Six at the Table Page 15

  And then of course there was the temptation to order chicken Kiev, as garlic was an ingredient Mum never ever used in her kitchen and I was curious to try it.

  The inner struggle to make the right choice was excruciating. What if I chose the mixed grill and only one rasher and one chop arrived? Then again, what if I chose the chicken Maryland and the corn fritters were very small? That was equally risky.

  When the waitress arrived and placed a jug of water on our table, I got panicky. I hoped she would start with Mum and work the long way around the table and get to me last. I needed an extra moment to make my decision and to weigh it up against what everyone else was ordering. I didn’t want to be in a situation where I would be envying someone else’s dinner. I never knew until I opened my mouth what I was going to order.

  The waitress looked at me first with eyebrows raised in expectation and her pen poised over her tiny pad.

  ‘Lasagne for me, please.’

  What? Why? Lasagne! You idiot! One bowl of stretchy, cheesy goo and you won’t even get chips! What were you thinking? I was annoyed with myself even before the food was served.

  I was even more disillusioned when the oval terrine of wall-to-wall, bright orange and bubbling cheese arrived in front of me. As I looked around the table at plates of big fat burgers, fritters and fries, even Dad’s half roast chicken, plain as it was, looked better than my sticky lasagne. And I got no chips.

  Mum, noticing the disappointment I was incapable of hiding, leaned into me and whispered, ‘Mmmm, lasagne, that looks lovely! You can try some of my fish and chips, too, if you like.’

  This lifted my spirits a little and distracted me just enough to take my mind off everyone else’s meals.

  Inevitably, though, I enjoyed the comfort of the piping hot cheese and pasta mix. As I forked my way through my creamy dinner, my mind drifted to dessert. I felt under pressure now to try to make up for my rash choice of main course by picking the very best dessert possible. Now what would I go for? Knickerbocker glory, banana split, apple tart with cream or ice cream, trifle, Black Forest gateau …

  Ice-cream Float

  ‘You bitch!’ Maeve screeched at the top of her voice.

  It was a warm afternoon and the taste of summer was in the air. My days in school were numbered; I had survived another year. Maeve had come to my house to play after school and we were outside in the back garden. We amused ourselves with our dolls; we attempted swing ball and played hopscotch; we doodled with chalk on the ground; we sang abba songs, back to back, the way the girls did on television. I imagined I was the blonde one, captivating my imaginary audience with my beauty and the blur of the soft focus lens around my face; but Maeve, I knew, was prettier, so I didn’t put up a fight and sang as the dark-haired one instead. I was happy and content having Maeve to myself all afternoon.

  And just when I thought life couldn’t get any better, Mum walked into the garden, unannounced, carrying a tray of two tall glasses filled to the brim with a bright orange drink, which had a strange foam floating on top.

  ‘Have you ever tried an ice-cream float, Maeve?’ asked Mum, setting the glasses down in front of us.

  ‘Never,’ Maeve replied, wide-eyed and almost breathless with pleasure.

  I’d never received such a treat before either. I was unaware that Mum knew of such strange, exotic-looking drinks.

  She told us it was made with Club Orange and had a thick slice of vanilla ice cream frothing inside it. And she gave us each a teaspoon, so that we could eat the ice cream and sip our cloudy orange drink as we liked.

  After a few delicious sips, I tried to spoon some ice cream, but it was jammed in the bottom of my glass and my spoon was too short to get at it. I tried tipping my glass to the side and into my mouth but nothing would dislodge the lump of ice cream. Maeve’s ice cream, I noticed, was bobbing near the top of her drink, so she was able to sip and eat ice cream at the same time. I felt frustrated. Jealously and greedily, my arm darted across the table before I could control it and my spoon dug into Maeve’s drink before she could stop me. In my haste, I spilt much of her drink, though I got a spoonful of ice cream for my trouble. The curse she had heard, but had never before used, burst from her at my betrayal.

  ‘Maeve O’Reilly!’ Mum roared through the open kitchen window. ‘That language is not allowed in this house. You’ll have to go home now, ice-cream float or no ice-cream float!’

  It was my fault. I was devastated. My afternoon of tranquillity and treats was ruined.

