silhouettes through the frosted glass. They were as alike as a mother and daughter could be. Like Judy Garland and Liza Minnelli, they’d joke. They had been to Mass; it was walking distance from the house they had shared for fifty years. They were in the hallway hanging up their coats behind the door and then making for the kitchen. Mairead started the post-mortem as she busied herself with the business of tea whilst her mother took her seat at the table.

—Did you see Denis Byrne?

—I didn’t!

—You’re slipping, Mother. He was over the side aisle—in his usual spot!

—His usual spot, indeed. Poor old Kitty Bradley doesn’t know where to go with herself—someone should tell him that he’s sitting in her seat. A woman her age.

—Is she not the same age as yourself?

—Ah, dhera, we’re a different age all the same. If she could throw on the black shawl yet, she would. She was always old, racing towards it from when she was the same age as yourself.

—Denis Byrne had his annual appearance at Mass, strutting around the place. I’d swear he’d go to the communion at both ends of the church if he could.

—Ha! Himself and those dancing classes, he pushes them hard. He’s getting the face out there, even though it’s not as fresh as it used t’ be.

—He’s fair springing around the place, though. He’s next door to one-two-threeing, trying to make sure everyone can see that he’s still got pep in his step.

—He’ll be as bad as the County Councillor for funerals for the next fortnight. Please God, I won’t drop anytime soon. I’d hate the idea of his eyes swivelling around the room here calculating who had children or grandchildren of dancing age whilst he sipped tea out of my mother’s good china.

—Don’t mind that dirty talk. You’ve a lot of years left in you yet.

Mairead put the cosy on the teapot and set it on the wicker stand in the middle of the table and then sat down. She eyed the table, the cups and saucers and spoons, the milk jug and sugar bowl, even though neither had taken sugar in ten years, the plate with biscuits, Rich Tea for her and Marietta for her mother. Simple and perfect.

—We had the golden boy; I could see the glisten in your eye.

—What Mother doesn’t miss her son? He wasn’t on my mind today, though.

—’Twould be a first now if Michael doesn’t get a phone call from you after we had the “prodigal son” for the gospel.

—Well, you’ll see a first, so! You’re right about one thing, though: it made me want to talk to one of my children.

—Margaret!?

—God, no! Sure, won’t we be seeing her Tuesday … for our sins.

—For our evil deeds in a past life.

—Don’t be criticising your sister.

Mairead laughed and her mother smiled.

—You started it.

—She tries her best … God help her.

These were well-worn tropes and they played their parts, amused in turn by novelty and repetition. There was something new here, too, a rarity: something unsaid was nascent.

—So that just leaves me in the firing line.

—It does, the child at home.

Her mother allowed a silence to creep.

—This isn’t like you.

—I know, I know. I’m this way in confession, too.

—Is it a sin of mine or yours we’re going to talk about?

—I don’t know if it counts as a sin at all. Maybe a sin of omission.

—Well, you have my attention, anyway.

They looked at each other and smiled gently. This was a lesser-known path, but they had gone down it over the years. A conversation of weight was imminent.

—Why are you still here?

—What?

—Why are you still here, living in this house?

—Is that as harsh as you want it to sound?

—No, no, I’m trying to know … Is it my fault or is it your choice? When I was doing my time in New York there was all these Italian families and they always kept one girl dowdy, so that she’d stay at home and mind the parents when they got old and I don’t want that to be a life that’s been foisted on you. I wanted all my children to have their own lives.

—Did you just call me dowdy?

—Ah, no, that’s not the point of it at all. You’re not dowdy … You’re not exactly Marilyn Monroe, either. In saying that, she was only a plain girl, too, but she worked with what she had.

—Did you just call me plain, now?

—No, but I’m saying that maybe the company of old women isn’t going to inspire you in the right direction … if you wanted to find someone, you know. I know we don’t talk about that and I respect your privacy and I’ve gotten open-minded in recent years—a lot of things, a lot of people became real during that referendum. I’ll read an article about all different sorts of people now and I don’t judge or scoff, only say let them off about their business. ’Tis no one’s business what anyone does, once ’tis two consenting adults …

—I’m not gay.

Her mother no longer held Mairead’s gaze. She was looking at the table whilst massaging a crumb between her thumb and forefinger.

—I suppose I probably knew that, but I suppose I want to know. Do you give a damn about that sort of thing at all, because some people don’t and they’re grand. Or are you here without a man because of this life that you might have slipped into, like a spider in a sink, easy to get into and maybe hard to leave?

It was Mairead’s turn to look down. She chose a spoon. They did not fight, as a rule; they were considerate and considered.

—That’s a lot to take in. I … I’m very fond of you. You know that, I hope.

—I do, but ’tis neither here nor there. Michael’s fond of me. too. and I only see him a couple of times in the year and it doesn’t make it a weaker or stronger thing. I had children to have happy children, not to have them arrayed around me like trophies. I could live alone easily, too, you know?

—I know, you’re well able. I know.

—So, are you here because you think you should be? Are you here because it was hard to find someone when you lived with your mother? Would you have been better off living in a flat on your own somewhere, in a city where you’d meet people, where there’d be people to meet, not like here? I know you have a grand job below. You have more money than you need from the bookkeeping, but you could be doing that in a city, too, you know.

