Lights up. Four characters face audience. They are apart from each other, each occupying their own space: MOLLY,(60’s),sits resting one leg, ANN (30’s) stands holding an envelope and AMBROSE (30’s) stands holding an old biscuit tin. BRIDIE, (60’s) reclines upright in a makeshift bed, to side of stage left, wearing an artist’s smock / apron. She has spots of paint on her clothes.
ANN
Can’t remember, details, but there is something…
MOLLY
Can’t she just forget about it and move on…
AMBROSE
Can’t she just leave me, leave us, alone?
PAUSE
MOLLY
The letters, those curséd letters. Nothing would do her but come back and start with the questions. And him there again. Insult to injury. I’m too old for all this business, racking my head. What else could I write? What else would she believe? It’s the closest she’ll get to a I love you from me, and she’ll hate me for it…I can’t be blamed for that. Him and his bloody biscuit tin. With his father’s eyes.
AMBROSE
They must really hate me. Those letters were out to get me, or all of us, so I did what I could to protect our name. But I did nothing wrong. I just watched. I’m not a bad person.
ANN
The great thing about…PAUSE… the great thing about…. Memory, remembering…Maybe I shouldn’t have come back. This, (holding envelope, regarding it briefly) this is not how I imagined it would be. Not sure how I imagined it would be… I didn’t think that far. Maybe didn’t think at all… (Resuming her original train of thought) The great thing, the great thing about not remembering what happened, when I was a child, not remembering details, any details at all, is that it can get me out of some tight spots when I need to escape, and I know I’ll always have this escape route, this plan B, because I cannot get to the bottom of it, the mystery, because I cannot remember any details, clear memories of who it might have been, or where it might have been, though it may have been hospital, I was in hospital a lot as a young child, asthma, so… All I know is that when I was seven, I had a kind of memory of something happening but again not very clear and now I can’t remember what exactly that memory was. When I was seven, that is. Another thing, about not remembering is that when things are going well for me I can tell myself that it never really happened, because in a way it never did. If it did I would remember. And when things aren’t going so well for me then I can cry and tell myself how useless and disgusting I am and I always have this thing... It’s a protection… But if it’s so great, why do I want to get to the bottom of it, risk getting rid of it? Why would I do that? Because I am stupid? Because I really am useless? Maybe, but I decided years and years ago to once and for all, end the confusion in my head. I figured it must have been hospital, where else? So when I was back home I took the chance and went there… spent a morning walking around the children’s ward, seeing the small furniture which didn’t seem so small then, the mural of Snow White needing a facelift, some features chipped away, I thought the place would have looked a lot differently but not much changes in Dublin. The smell was the same… a hospital smell. But that big revelation didn’t come, no tears, no memories of anything unpleasant. No phantoms in big white coats. Nothing. There was one bathroom there, I’d forgotten about. I remembered having to wash there and not wanting to but being convinced or persuaded that I had no choice. Hardly the stuff that traumas are made of. I left the hospital certain for the time being that nothing had ever happened. Sometimes, as the years passed the old feeling would come back and I’d start looking for possibilities, but generally gave up after a few fruitless hours. And so it remained. Until I decided to come back home for an extended period to take care of my mother. Nothing serious, just her hip, but enough to keep her housebound. I would show her that I could just as big sister Helen had done for Dad all those years ago. That was my intention, my only real intention. I cannot say I did it only out of love for Mommie dearest. I was doing this for me too, some space, some time out. And then -I ripped the letter.
MOLLY
I was as surprised as anyone that she’d come back to, of all things, take care of me. I never saw that as being in her nature. Certainly not when her father was still alive...She left the day after the funeral, on her own. Dublin for a while and then London for good. No noise out of her for years. And then the hip went and the letters started. And then he shows up with his bloody biscuit tin. Always had his fathers’ eyes. Had no inkling, until, I suppose the first of it was when I heard the car pull up on the street. Phil the Horse, know by the engine, like a horse too, all mouth and all ears. Know the car going away too, lets it run down the hill to save on petrol. First he's all friendly, “howya Molly, good man Phil”... I suppose as usual he wants the loan of something, probably the chainsaw, he's out pruning the place and himself wouldn't be too quick to prune his wallet though. "The hip giving you much bother these days"? Out for information well he won't get much from me. "Can't complain". "I'd say the rain brings it out, like the rheumatism - now don't be talkin' - I suppose Brian is up the yard? - He's about someplace" I say. Knew he wanted something. "The hedges are awful unruly, need a clipping with the chainsaw - a chainsaw's an awful ignorant article, you should get one of those strimmers if it's just the hedges you're at" knowing full well he hasn't the slightest intention of spending one penny of his own, “ah I know” he says “but shur”... exactly, but sure.... "I'll dodge 'round and see if I can't find Brian - fair enough", dodge 'til you fall you nosey, and then it comes, the one he'd been savouring and waiting for, "I’m very sorry to hear about Bridie, I got it yesterday from young Tierney below in Bartholomewses the hospital, an' her sent home yesterday, I tell ye, cancer, the Big C, either you have it or it has you but I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, I’m sorry for your troubles