Last Summer in Ireland

I didn’t get much sleep in the two nights before the funeral, so on the day itself I seemed to see everything in the brightest Technicolor, with the sound turned up. The incredible noise of elderly relatives drinking tea or whiskey, according to sex, in the sitting room. The fallen petals from the wreaths tramped into the hall carpet. The bright green wing of Sandy’s eyeshadow. The frayed ends hanging down from the giant umbrella produced by the funeral director.

I felt slightly drunk most of the time, though I left the actual alcohol to Sandy and Matthew. Nevertheless, I felt very much in command of the situation. Like an anthropologist who has studied her tribe long and hard, I knew exactly what I should do at each point as the elaborate ritual unwound. I think I even managed to play my part with conviction. Matthew said I did it very well. Sandy was quite unambiguous in her praise: ‘You were just fantastic, Dee. Given how you really feel, you were incredible. I don’t know how you did it.’

In one way, it was all very easy. You simply didn’t allow your true feelings to get in the way. You let people have what they wanted, say what they wanted to say, believe what they wanted to believe, because that was what was important for them. Truth of any kind was the enemy, not to be allowed within the charmed circle of mourners and mourned.

In particular, Mother’s dying, lengthy, painful and diminishing, had to be rewritten to their liking. She had fought every step of the way, refused all the help and support the hospice had so richly offered, been critical and unpleasant to everyone she had come in contact with and repeated endlessly that her only wish was ‘to be out of this damn place and back to work’. But such facts, however true, are not relevant to those who gather to mourn.

The church was very full and very hushed. In contrast, the minister’s voice was very loud. It seemed to oscillate in harmony with the sudden drumming of rain on the roof and against the windows of the north aisle. I found its resonant boom strangely soothing. But the more it went on, the sleepier I got. I was listening to poetry in a foreign language. I was sure it was very good and no doubt apt to the occasion, but what was I supposed to say at the end of it all?

I sang the hymn vigorously, took deep breaths as I had been taught at choir practice and hoped that would help me to get through the address. We were asked to be seated. I composed myself.

‘Pearl Henderson, our dearly beloved sister in Christ, devout member of the church, unfailing servant of the Lord, whose triumph over death, whose courage in adversity was surely an inspiration to us all, goes before us into glory . . .’

As the words cascaded down upon me, I couldn’t quite grasp what was happening. I just kept looking at the toes of my new black patent shoes. Even though I had polished them the previous evening, they seemed to be very dusty. I wondered if it was the shininess that attracted the dust and whether they would have been less dusty if I hadn’t polished them.

‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if the Lord doesn’t have her the devil must.’ I was in the school playground, on a March day, bright with sun, the dust blowing in a sudden breeze, the long arc of a skipping rope curving before me, the chant of children’s voices.

But it was not children’s voices I was hearing, it was still the minister. Quieter now, more conversational, he was reading from his notes: ‘Pearl Henderson was the youngest member of a churchgoing family. Hers was a home where Jesus Christ was known and loved and Pearl brought that knowledge to her family life here in Armagh after her marriage. It was the faith and care of Christ that sustained her when, with her two children still very young, she lost her husband and bravely took up the role of breadwinner.’

One of the undertaker’s men had a dreadful cough. I looked across at him as he tried to muffle it in a huge striped handkerchief, but the more he tried the worse it got. By the time he’d recovered himself, the well-articulated voice had reached the 1980s. Mother’s active phase of building up the business gives way to ‘the opportunity for further public service through the Business and Professional Women’s Club of which she was secretary for many years’.

‘Cheerfulness, industry and efficiency. These were the keynotes of Pearl’s personality. Whenever she did something she did it well, and the Church had good cause to be grateful for her gifts, for who but Pearl could have organised so efficiently the Christmas bazaar. She would long be remembered for her magnificent needlework and tapestry, for her Swiss rolls and her Christmas puddings.’

I had forgotten the Christmas puddings. We dreaded them. I could see so vividly before me the huge bowl of sticky ingredients, the row of ready-greased containers, and hear the sharp edge in her voice should either of us dare come into the kitchen while she was preparing them. There were boiled eggs for supper when she cooked the puddings for the bazaar. She’d had enough of cooking and washing up for one day, she always said.

I was quite upset when the voice telling me the story about this wonderful woman stopped and instructed me to lift up my heart and sing another hymn. Halfway through, the undertaker’s men smartly turned the coffin through 180 degrees like a military manoeuvre, summoned Matthew to take his place at its leading edge, and left Sandy and me to our own devices.

‘Come on, Deirdre,’ I said to myself, as the funeral director caught my eye. ‘You’re back on parade. Get Sandy moving down that aisle beside you. No one else can move till you do. Another two hours and it’ll all be over.’

