THE BRITISH, I decide, only bury people when they are so dead, you need another word for it. The British wait so long for a funeral that people gather not so much to mourn, as to complain that the corpse is still hanging around. There is a queue, they say on the phone (the British love a queue). They do not gather until the emotion is gone.
What else am I to make of the ten days we have to wait for paperwork; the death certificates and removal orders, that have to find their separate ways into the one envelope that will accompany my brother on his journey home.
Meanwhile, as computers wait and printers jam, as coroner’s assistants go to the gym, and registrars wrestle with the collapse of their central heating systems, Liam lies in some unspecified foreign fridge, and I-we all-get on with things. From time to time, as I move about the house, I am gripped by the thought that I have, shamefully, forgotten something: there is a tampon seeping into the water of the downstairs toilet; I have left half a biscuit on the arm of a chair, or forgotten to finish my tea. I can feel it going cold in my mouth, as I hunt around and finally find the empty cup.
Every day I go over to Griffith Way and sit in a formal sort of way with my mother, and Bea if she is there, or Kitty. We talk about ordinary things. Or we settle her in front of the television set and retreat to the kitchen, where Kitty-where we all-look diminished, overgrown. I am shocked by the amount of products we need, each of us slicked up and greased down, until there is no surface free of cosmetic matt or sheen. This is what it is to be middle-aged in the place where we once were children, and now, highlights notwithstanding, we are being treated like children again, not so much by our mother, as by death itself. Except we are very good children this time around.
I am a good daughter. I am a very good daughter. In some sort of middle-class fit, I go into Kilkenny Design and buy my mother a beautiful, spider-woven, cashmere shawl, in cream.
She takes it out of the bag, entranced for a moment by the idea that she might look like an old lady off the telly.
So this is what they give you, when your children die.
She lets me put it across her, but her rounded old shoulders reject it, as does the set of her jaw. She pulls it down into her lap, saying, ‘It would make a lovely christening shawl, wouldn’t it? Ciara has one on the way.’ Because, although she never quite knows us when she sees us in the flesh, my mother counts over her progeny and their progeny to the third generation; she shifts through their names with pleasure and ease.
‘She’s due in February, isn’t she? Very cold.’
All the Hegarty babies are baptised, because to do otherwise would be to rob this woman of what she rightfully owns, her little treasure of souls-we all traipse dutifully up to the font and hand them over. I didn’t mind, actually, but I thought Jem was pushing it. Who knows what the Hegartys believe? Mossie-the-psychotic goes to Mass every day during Lent, but we only know this because he tells us, being psychotic. The rest of us do our praying alone.
I take the shawl from her, folding it and putting it back in the paper bag, saying as I do so, ‘Would you take something for yourself, Mammy, just once.’ And she gives me a beaky look, as if to say, What? You want me to be like you?
I don’t know what is wrong with being me. And I don’t know if she would like me better, if she could remember my name. Mammy was always free to choose which ones she did and did not love. The boys first, of course, and after the boys, whichever of the girls were good.
I was not good. I am not sure why. It is not that I ever did anything out of the way. I just didn’t buy it, and neither did Liam. We just didn’t buy the whole Hegarty poor Mammy thing.
Poor Mammy sits and watches afternoon TV, as she does, and will do, before and after the death of any other human being. It is impossible to say what she is thinking about. When she speaks it is of things that happened long ago, before any of us came into the world: the adventure of the milkman’s horse, the day she set fire to the living-room carpet in Broadstone, her mother Ada at the thin end of the month, making a stew that was only vegetables-jungle stew, she called it, the carrots were ‘tiger meat’ and the parsnips ‘camel chews’.
Around us, the house is empty and tatty; a warren of partitions, scuttling with the ghosts of the children we once were. Three dead-we are nearly a normal family now. A couple more and we will be just the right size.
I had a guy in to clean the carpets once, and he told me he was the last of twenty-one. All big families are the same. I meet them sometimes at parties or in pubs, we announce ourselves and then we grieve-Billy in Boston, and Jimmy-Joe in Jo’burg, doing well-the dead first, then the lost, and then the mad.
