Secrets And Styes

Chapter 15: The cure

Maria looked back, but the three people were already out of sight. She gave me a quizzical look, "Was he really wearing eye shadow?"

Happy she was now engaged with me, I replied. "Yes, and he had red stuff rubbed on his cheeks. Why does he wear make-up like that?"

She shrugged, "He probably just likes women's things, some men do." Her answer flummoxed me. I wanted more explanation, a rationale for why a man would make up like a woman, why the two women with him, nor my sister seemed bothered by it, and more importantly, why it bothered me?

But there was no time for more questions, as we saw Town Granny climbing the stone steps of her small backyard. She was looking out for us, and by her stance, it was clear we were somewhat late. We upped our pace and ran to her.

A short, compact woman dressed in a white cotton blouse, buttoned tightly at the neck, a blue pinstriped pinny tied tightly around her ample middle.

She stood at her gate, straight and stern, "Dermot's finished his dinner; he's off down the town; what kept yous?" she asked.

Maria didn't hesitate, "Sorry Granny, it's my fault; I woke up with this thing in my eye and was worried about it," she said, pulling back her hair.

Granny took a cursory look, "You have a stye; Milly has the cure." She lifted the latch on the gate, "Come and get your dinner first before it dries up altogether."

......

Town Granny lived in a small house, part of a terrace built to house the returning soldiers who'd fought in the First World War.

Her husband, our granddad, was long dead. We knew nothing of him because he was never spoken of. Town Granddad was an enigma to us; he played no part in our life's narrative.

.......

Maria and I followed Granny down the steep concrete steps, through the back door, into a narrow kitchen, then straight into the small living room.

The sulphurous smell of over-cooked cabbage hit me, instantly ridding me of what little appetite I had.

......

Of course, Pope Paul IV and Jesus were there, each having their very own walls to hang from. They were joined in reverence by America's finest Catholics, JFK and RFK, who hung in proud profile from a third wall.

A table and four chairs formed the centrepiece of the small room. A recess to the right contained a coal-burning range, which pumped out a hazy heat, creating a stiflingly uncomfortable temperature on what was already a warm summers day.

I pulled at the collar of my t-shirt, "Can I open a window, Granny?" I asked, wanting respite from the smell and heat.

"No, the room will fill with flies." She pulled out two chairs, "Come on now, sit yourselves down."

Soon, a new dilemma was put in front of me: Town Granny's dinner.

I winced at the plate, on which lay a shrivelled chop with its culinary companions: three dried potatoes and a mound of odorous old cabbage. Beads of sweat pricked my forehead as I wondered, 'How will I get through this?' Granny proceeded to add insult to her injury by brandishing a jug, peeling back a thick brown skin and depositing a glutinous gloop of gravy from it.

When it splatted on the plate, I couldn't hide my repulsion, "NO! I don't like gravy, granny – I only like it when it's part of a stew," I implored, instantly regretting my outburst.

She ignored my plea and plonked another plop on my plate, "Don't be acting the maggot; there's starving childer would be glad of that feed," she said, sailing her gravy boat over to Maria.