  Mum came out of the kitchen, took the coveted drink away from Maeve and marched her towards the door. I’d managed to get Maeve into trouble with my mum and no doubt with hers, too, and I didn’t have the courage to own up and take the blame. I didn’t pull at Mum’s apron and try to stop her banishing Maeve. Instead, I remained rooted to the spot in the garden while Mum stood at the front door, watching Maeve walk home. Then she shut the door behind her, as if doing so would keep her home free from bad language for ever.

  She came out to me in the garden. ‘Well, madam. What did you do to her?’ she asked.

  I was ashamed and embarrassed by my own greed. My very own nature had let me down. Through my tears, I mumbled my guilt.

  ‘I should take that away from you, too, you know,’ Mum snapped at me. But she didn’t. She just marched back into the kitchen and threw the contents of Maeve’s glass down the sink in temper.

  I persevered with my ice-cream float, the ice cream melting now and rising to the top of my glass. In between bites and glugs, I wondered if I should call up to Maeve – after I was finished – and apologise, or should I wait until after dinner? Maybe the morning would be better; I might not be so ashamed by then.

  Scrambled Eggs

  There was no meat consumed in our house on Fridays, ever. This was primarily a religious decision, taken by Mum and observed by us all. The financial and health benefits were not lost on Mum either. The alternatives to meat were limited: fish pie, fish fingers or scrambled eggs.

  I dreaded Fridays. If the smell of fish greeted me as I entered the house, things were destined to be bad enough. Fish was too smelly, so it either had to be smothered in a rich cream and cheese sauce to get past my taste buds, or come from a Bird’s Eye packet. But if the smell of fish was completely absent from the kitchen, it meant only one thing – scrambled eggs.

  Scrambled egg was the only food that revolted me. I hated it with a passion. Lightly boiled or hard-boiled, fried or poached – those were the type of eggs that I enjoyed. I couldn’t explain why, as a non-fussy-eat-everything-off-the-plate kind of girl, I was repulsed by scrambled eggs. I moaned and pleaded with Mum as she scraped the beaten eggs away from the sides of the saucepan – ‘Anything but scrambled eggs, pleeaase.’ But Mum made no exceptions. She didn’t prepare different meals to meet the diverse preferences of her family. And so I’d stare miserably at my plate of egg bits, wishing them away. I’d poke and play with the tiny beads of bright yellow rubber until there was nothing I could do but eat them – cold. They were tasteless yet revolting at the same time. Perhaps it was the fleshy, rubbery texture that was so off-putting.

  Then Mum went to London. She needed a rest, a break for a few days, and Dad was feeling better. He wasn’t back at work but he was on the mend, we were told. She was going to stay with Aunty Mary. After numerous hugs and kisses from the four of us and Dad, we waved her off on her big weekend away and Uncle Pat drove her to the airport.

  That Thursday evening saw us all at sea. What were we to do now? Without Mum directing us, organising us and filling the house with activity, we were lost. The house was uncomfortably quiet. In the absence of direction from Dad, Catherine and Lucy climbed the stairs to their lair. For a while, Kevin and I followed him around the house and then, realising he didn’t know what to do either, we abandoned him.

  But after a few hours, Dad warmed to his role. He opened up and began to relish being the only adult in the house – the man of the house for a change. Kevin and
I sat beside him on the couch and with little prompting he told us about his bachelor days – days before Mum. He told us how he’d been able to look after himself, with no woman around, for fourteen whole years before he got married. This seemed highly unlikely to me, as the most I had seen him do in the kitchen was make a pot of tea and a sandwich. Mum even sewed buttons on his shirts and darned his socks. Yet he told us how he lived on his own in flats in Drumcondra and Rathgar. How he ate his dinner every working day in a restaurant on Dame Street. He described it as a huge room heaving with country boys and girls, like himself, each being served three-course meals – soup of the day, followed by meat, vegetables and spuds, and finished off with dessert and tea – all for the sum of four shillings and six pence. This was hardly looking after himself, I thought. It seemed like decadence to me. I certainly couldn’t reconcile this picture of Dad – in a restaurant every day! – with the careful, frugal Dad I knew today.