Molly”- the bold-faced bastard, the joy he must have had telling me that my own sister had cancer, was already in and out of the hospital with it all diagnosed as terminal and me the last to know. The gall of him… And I suppose that’s when it started, the feeling that a long time had passed since I had spoken to Bridie and that there mightn’t be much time left to… from the end of Gallan Cross to here is one line of houses with only widows, except myself with Brian here all the time and the odd time when one of the two girls, usually Helen comes over and stays a day or two to help out around with the cleaning and cooking. I don’t dirty the place much myself, it’s that article Brian out there coming in with all manner of clothes from outside and now with the hip I need someone most of the time until I get on my feet again. The last time I had the hip done ‘twas Helen took care of me, works like a Trojan that lassie, great worker. This time nothing would do Ann but come up from the big smoke and tend to my every wish. That’s one reason why I’d write the letters. Stuck in the house all day, under my feet, wouldn’t go out, “where’d I go?” she’d ask. Go over and see Josey Willix, she had a baby girl last month- did she? She’d say. Didn’t even know she was married, and them so great years ago at school and at the dances, no interest at all in her neighbours, told her P. Cahill drank a bottle of weedkiller they say after all his cattle went down with T.B. Never even heard of him, or John the Cooper and her in the same class at National School with Irene his youngest, found hanging in the hayshed. No, not a clue. She’d know more about some piss pot poor country like Bosnia Siberia than about her own people here at home. At least when I wrote letters I got her out of the house for a while and got her to meet other people apart from me or her brother, even if it was only Bridie and Ambrose she’d meet. I didn’t care if she met him anymore, water under the bridge. I didn’t care if she met Bridie either. Maybe I should have. She was always very fond of Bridie, and Bridie was always very fond of her. They were all fond of her. Too bloody fond.. But I would have to do something about Bridie. And that’s how it all started with the letters. Couldn’t remember the last time I wrote anything unless a shopping list or putting my name at the bottom of a cheque. Still, better than the curséd telephone. Could hardly speak to her. She’d only hear the irritation in my voice. So, only thing to do, get out the pad and write. Didn’t even have to buy envelopes, still had the pack Jim had from when he worked a while at the creamery. Even had a supply of stamps, Helen left them over with me for emergencies, great girl, always thinking of possible crises. And then Ann offering to deliver them to the door. Let her. Too much time had passed to make any difference. And anyway, it’d give her the chance to learn something about her own people. I hope so anyway. But at the time it was nice to get rid of her and to just have the house to myself. So, the first letter was written, and I give it to Ann to give to the postman.
ANN
“Give this to the postman to post” she says in her usual friendly tone, “and hurry up before he disappears down the lane”, handing me a letter, a letter to Bridie Kearns. Bridie? Auntie Bridie? So she wrote after all? I didn’t think she would, I wasn’t expecting her to take me seriously or anything but the envelope did have a stamp on it so I guess she meant business- and hurry up before he disappears down the lane, and as I left the house letter in hand I heard her add, to herself, be quicker than you were this morning, and that’s where it all started you could say, that’s when, with that little snide remark muttered as I left the house, letter in hand, just because Brian had to wait fifteen minutes for his sausages. She makes no sense, complains that she gets no respect, that Brian just comes in for food whenever he’s good and ready, well, just leave it on the table same time every morning, let it go cold a few times and then he’ll come in on time but no, she just continues to spoil him, so we wait until he comes in and keep his food warm blah blah but this morning he comes in early, in a hurry, has to go into town to the vet with a sick animal or something so it’s all rush rush and doesn’t matter that I’m working- turn off that computer and get him his breakfast- I’m only mailing Bill to see if anything was new at the office, I only have a sort of leave of absence and things can change, but this of course, to dear Mother, this is not work. Helen now, she took a real leave of absence because she works like a Trojan, and she has a real job, freelance is not real steady nine to five… Helen works like a Trojan, no point in explaining to her that Helen was Greek, not a Trojan, above her head… So, off with the laptop and on with the frying pan and sausages and I am not in any particular hurry, to begin with, hoping in vain that Brian might actually help out but he wouldn’t even know how to boil water but don’t say a word against him- turn up the gas, Brian’s in a hurry- if I turn up the gas any more the sausages will burn- I’d be quicker doing them myself- then do them yourself- that’s some way to talk to your mother and her after a hip replacement- so I just shut up and head down continue getting the precious breakfast, he eats it, goes off and not another word is said until get this to the postman and hurry up before he disappears down the lane and as I leave the house, be quicker than you were this morning and that’s when it started. Before I even knew what had happened. I felt rage, pure rage, and then I see the letter, ripped in two, it still hasn’t sunk in that this letter, she’d only spent days, weeks maybe, himming and hawing over getting in touch with Auntie Bridie, whom she hadn’t exchanged a civil or uncivil word with since my father’s funeral, that’s a whole nine years and finally she puts pen to paper, stamps the envelope and- there it is in two pieces in my hand and now I hear Postman Pat coming ‘round the corner in his car, Pat is his real name funnily enough, and I