Country Girl: A Memoir by Edna O’Brien Page A

smell in the roomwas of melting wax and disinfectant, since the linoleum floor had been scrubbed by the woman who laid him out.
    On the nearby dresser there was Delft and pans of milk off which the cream would be skimmed. My aunt did it daintily, with the tips of her fingers, and the cream, which would have been delicious on blackberries, was kept to be churned to make the next consignment of strong-smelling butter, most of which she brought to the shop in the town in exchange for groceries. Full of idleness and not knowing how long my incarceration might be, I pined for home. To avoid the kitchen with its smells and my grandmother moaning, I passed the days in the little plantation, where my aunt had sown red dahlias that contrasted so happily with the dark, funereal yew trees.
    Late in the evening my aunt would be out of doors milking, feeding calves that she made pets of, and yelling, “Chook, chook, chook,” to hens that were unwilling to go into their cramped coop. I would sit with my grandmother in the encroaching dark. She had a necessary thriftiness and knew the hours of light that any one candle could give and was slow to put the taper to it. It was then the crickets began to screech like mad. They lived in holes in the mortar surrounding the fireplace, but with candlelight and the devilment in them they would fly out in swarms. They always landed on a wet towel or a wet tea towel that was hung up to dry, landing there to suck up the moisture. They lived on that. In the dog-eared almanac, in a drawer, there was an article about crickets which said that their screeches came not from their throats but from the brisk attrition of their wings. Neither of us knew what “attrition” meant. My grandmother would rave on about the hardships she had endured and what proud patriots I was descended from. One, nicknamed “Da Stick,” had fought in an insurrection, was injured, and long afterward fitted with a wooden leg. I never knew which insurrection it was, as there were so many down the years, all, as Iknew from school, botched, both through lack of weapons and the treachery of informers, brothers or cousins informing on their own. Her son Michael had been chief of the 3rd Brigade in East Clare, a fearless soldier on the run from the British army, with a price on his head. He had kept a diary, which she would pull out from a nook in the wall as if it were the Book of Psalms. She read aloud, her voice trembly:
    Started ploughing, had one scrape done after dinner, when I sighted lorry of Tans turning Lyon’s Cross. Just in the centre of the field in full view. To run would be foolish. Kept on ploughing going towards them ’til I reached headland. They were then one hundred yards away, but in shade of some trees. I cleared fence and retreated to Allen’s wood and sat there peacefully watching them searching for me. Slept that night at John Mack’s, at 3 a.m. heard lorries, hid in bed, then sent Billy Mack to warn Turner. Billy returned to say they had Turner’s house surrounded and it looked bad. Retreated across Bo River to Griffins and waited the urgent news.
    By then my grandmother had always succumbed to tears and would get me to decipher the next page and the next, as the ink of many years had faded to a dunnish brown. I craved only one thing, which was a spoon of golden syrup that slid so easily down the throat.
    One night long after my grandmother had gone to bed, my aunt Delia, otherwise a gentle woman, decided to play a prank on me. She had a visitor who was also called Delia, and they kept saying, “Fancy, two Delias in the same humble parish.” The other Delia had been to America, and that’s where the word “fancy” came from, as did the word “darn” instead of “damn.” The other Delia was forever boasting of the harmony with her dear dead husband, how they sat of an evening by their friendly fire, giving each other necessary encouragement and saying, “Whatever the darn crops do, you and I will