Six at the Table Page 6

  I found it hard to empathise or sympathise with Maeve and other girls in school who gave out about interfering and grumpy grannies, so I kept quiet and kept Grandma to myself.

  Although we usually saw Grandma during the week, I never minded a second visit. Sunday morning was special, with all the family in the kitchen talking and laughing, and we got to play with our cousins. In preparation for our arrival, Grandma baked scones. When Mum opened the front door, the smell of warm, damp dough drifted up to greet us, along with Grandma’s ‘Hell-o-oh’, from down in the kitchen.

  The kitchen chairs were occupied according to seniority and gender, the ladies of the family took the few seats at the table, the men and children sat on footstools, garden chairs and deck chairs or leaned against the dresser, loaded with crockery and glassware, or any clear wall space we could find. In the middle of the room, under the window, was the table, and in the centre of the table was a wire rack, on which a dozen golden scones were cooling. A butter dish and a selection of jams, usually home-made, sat beside a stack of delicate plates, small fluted cups and a bundle of Grandma’s butter knives with their strange round tips and square ivory handles. She hadn’t moved with the times to cutlery with green plastic handles like ours.

  As soon as the initial greetings and polite chit-chat were over, someone – usually one of the big boy cousins – would lean in and get busy buttering a scone, or maybe even two. That would trigger the stampede. There was no time to lose if you wanted to be guaranteed your share, yet it was difficult to find a gap in the mêlée around the table.

  Grandma’s younger sister, my Grandaunt Maudie, got the bus out to Ranelagh and sat at the kitchen table on fifty-one Sundays of the year – the only exception was when she was away on her annual trip to Lourdes. While Grandma was all hugs and flour-covered housecoats, Maudie was stylishly dressed in tailored skirt suits, cinched at the waist with a narrow belt to accentuate its smallness, deep tan tights and very high heels. When she wasn’t smoking, either a barbed comment or a hacking cough came out of her mouth.

  I was wary of Maudie. But I was told to be nice to her, as she was ‘poor oul’ Maudie’. Mum said she had had a hard life. After marrying late, she had only a decade of childless marriage before her husband suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack. At fifty, Maudie was alone with no home and no source of income. The Christian Brothers of Synge Street let her live in a building they owned on Grantham Street for a nominal rent. She, in turn, took in the occasional tenant as a source of income. It was a life-saving arrangement that gave her a roof over her head and supplemented her meagre widow’s pension. For most of the year, Maudie’s life was confined to the areas around Camden Street, trips across town to Clery’s, and Sundays at her sister’s in Ranelagh. She rarely went further afield, except for Lourdes, that is, which seemed pretty exotic to me. For all of this, I was supposed to view Maudie in a softer, kinder light. But I couldn’t, it only made it clear to me why she was so hard. I wasn’t the only one who found her difficult company. Dad had long struggled to be nice to her. One of her catch phrases was ‘Well, that’s country people for ye! Present company excepted’ – with a brief nod in Dad’s direction. This made him, a proud Tipperary man, quietly seethe.

  So one Sunday it was with some trepidation, when I spotted a momentary gap in the scrimmage, that I approached the table where Maudie sat near the few remaining scones. I hoped I hadn’t caught her attention. As she regarded herself as a style icon, my appearance had come in for criticism before. ‘That skirt’s very long, isn’t it?’ ‘What did you do to your hair?’ ‘I see you bite your nails. Terrible habit, especially for a girl.’

  But that day she delivered the cruellest comment of them all. As I moved towards the table I entered her field of vision and out it rasped: ‘You’re a fine big girl.’

  With my arm already outstretched for the longed-for scone, I didn’t want to retract it and let her see how much she had upset me. Even though my anticipated pleasure had just evaporated in her toxic ether, I picked a scone and buttered it. I placed it on a small plate and looked down at butter melting into each half as I walked across the kitchen, back to my spot against the wall. Had everyone noticed? It seemed like the entire room drew breath. My mother definitely had. Deflated and angry, I sank my teeth into the scone, wanting the comfort of it, yet not wanting it at the same time. I said little for the rest of the morning and watched, head bowed, as the rest of my family continued to eat, drink cups of tea and chat.

