The Mammy by Brendan O'Carroll Page A

closed her coat quickly, picked up her glass of stout, and as she supped it she glanced around the room again to be sure nobody was watching.
    ‘On your diddy?’ Agnes was aghast.
    ‘Shhh, for fuck’s sake, Agnes, do yeh want to take an advert in the bleedin’ paper?’
    ‘Sorry ... on your diddy?’ Agnes’s voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper.
    ‘Yep.’
    ‘What did Dr Clegg say it was?’
    ‘I didn’t go yet.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Because if this lump is caused by me havin’ them organisms ... I’d be scarlet, that’s the why.’
    ‘Don’t be stupid, he’s a doctor, he knows all about organisms. It wouldn’t bother him.’
    ‘Do you think so?’
    ‘I’m sure of it. We’ll get Fat Annie to mind the two stalls, and I’ll go down with yeh.’
    ‘Would yeh, Agnes? Ah, you’re a pal! I’ll tell yeh, it’s sore. Some days I can hardly lift me arm.’
    ‘It’s probably a cyst - that’s it!’ Agnes sounded sure.
    ‘Yeh, probably.’ Marion was relieved.
    ‘Mr Foley? Same again, please, and two packets of nuts.’

Chapter 9
     
    LIFE WAS TAKING AN UPSWING FOR MARK and his interest in girls was beginning to dominate his waking and sleeping hours. Rory’s interest, however, was confusing for him. What he liked most about girls was their clothes, the feel of nylons and he longed to try out their make-up. In school the other boys called him ‘sissy’, but not to his face. All of the other boys knew that Rory, ‘sissy’ or not, was still a Browne, and you didn’t take on the Brownes.
    This protection was not afforded, not directly anyway, to Cathy, being the only Browne girl in the girls’ school. She attended the Mother of Divine Providence Girls’ School in Ryder’s Row. It was a strict school run by nuns. For ten years of age, Cathy was a bright child. She was also well liked by her classmates. Cathy was very pretty. Her shoulder-length, raven-black hair always had a shine, as did her large brown eyes that were barely visible beneath the fringe that always needed to be brushed aside. Indeed it was this hairstyle that was to lead to the incident that would later be referred to as ‘the case of the fringe and the nun’.
    That day, Monday, had started badly for Cathy. She awoke to Mark’s call that it was eight o‘clock. The warm June sun exploded into the room when Mark pulled the curtains back.
    ‘Get up, Cathy,’ Mark yelled.
    ‘I’m up, I’m up,’ she replied sleepily, trying to bury herself beneath the blankets.
    ‘You’re not up - now, get up!’ he said as he yanked the blankets off her, leaving her lying on the bare bed in her nightdress.
    ‘Ah Marko,’ cried Cathy.
    ‘Ah nothin’! Now c‘mon, Cathy, get up.’
    Mark made sure everyone was up before he left the house for school. He had been up himself since five o‘clock with his mother, as he was every morning. He would do his milk round with Larry Boyle from quarter-past five to half-six, then it was around to McCabe’s shop. He’d pick up fifty papers and run on his paper round, arriving back to the flat at about half-seven or so, have a porridge breakfast and get the others up, before he left for school at quarter-past eight. Although the school was only ten minutes away, he had to leave early to drop Trevor to his Granny Reddin in Sean McDermott Street. Granny Reddin would mind the three-year-old until Mrs Browne picked him up that evening.
    Cathy rummaged through the underwear drawer. No knickers! She rummaged through the boys’ drawer, Mammy often threw knickers in there by mistake. Nope! No knickers. She wandered out to the bathroom. The clothes-horse was full and, right enough, there was a pair of knickers on it, but they were damp. She stood for a moment, scratching her head. It’s a pair of pinnies today, she thought. Pinnies were a pair of her mother’s knickers, the slack gathered to the front and tied together with a nappy-pin. This kept the knickers from falling down or drooping. It looked awful