It was raining more gently as we stood on the muddy, tramped grass by the open grave. A sheet of plastic grass covered the mound of excavated earth. Like a model of Emain itself, it dominated the wet ditch into which minute rivulets dripped and splashed.

The coffin bore a shiny, brass plaque: ‘Pearl Henderson, Born 21 January 1926, Died 16 May 1986’. The saturated earth fell upon it and obliterated her lifespan.

The funeral director moved us on. Behind us, the undertaker’s men in black coats and well-polished shoes, were filling in the grave as if they were hard at work in their own back gardens. As we reached the paved path at the edge of the churchyard, I saw the departing mourners pause, turn and adjust their face muscles ready to address a member of the immediate family with the customary, ‘I’m sorry for your trouble.’

Rather like going to church each Sunday, even if you never sang, never listened and left it to the minister to do all the praying, to speak these words now would ensure your presence had been noted, a tick entered in the register that mattered most to you – God’s or your neighbour’s.

After the words had been spoken, it was equally important to draw a response from the family member in question, preferably a comment the deceased had made in happier times. This comment would be repeated when the funeral was discussed in those circles where Mother was known, exchanged for similar comments, leaving the speakers confident that they had done justice to the event.

‘Miss Henderson, I’m sorry for your trouble.’

Those who knew me called me Deirdre, but those who didn’t followed the old custom of not allowing marriage to intervene between a daughter and the death of a parent. They lined up and said their piece as they shook my hand.

‘Parker. Fred and Mary. We knew your Mother very well. So sad. Such a loss to the Church. And what a wonderful new shop she made after the bombing. Such energy. I wish there, were more like her.’

I nodded and smiled, thinking of Malvolio. ‘Mother often spoke of you. You used to help on the cake stall, didn’t you?’

There were dozens of them, all ready to present the speech they’d prepared. I’ve always had a good memory for detail and as my mother was voluble about her activities and concerns, I found I could place nearly all of them. Unfortunately, so much of my life passed before me as I did so that I felt like the proverbial drowning man.

At some point, the minister excused himself for another engagement and I became aware of the fact that Sandy and Matthew were nowhere to be seen.

The last hands were shaken, and then, only then, did I realise that the funeral director had been standing behind me all this time, his huge umbrella angled into the drifting mizzle so that it didn’t get in the way, but still protected me from the worst of the rain.

‘It’s a hard day for you’n yer sister. She’s very upset, the young lady is. Yer good man thought he’d best take her back to the house. I daresay they’ll have a nice, hot cup of tea waitin’ for you. You’ll feel more yerself after that.’

That was the only time I lost hold of the proceedings. I mumbled my thanks and as he put me into the back seat of the funeral car I burst into tears and cried the whole way back to Anacarrig. Not for Mother. For a little man with a red nose and a country accent who had held an umbrella over me when he needn’t have bothered.

2 (#ulink_5efc8f92-3fae-57dd-8c33-eb553c004aa6)

Beyond my bedroom window the swifts wheel and cry in a clear sky. Blackbirds are hunting on the lawn below. It has been a warm, sunny day and now, when my lamp would be lit if I were in London, it is still bright enough to read. I had forgotten how long the light lingers in Ulster. I am further north and further west. It feels like a different world.

A week now since I arrived with Matthew and Sandy, the house cold and dank, closed up since Sandy’s last visit, the rain pouring down as if it would go on for ever. I’ll never forget that Saturday evening with the phone ringing and visitors arriving and all the awfulness of the funeral still to be faced. Now it seems so far away. Even the person I was that evening, the one who said the right things to neighbours and relatives, who handed round cups of tea and glasses of whiskey, seems someone I hardly recognise.

I am beginning to feel different, but I’m not sure in what way. I do know I don’t feel so panic-stricken when I go into Mother’s room any more, certainly not like that first morning when I was determined to stick it out and then turned tail and ran. I don’t push my luck, I don’t stay in there very long at any one time, but I have been managing better.

I’ve made this long list of things I must do, most of which I dread having to do, but I bribe myself, just as I did during all those years of revision for exams, the mugging up of boring stuff for the sake of the results I needed.

My secret weapon is the garden. Two days after the funeral, I took a mug of tea outside and had a look around while it was cooling. I got a nasty shock. The lawns had been cut and the edges trimmed, but nothing else had been done. Mr Neill, who does the grass, was sure to have offered to keep things tidy, but Mother would have insisted she’d be home in no time, so there was no need at all to bother.

There were huge stems of groundsel poking up through the splashes of purple aubrietia and pink saxifrage. The rockery was full of buttercups and sprouting thistles. Before I quite realised it, I had a pile of weeds on the terrace and my tea was stone cold.

It was that first head of groundsel that did it. ‘Out you come,’ I said, as I tweaked it from the rain-softened earth. That’s what my father always said.