  On the first evening of Mum’s absence, when he tired of recounting his youth to us, Dad offered to make Kevin and me some scrambled eggs for tea. He was recklessly flouting Mum’s written instructions to reheat her shepherd’s pie. Emboldened by his new-found authority, he was choosing to disregard the numerous sheets of foolscap paper, covered in Mum’s frantic scrawl, that she had left, clearly visible, across the countertop. He was turning his back on her list of dinners for each of the days she was away: shepherd’s pie to be reheated for day one; fish fingers for day two; a lasagne to be defrosted and reheated at 180 degrees for forty-five minutes on day three; and on day four, Mum would return just in time to save us from starvation.

  I despaired at the idea of scrambled eggs, let alone what Dad’s version of them would be, but I didn’t want our nice time together on the couch to be ruined by me turning up my nose at his first suggestion. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. So I agreed to scrambled eggs for tea.

  Dad neatly cracked eggs into the Pyrex bowl. He added salt and a shake of white pepper (never black, he said), and a splash of milk before beating them well with a fork – no such thing as a whisk in his bachelor pad. Then, as the knuckle of butter melted in the saucepan, he popped two bits of bread into the toaster – just the length of time he needed to scramble his eggs. He tipped the mixture into the sizzling butter and started to stir, showing me how he was slowly lifting cooked egg off the bottom and sides of the saucepan. He didn’t take his eyes off the eggs. He watched them closely for changes in colour and texture. Then suddenly, when his experience told him the time was right, and I thought they were still raw and runny, he took the eggs off the heat and stirred vigorously as they continued to cook. Pop! The toast was done. The eggs rested a minute while Dad evenly buttered the toast. Then he placed one slice on each plate and gently spooned the soft and shiny eggs on top.

  ‘There you go!’ he said, with a confidence I was sure was undeserved and inappropriate. And he slapped two plates down on the bare table in front of me and Kevin.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumbled with low expectations, as I bravely poised my knife and fork over the eggs.

  To my amazement they were like no eggs I had ever tasted before. These scrambled eggs actually tasted of eggs – but nicer. Together with the buttery toast, they were actually divine. The softness of the eggs and the crunchiness of the toast were a perfect match for each other. This was the moment I discovered that scrambled eggs and meatless Fridays did not have to be dreaded and loathed any longer.

  Mum came home from London laden with bags of presents. I got a Beefeater doll standing upright in a clear plastic cylinder, and a key ring of miniature postcards of London that all folded up neatly and closed into a tiny, red leather book with the snap of a popper. Each of us got a sleek purple box packed tightly with my favourite small squares of Cadbury’s chocolate, individually wrapped.

  Mum told us, hour for hour, what she did each day in England – where they shopped, who they met, what they ate – as we each devoured as many of our chocolates as she allowed, before going to bed later than usual that Sunday night. Normality was restored to the house the next morning. Dad was absent from the kitchen, porridge was warming on the cooker and a block of meat was oozing blood, defrosting for dinner that evening.

  The Friday after Mum’s return there was no fish smell in the house. It was going to be scrambled eggs for tea. The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself. ‘Why can’t Dad do the scrambled eggs tonight? His are much nicer!’

  This hurt her, I could tell. Perhaps I intended it to. But a comment like this was also liable to open up a can of worms. Mum had been known to ‘go on strike’ from time to time. When the burden of housework swamped her completely and her ungrateful family failed to notice or compliment her hard work, she occasionally exploded. A misjudged comment was sometimes all it took for Mum to start ranting about all she did, unassisted and unappreciated – hoovering, ironing, cleaning, dusting, washing and more washing, shopping – an endless list of chores would be spewed out. And suitably shamed and apologetic, we’ d all promise to help. The five of us would decide – were told – to share the burden of housework, Mum drawing up a rota of duties and sticking it on the fridge. She’ d let the washing build up; she’d refuse to clear the sink; she’ d serve brown bread for dinner, as each one of us learned to help with hoovering, cleaning, dusting – for a few days. Then gradually, task by thankless task, Mum would take over again, and before a week was out, everything would be as before.