  Grandma, wanting to salve my wounded pride, shuffled over to her dresser, and from behind the legs of several of her guests, she removed her biscuit tin. A battered shortbread tin, its original contents had been devoured decades ago. She refilled it regularly with her own selection of biscuits. Some weeks there were only Rich Tea, Marietta and Malted Milk. On a more fruitful foray into the tin, I might find a Telex, a Breakaway and a few Jacob’s Club Milks. You never knew what kind of selection you were going to get. When Grandma asked if you would like a biscuit, it was always better to wait until the lid was off before answering.

  As Grandma presented the tin to me that morning, I felt all eyes on me. Ignoring etiquette, throwing aside the manners she had upheld and passed on for almost eighty years, she bypassed Maudie and her daughters-in-law and opened the tin before me. On any other Sunday I would have been thrilled to have had the pick of the tin before my big cousins got stuck in, but that day I felt confused. I wanted to take the Orange Club Milk but thirteen pairs of eyes were watching me. And so with cheeks burnt red with embarrassment, and even though I knew I was disappointing Grandma, I said thank you, but no. I was full.

  Irish Stew

  I assumed the ability to make a delicious Irish stew would be in my mother’s dna, along with her pale green eyes, curly, wiry hair, and her tendency to turn bright red after only a few minutes in mild June sunshine. But I was mistaken. Even though Mum cowered in the face of Irish stew, she felt it her duty to serve it regularly – it being one of the few traditional Irish dishes in her repertoire.

  There were several reasons why Mum cringed when serving Irish stew. Firstly, to her it looked like poor people’s food. The thin, watery liquid that glistened under the bright fluorescent kitchen light; the grey pieces of fatty lamb floating around in it; and only overcooked carrots and soggy potato as an accompaniment – all tended to support this view.

  Secondly, she thought she was no good at making it – this was not something Mum regularly admitted. She believed she was doing something wrong. Should the gravy be so thin and runny? She experimented, using barley as well as potato to thicken it. What about the greasy scum on top? Hoping no one was looking, she’ d turn her back to us and try to skim the fat off before dishing it out. Were there enough potatoes in the stew? She cooked extra, only to be left with a huge bowl of spuds at the end of the meal.

  There were too many uncertainties for Mum when it came to Irish stew. She was not confident about it at all, and when she did serve it, she brought it to the table with an apologetic air. She never fished for compliments on these days. ‘Well …? What has anyone got to say?’ was her usual casual question when she knew she had done a damn good job and deserved some praise. And we’d all mumble, through full mouths, ‘Mmmm, it’s gorgeous, Mum.’ ‘Yeah! Lovely, thanks.’ But on Irish stew days, she kept quiet, there were no prompts as she served the meal.

  It’s true to say that Mum was right – her stew didn’t look good. It swished around on our plates, leaving an oily slick at the edges, which turned into solid white fat when it cooled. It looked insipid and sad. But if you closed your eyes – well, that was a different story. It tasted delicious. The moist tenderness and unique earthy taste of lamb, with a strong kick of thyme, made it worth enduring the slop. It may have left a film of fat on the roof of your mouth and on your lips, but with a wipe of the back of your hand and the sleeve of your school jumper, that was soon gone, while the wonderful flavours of the Irish stew lingered on.

  Monkey Nuts />
  On our last day at school before the Hallowe’en midterm holiday, Sister Brigid was sick. This added to my excitement at getting a break from school. Mrs Piggott from 3B marched across the yard and into our prefab at ten past nine, and without saying a word, wrote on the blackboard the exercises we were to do for the morning. She departed with a stern warning to us to be quiet – Ciúnas! A girl from sixth class, with neat, long, blond hair and socks pulled up to her knees, sat at Sister Brigid’s desk. She watched us and made sure we stayed quiet and did our work.

  After break time, Mrs Piggott came back to our classroom and told us to follow her, we were going to join her class for the rest of the morning. I was thrilled. We were going to the new building and into Maeve’s classroom; we could be classmates for one morning.