The garden had been Mother’s big thing. Even more than her baking, her tapestry, her pickles and preserves, the immaculateness of her garden was one more demonstration of her superiority over the locals. But it was my father who designed and laid it out.

I always assumed it was because she came from Belfast that she felt she had to show the locals she could do just as well as any country person, but maybe that’s not the reason at all. Certainly, however much anyone might argue for Armagh’s historic status as a city, Mother always insisted it was just a country town and its inhabitants were only country people. When my father commented that Armagh was the ancient capital of Ulster and the ecclesiastical capital of all Ireland, she only laughed. Big words and grand phrases were always ‘a lot o’ nonsense’.

My father, of course, was only a countryman, in her terms. She had been quick to forget that this particular countryman had designed and created both the house and its garden. Indeed, after all the years in which it was ‘her house’ and ‘her garden’, I had almost forgotten myself how much I loved the garden I had helped him to make. Since I stood looking over the familiar flowerbeds, the mug of tea still in my hand, I have wanted to be nowhere else. Through all the hours I’ve spent there, I’ve been so happy, working and listening, remembering things I haven’t thought of for years.

It was Great-aunt Minnie who used to tell me stories about my father. Back in the 1920s, he used to pass the site on which the house is built on his way from the small cottage where he lived to the primary school in Armagh. In the days before school buses, he had plenty of time to think as he walked. She said he started to plan a house on this hillside even then.

The year I was born, 1951, he bought the land. Steeply sloping and without planning permission, it was going cheap. Minnie said my mother thought he was mad. Even if he could ever afford to build on the land, the position was quite unsuitable. It was too far out of town, inconvenient for the shops and school. Worse still, it wasn’t among her own sort. All the neighbours would be Catholic. Later, when building did begin, she said her kitchen would be overlooked by cottages at the top of the hill and that the sitting room had a view of a dreadful old farmyard with a rusting, corrugated-iron hayshed. The other sort, of course. As one would expect.

He met her objections one by one. He bought her a small car and went on using his ancient bicycle to pedal to the shop in English Street where he sold seeds and fertilisers to men in big boots. He worked all the hours there were. If he wasn’t in the shop, he was in the garden. He terraced the slope to the road, built the stonewalls and the rockery, began planting trees and shrubs, laid out the rose garden and the vegetable plot, screened the cottages at the top with willows and the farm at the bottom with chestnuts and sycamores.

I learnt their names before I’d even started school. Sitting on the wheelbarrow drinking tea from his Thermos, I listened while he told me where all the different shrubs and trees were to go, what they liked, how they would grow and what a big girl I would be when they were all just right. That was before the building work started, of course. Once that began, we had our tea with the workmen in their stuffy wooden hut with its paraffin stove. One of them became a great friend of mine, an elderly Catholic called Mick from some unknown place called Mill Row. Until Mother found out, that was.

He was such a silent man, my father. Silent in himself, I mean. Beyond his work and Anacarrig, his greatest pleasure was his books. History and natural history were his great love, but he also enjoyed some poetry. I remember him reciting ‘Under the Spreading Chestnut Tree’, one day when William Coulter from Tamlaght came to call and found us planting saplings down by the road.

The other thing my father enjoyed was talking to country people like William Coulter. He was slow to get started, and so indeed was William, but with a little encouragement they would tell the most marvellous stories. I had no greater delight in those days than to sit in William’s forge, or the garden, or some unfinished room in the new house and listen to them talk of ‘the olden days’. Never ‘the good old days’, always ‘the olden days’.

My mother hated it when my father told his stories. Whether it was about the olden days or the events of everyday, immediately she got irritated, behaved as if he was somehow wasting time, idling when there was work to be done, and not looking to the future, to a bigger shop with a greater turnover and a higher income. Yet all the time he was creating a house well ahead of its time, stocking seeds and tubers of the newest varieties and planting a garden that only the future would reveal in its full character.

I supposed then it was because she was such a townie and so proud of being brought up in the city with all its life and bustle, that she objected to what she thought were ‘country ways’, but I’m not sure any more. Her hostility seems too deep for that. Sometimes I think she was standing over against the man himself, rejecting the deep sense of self from which all his actions flowed. It’s one of the puzzles in my life that I may never resolve.

It is almost dark now and the cars on the road below me are using dipped headlights. I can see them only momentarily as they pass the bottom of the drive. The seclusion of the garden is complete, as he said it would be.

The house was finished in 1958, when I was seven and Sandy just two. A year later, at the beginning of June, with the garden full of blossom, apple, pear, damson, flowering cherry and hawthorn, he collapsed behind the wooden counter of his shop in English Street, packets of seeds still in his large, square hands. He was dead before the ambulance got down the hill from the hospital.