—I know. Some of these questions … I have thought about them, about what I should be doing, what someone my age should be doing, and I have wondered is it duty that keeps me here? But I don’t think it is. I’ve wondered is it a sort of laziness, too, not wanting to leave a comfortable bed? I don’t think that’s it, either. I think I’m here because I want to be. Maybe I don’t have the drive that some other people have … and I’m not telling you I’m asexual. Do you know what that means?

—I do.

—Do you?

—I do!

—I have been with men. That’s not a sentence I thought would pass between us. I never had the drive towards rearing children or having a long-term relationship with some fella. That makes me feel selfish sometimes, too, or the world makes me feel I should feel selfish might be more accurate because I don’t think I do, really.

—Mmmhh … What men were you with? Men, mind you, not man.

—I knew that was a mistake the second it came out my mouth. You can be asking from now ’til kingdom come and there won’t be another detail given.

—Fair enough. I’m happy out here but I think I’ve had a long life behind me and I ticked some boxes and I wonder, would I be happy with your life? Sometimes I tell myself I would and sometimes I tell myself I wouldn’t, but I’m around long enough to know that happiness comes in moments rather than in lifetimes. Regret is a different beast, though; regret will gnaw away at you for fine long stretches of time. So, try to make sure you’re avoiding as much regret as you can is what I suppose I’m saying.

—But don’t chase happiness?

—No point in chasing happiness. You think you are on its trail and you do have moments of triumph, ticking boxes, but the moments that stick out in my head, the moments of bliss that came, they came unbidden. I remember a sunburst and a breeze as I lay on long grass. I remember folding clothes at the hot press in my first house. Simple things.

They both looked at these scenes. Her mother always saw herself from the sky and from behind. Mairead imagined the same aspects. They lifted their heads and smiled at the same time.

—You asked me a funny question, so I’m going to ask you one, too.

—You’re not cross with me?

—No. It’s nice that you think about these things.

—Ask away so you can.

—Did yourself and Jack Quinn ever do a bit of courting?

The question had the reaction that Mairead expected. Her mother shuffled and shrugged like a nesting hen.

—What would make you ask a question like that?

—Well, the two of ye sit next to each other at every Mass that I can remember since Daddy died and … you mentioned regret.

—I don’t regret my life with your father. I don’t regret my children, even Margaret. She was going to be a test of the “every Seáneen finds a Siobhaineen” saying, but isn’t she happy with Brendan? And he seems happy with her, God bless his patience.

—There’s a politician lost in you. That’s no answer.

They again allowed a pause for thought, not hunting for the answers but interested in one another’s truth.

—Years pass by and things that were important, they just stop rearing their head. A lifetime passes and I suppose certain things can come to the fore again. I don’t know. We don’t talk about what was and wasn’t. To answer your question, yes, we courted for a while and I suppose I went to America and that was the end of it. I wanted to do that—I didn’t want it to be a regret, not going. Looking back now, I don’t know is there any difference between one place and the next.

—Whatever about place, one of the reasons that I asked that question is because there was a Sunday that yourself and Jack were having yer usual exchange of pleasantries. I was back at the church porch and Mrs. Kelly leaned in to Mrs. Fitz and said, “There’s no love like the old love.”

—Well, the dirty gossips. I could tell you a thing or two about Mai Kelly’s youth … but I won’t be dragged down to their level.

—Were ye in love?

—I don’t have much meas in that word, love. It’s a bit airy-fairy. Love has always seemed like a cop-out to me, an avenue for excuses: “but I love you,” “you know I love you.” I know about the passion between two people at the start of a courtship and for the most part that’s all love is. Warmth and easy companionship is something I’d value a lot more.

—There aren’t many poems about easy companionship out there.

—That’s because most of those poets are randy devils. I wouldn’t like to meet W.B. Yeats in a dark alley.

—You’d be safe enough, I’d say.

—Well, we’re gone awful base. What a conversation to be having, and we just in from Mass. ’Twould be more in our line to be considering the sermon.

—What was the sermon about?

—Ah, blast it, I thought you were listening to that.

—I thought you were listening to it.

—How would I be able to pay attention to the sermon and the broad shoulder of my beau next to me?

—Oh, Mother! I wish I’d said nothing!

Her mother laughed. The new things they had spoken would gently become part of their lexicon, part of the looks they exchanged, part of the gentle nudges at Mass, part of their lives.

—We’re probably better off talking about these things. Sure, we’ll see how it goes.

—If we end up falling out, sure, you can go live with Margaret.

—You can live with Margaret! I gave four more years living with her than you did, so if there is any time to be done, ’tis on your head it lies!

—I suppose we’ll just muddle on away here ourselves so.

—I suppose we will. Turn on the radio now ’til we hear the deaths and let us give over the quare talk and get back to some honest to God gossiping. Denis Byrne. I’ll tell you something about him that’ll curl your toes.

And they spoke and drank tea, and life was as it should be in their quiet kitchen, unseen as mice.

MIKE GUERIN

Mike Guerin is a writer from the mountainous uplands of north Cork. He won the Bryan McMahon short story award in 2022. He has had writing included in several journals, both nationally and internationally. He enjoys growing improbable crops and roaring poetry.