go out to stop him and give him this letter to post, of course I cannot give him the letter to post, not now, in this condition, so I stop him and ask, I asked something, off the top of my head, how much a letter to Asia would cost I think, so that she’d think I was giving him the letter to post, which was stuffed down the front of my jeans, and then off he drives, I go back into the house and up to my room. I couldn’t sellotape it together, surely not, no. I couldn’t. Not much I could do except get rid of it. Reading it didn’t enter my mind, at first, but, well…I don’t know where she gets her envelopes, ancient I’d say, not long but square-ish, like the letter inside. Anyone else, any normal person, would write on rectangular sheets, A4, and then stick them into rectangular envelopes but… The upshot was that the letter ripped along an entire sentence, which wouldn’t happen if she wrote like a normal person but.. the letter was Dear Bridie, not very easy, after all this time, something like that, its been a long time, too long maybe, heard you were in hospital, we all have our cross to bear, she actually wrote that, more blah blah like that, then, something years again since, then the line had to be stuck together with sellotape, looks like Ann, large P, a name? Packie? As in Bridie’s husband Uncle Packie?…and two long froggish words, could be forgive, forget? And s..h..four letters, shot, shit? Shed?...Forget what? Forgive what? I never liked the shed. I once got locked in the shed, can’t remember it, my uncle Packie came and let me out, said I’d been banging on the door for ages and no one heard me scream but he did and when he opened the door I was half crazed and hysterical but I don’t remember. All I remember is a sickening smell of whitewash, Snowcem, we had in a bucket to paint the house. My father used to paint the house, he didn’t mind heights. The snowcem came in a big tin bucket and if you inhaled over it with the lid off the fumes or the dust would lie on your lungs for ages. It was pretty in a way when the light would catch the particles in the air but still you couldn’t get too close and breathe it in. That was the first asthma attack I had. They told me I could have died if it wasn’t for uncle Packie getting me out. And I never liked that shed. It was called a shed though it was really just a small outhouse for storing things in. Very small. Cramped. Packed… And I never liked my uncle Packie, even if he saved me, and I don’t think my father did either. Definitely not in the end because he wouldn’t go to his funeral and that’s why my mother and her sister Bridie wouldn’t speak to eachother. That was the official version. I knew that. Everyone knew that. And then that a m b something something e… ambulance or ambrose. I know he was there. The window. Inside. And the spot of rain hitting the paper, almost taking out the ambulance word. Started a m b… But. The shed. My uncle Packie rescued me from an asthma attack. They called for an ambulance but it never came. Words. Words for a sentence… Give this to the postman she said. But I ripped the words, and I knew something didn’t add up. Something was missing. And that’s what I had to find… So I went upstairs and started to write a letter from my mother to her sister, my Aunt Bridie. But this time I got to ask the questions I wanted answers to…
AMBROSE
Saw a car pulling up on the back yard. Didn’t recognize the reg plate, not from ‘round here anyway. English? Then some woman starting to poke around, looking in the window, what in jaysus is she doing? What is she up to? Walking round the house, looking in? Get out there Ambrose and get rid of her, who does she think she is? Went out all guns blazing, ready to blast out ‘excuse me but what do you think you’re doing’ and then I see who it is. Took me a couple of seconds, but I see…
ANN
Getting out of the car was like getting out of Doctor Who’s tardis, ‘cause as soon as I see the front room at the side of the house I’m fourteen again and slightly drunk. I’ve snuck out from home and I know by the time I walk back I’ll be sober enough that neither Mum or Dad will notice. That front room, curtains pulled, that’s where she used to paint me. What was I thinking? Standing in Aunt Bridies front room, in a bikini posing as Botticelli’s Venus while she painted me. Why would I do something that mad? I remember asking her why, I don’t know what she saw in me, why of all people she asked me. I said, “I’m not pretty”, and she said “I know. But you are beautiful”. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Well, she is an artist. They’re all mad, aren’t they? Artists, I mean. And then her saying something about healing wounds, restoration, accepting my body, whatever bullshit it was I said yes. The real reason was the wine. After half and hour of chitchat and two glasses of Reisling I was up for anything. “I want you to be my Venus, coming out of the sea shell”. So there I stood, hardly a stitch on, warm though, the August sun had heated up the room, curtains or no curtains. I didn’t mind in front of her, I’d known her for years… it felt natural.
AMBROSE
Mam always did her paintings of flowers and whatever, I’d grown up with the smell of paint, never wondered that much about anything she did, it was all natural enough, but when I saw Ann was coming to the house more regular, and the curtains got pulled in the front room, I got curious I figured just walk in and ask them if they wanted a cup of tea, casual like. Of course when I opened the door I didn’t even open my mouth. Ann saw me first, Mam was in her own world but then a firm “out!” . I was stunned, Ann there with hardly any clothes on, and then Mam again “get out you disgusting article!” so I turned on my heels and shut the door after me. How could she call me that in front of Ann? What was she thinking? What if Auntie Molly would have found out? Or even worse, Uncle James? If word got out what Ann and my mother was up to, there’s no tellin’ the ruptions there’d be. And I’m the ‘disgusting article’? Never mind now Ambrose, all water under the bridge. …
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