  We trotted in pairs across the yard and filed into the bright warm environs of 3B. I waved over at Maeve when we entered. She smiled and waved back. I wondered how we were all going to fit. Mrs Piggott told us we wouldn’t need chairs for now, as we were going to stand around the room and have an Irish spelling test. A test without warning seemed a bit unfair; an Irish spelling test on the day before our midterm break was just plain sneaky. We were trapped.

  All fifty-six girls lined up tightly around the walls of the room, encircling Mrs Piggott, who leaned her bum against a table in the centre. Slowly she made her way around the room, calling out words – leabhar … bríste … fuinneog … If a spelling was incorrect, the shamed girl sat down in the centre of the room; only the good spellers remained standing. It was agonising waiting for my moment under pressure, under scrutiny.

  ‘Síle Ní Meachair – cathaoir,’ she said, when my turn came.

  ‘c-a-t-h-a-o-i-r.’ I spelled it out slowly and clearly.

  ‘No. Sit down,’ she said.

  Surprise registered on my face – I was sure I’d spelled it correctly – but conceding to her greater knowledge, I moved to sit down in an empty chair. But I was too late for the keen eye of Mrs Piggott. My surprise had registered with her too and had been mistaken for defiance or incredulity or some other unacceptable form of pupil behaviour.

  ‘Anseo, Síle!’ she ordered sharply, pointing to the ground in front of her, where I was to stand. She was still leaning against the table and her arms were folded tightly across her chest. ‘What was that face for?’ she demanded. ‘Do you think you know better than me?’

  ‘No, Mrs Piggott.’

  ‘Do you think I’m wrong and you are right? Is that it?’

  ‘No, Mrs Piggott.’

  ‘Do you know what “humble” means, Miss Maher? Do you know this song, Miss Maher?’ She began to taunt me with a rendition of a bad song that was familiar to me.

  Oh Lord it’s hard to be humble

  When you’re perfect in ev-ver-y wa-ay

  I can’t wait to look in the mirror

  ’Cause I get better lookin’ each day …

  On and on she sang. Into my face she shouted the entire song, as I stood there belittled and red in front of my class and girls who weren’t that familiar to me. Relentless, she was breathless and red in the face too, but she was enjoying herself.

  ‘Now sit down and don’t let me see you doing that again,’ she bellowed at me.

  I sat down, miserable and confused, wondering why my facial expression had provoked such an extreme reaction. I bowed my head and tried to hide my tears but my short hair made that impossible. My nose was dribbling and I needed a tissue.

  The bell rang at ten to one, before the test was over. A few brainy girls were still standing, undefeated by her spelling challenges. I left her classroom as quickly and as discreetly as I could. I didn’t look back or wait for Maeve.

  I now had a week to forget about Mrs Piggott and my miserable school life.

  Our Hallowe’en costumes were far from elaborate. Mostly they consisted of a couple of Dad’s old sports jackets, with the sleeves rolled up, and masks with funny faces. I found the biggest plastic bag I could carry and Kevin and I went outside to meet up with Maeve, and her sister and brother. Together we barged from door to door, collecting treats. We crowded around front doors and held open our bags for whatever goodies the lady of the house was dispensing. ‘Something for the Hallowe’en party?’ was our call. It was hard to tell what was being deposited in our bags, as adult hands concealed their contents. Although frequently asked, we never performed songs or dances. There were a few houses where the owners turned off all lights to the front, pretending no one was at home; a few more where we knew children were not welcome; and others where we were downright afraid to knock on the door. We stayed out in the darkness until most houses in the neighbourhood were accounted for. Then we said goodbye to each other and ran indoors, eager to examine our haul.

  Kevin and I spilled the contents of our bags onto the kitchen table. Sadly our booty was never that exciting. There was only one small bar of chocolate, a lollipop or two, and a few old sticky penny sweets with paper so tightly wrapped around and imbedded in them that I ended up eating most of the paper as well. The bottom of my bag had been weighed down, but mostly with monkey nuts and apples, which covered the table. It was clear now that the hands that had mysteriously filled our bags in the semi-darkness had almost all been full of nuts.