  However, this time, instead of getting wounded or angry, Mum stopped her frenzied egg-stirring and toast-making, placed her hands on her aproned hips and looked hard at me, debating internally how to respond. Her confrontational stare was accompanied with a long sigh. Together they conveyed to me my complete ignorance. Did I not see that there was no chance my dad was going to get up from his supine position in front of the six o’ clock news to make scrambled eggs for everyone? I had to learn to live with Mum’s version – and not another word was to be said about it.

  I was embarrassed by my own stupidity and regretted hurting Mum, so I said nothing else on the matter. It was a long time before I got to taste creamy scrambled eggs again.

  Gristle in her Gullet

  The most positive sign of Dad’s returning health was when he and Mum had their first proper argument in months.

  For Mum there was no respite from the hard work that was required of her, and Dad being home from work and needing extra attention added to her burden. The high standards of mothering, imposed largely on her by herself, meant that she was our servant and she never got a break. She was constantly on the look-out to ensure that all five of us were happy, that we wanted for nothing. Mostly she expressed this concern and love through the food she put before us. A small plate of brown bread and jam could be slipped in at my elbow when my head was bent low over a join-the-dots picture. A leftover slice of pavlova could be shared with her to help heal a scratched knee. A slice of spotted dick and a cup of warm milk made the arrival home from school even more welcome. As a result of this overwhelming instinct to nurture and provide through food, Mum dominated completely in the kitchen. Which suited the five of us very well.

  This also meant that during mealtimes Mum spent most of the time on her feet. She insisted on washing the saucepans at the same time as serving the dinner. She continued scrubbing at the sink when the rest of us began eating, until we paused, noticing her absence from the table, and Catherine or Dad, as the figures of some authority, insisted she sit down. We’ d resume eating when Mum made the first cut into her dinner. Then if Dad asked where the salt was, or if Lucy needed vinegar, or Kevin wanted tomato sauce, Mum would push back her chair and hop to her feet as if an order had been barked out by a drill sergeant. Within seconds the named condiment would appear, the lapse in her foresight amended. She rarely paused to suggest that someone younger, more agile and sitting closer to the fridge or press do the fetching.

  On the day of Mum and Dad’s argument, Mum was making slow progress with her din
ner as usual. She asked each of us children how our day went and she told us about hers. And Dad, even though he didn’t have much to tell, was asked for his contribution, too. Mum chaired the mealtime chat.

  Dad continued to eat his dinner, and added little to the conversation. This clearly irritated Mum. After too many minutes of paternal silence, she challenged him. He wasn’t so sick any more that he couldn’t be confronted.

  ‘Well?’ she said, staring hard at the crown of his bent head.

  It took him a few moments to realise he was being addressed.

  ‘Well what?’ he replied, puzzled.

  ‘Have you any comment to make about the dinner?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nice,’ he mumbled back.

  ‘Is that it? Do I have to ask for compliments? And what about the casserole potatoes? What do you think of them?’

  ‘Well – they’re a bit soggy.’ This was Dad’s reluctant appraisal.

  We shuffled our feet uncomfortably.

  Mum fumed. She couldn’t contain her anger.

  ‘That’s you. I can’t try one new thing. It’s always the same. Just open your mind a bit, will you?’

  ‘You asked for my bloody opinion and you got it!’ Dad bellowed back across the table, slamming his cutlery down on the small uneaten mound of offending spud.

  We hated Mum and Dad rowing, but that evening I thought it was a positive sign that they were fighting again; it meant life was returning to normal. The tiptoeing around Dad that had started months ago was over. He must be getting better. I was perversely happy to be witnessing this particular fight.

  I knew from experience that it would go one of two ways. Dad would either storm off to the garage or his shed and they would continue it later when we were out of sight, if not earshot. Or they would suck it in, bury it down under the weight of their full stomachs, and let it settle and ferment into a potent and bitter elixir along with the hundreds of other unresolved conflicts, hurtful comments and slights of married life. On this occasion they both inhaled deeply. They didn’t have the heart or the enthusiasm for a full-scale argument – perhaps they were just out of practice. A strong dose of tension had to be endured instead. We were forced to continue eating in strained silence. Scraping at my plate, it was only the thoughts of dessert that kept me rooted there.