  Ignoring Mum and Dad’s remonstrations about not making ourselves sick, Kevin and I ate as much of our haul as we could, starting with the nice stuff. Then I methodically munched my way through a significant portion of nuts. Knowing Mum was partial to them, I filled a bowl for her.

  Later, Kevin and I moved into the sitting room for games with Mum and Dad. While Catherine and Lucy claimed they were no longer willing to participate in such childish games, they hovered around the room as the rest of us got our faces wet and messy. A gentle prodding from Mum almost got them taking a turn but something held them back. They nibbled at some nuts and watched instead. I wasn’t able to get a bite out of the apples bobbing in the basin of water, but it was fun watching Mum and Dad try. It was equally hopeless trying to get a mouthful of the apple dangling in the open doorway, until Dad held the string for me. These games flagged quickly and then it was time for Kevin and me to go to bed. Aware that an entire week of freedom stretched ahead of us, we didn’t complain.

  Meat Loaf

  Meat loaf was end-of-the-month food. When the freezer was empty and there was nothing left to magic into a tasty meal, it was time to serve up this less than popular dish. In order to trick us into believing that we weren’t just eating a block of minced meat, Mum found a recipe that camouflaged it well. This involved a glaze of brown sugar, tomato purée, Worcestershire sauce and mustard – four powerfully pungent flavours mixed together and spread on top of the meat towards the end of its cooking. The sweet smell of the sugar and tomato permeated the kitchen instantly.

  Getting the meat loaf out of its tin was a tricky operation. Mum needed two fish slices – one at each end. I held the loaf tin with a tea towel while Mum lifted the bending, wobbling block of grey-brown meat gingerly onto a heated carving plate, her dexterity saving it from the floor each time. She cut the meat loaf with the carving knife as part of the pretence that we were eating something more special than minced meat, the fatty bits of the animal, the bits you don’t want to think about or are too embarrassed to mention. And she cut the slices an inch thick. The fact that Mum was carving at all, however, was in itself a giveaway, as carving was Dad’s job. Grease oozed from the loaf as it was cut. I looked around at the faces of my siblings. Lucy’s curled lip and Catherine’s look of horror were, if noticed by Mum, ignored. In trepidation we picked up our knives and forks and got stuck in.

  Our slices of glistening meat with the sharp sugary topping came with peas and mashed potato. I winced at the first mouthful, but the sweetness and eye-watering sting of the glaze somehow combined well with the greasiness of the meat and they cancelled each other out. What I got was a grainy, onion-and-meaty mouthful – not half as distasteful as anticipated. However, the large a
mount left on my plate, the fat hardening to a white solid, said all there needed to be said about meat loaf.

  Dad, regularly and jokingly referred to as the human rubbish bin, always cleared his plate. He also tended to eat any remaining vegetables or potatoes that may have otherwise gone to waste at the end of a meal. He had a big appetite for plain and simple food. So I was surprised to see him leaving some meat loaf and mashed potato on his plate as well. It was definitely time to refill the freezer.

  The large chest freezer lived in our garage. When the lid was lifted, a cold steam seeped out, like the dry ice on The Top of the Pops stage. The baskets on top were regularly replenished with sliced pans, home-made scones, sausages, frozen peas, bags of breadcrumbs and dinner leftovers stored in old Flora cartons. Underneath these baskets was the main reason we had a freezer. There, in the coldest part, lay all of our meat. A different shape, size or shade of red indicated to Mum’s experienced eye which cut of which animal she was looking at. When the silver floor of the freezer was visible – which it now was – it was time to contact Tom Hickey, the butcher. Mum and Dad usually discussed what they wanted before Mum phoned – this was a big biannual financial outlay, so she wanted his assistance with the decision-making.

  When the order was ready, she specified clearly to Mr Hickey how she wanted the hind quarter to be prepared and bagged; the T-bones separated from the sirloin; the mince divided into two-pound bags; how all the roasts and round steak were to be presented.