There is always a drunk. There is always someone who has been interfered with, as a child. There is always a colossal success, with several houses in various countries to which no one is ever invited. There is a mysterious sister. These are just trends, of course, and, like trends, they shift. Because our families contain everything and, late at night, everything makes sense. We pity our mothers, what they had to put up with in bed or in the kitchen, and we hate them or we worship them, but we always cry for them-at least I do. The imponderable pain of my mother, against which I have hardened my heart. Just one glass over the odds and I will thump the table, like the rest of them, and howl for her too.
This is what, over the years, my mother has made:
1) Cups of tea.
My mother has wet, in her lifetime, many thousands of pots of tea-she never made anything else, really. And we always fought over it. Midge liked hers stewed; Ernest, weak. Mossie liked to wave the pot around, but it was Ita who splashed me once, swinging it round in an arc-I can still see the dirty ribbon of water looping towards me, the line of pain across my midriff, and how cold the cotton was, as I tried to peel it off.
Who’s for tea?
Strange to say, she only made two alcoholics, of the actual would-you-ever-try-AA variety. But all the Hegartys are thirsty. All the Hegartys would kill for a decent cup of tea.
2) Descendants.
Most of the girls are genetic culs-de-sac and who would blame them, though Midge had six-she had them early and she had them often; her first coinciding with Mammy’s last (it’s not a competition, you know). Jem has two lovely babies. Mossie, the psychotic, has three careful children who have never left the family home in Clontarf.
3) Money.
No one has a proper job, except Bea who works as an office manager in a big estate agents in town, also Mossie who is an anaesthetist (we suspect that someday he will leave the gas on that tiny bit too long). But the rest of us just have euphemisms. Ita is a homemaker, Kitty is an actress, I am a night owl, Alice is a gardener. Both Ivor and Jem work in multimedia, which is the biggest euphemism of them all. Ernest is a priest (I rest my case).
4) Heterosexuals.
‘Are you all straight?’ my friend Frank once said to me, in tones of great disbelief.
‘Hmmmmm…’ I said.
Midge? Not really relevant, is it? Once you are dead. Or, alternatively, once you’ve married a pub manager and bought a house in Churchtown. Midge was a mother; she was a wiper, a walloper, a panicker, a hoarder of pains, especially her biggest and last. She might have been gay or straight or sheep-shagging, it is too sad to think about, really. What Midge desired, never mattered in the slightest. As for the rest of them: half of Bea’s boyfriends are gay, but I don’t think she is. Ernest is celibate. Kitty sleeps with lots of men, and she loves each of them and they are all married. Is that a sexual orientation? It should be-the little bitch. She only shags the impossible dream.
No one knows about Alice. But everyone knows about the twins Ivor and Jem who have very pleasant, normal sex (hurray!)-not with each other, I hasten to add, but with their partners, one of whom is a girl from Surrey and one of whom is a nice German radio producer (male).
Meanwhile, Baby Stevie has little angel sex, up there in heaven, naked with the rest of the cherubs. He is queer as all get out. They make little noises when they kiss. It sounds just like their name. Putti. Putti. Putti.
None of us is straight. It is not that the Hegartys don’t know what they want, it is that they don’t know how to want. Something about their wanting went catastrophically astray.
This is what I sense as I look up the stairs to the room where we were all conceived: I sense the chaos of our fate-or not so much a chaos as a vagueness-the way that no one could find a groove. And I remember how proud we were. And how loyal. And the way we all stuck together. And wasn’t that just great?
I always knew where everyone was. I used to sit on the window sill of our room, curled up against the fragile sheet of glass and track the entire house: Ita at the bathroom mirror, Midge at the sink. Mossie scratching his scalp into the seam of his biology book, Liam keeping company in the garden passage. Even at night I could tell who was where: each room cold and differently stale as the whole, soured day unloaded itself through my brothers’ sleeping skin; the scent of my mother’s tablets in the upstairs toilet, after she went in there to pee.
They are waking up. They are coming back home.
Bea, Ernest, Ita, Mossie, Kitty, maybe Alice and definitely the twins, Ivor and Jem.
They will thunder in overhead, in the huge bellies of planes. Ivor from Berlin and Jem from London, Ita from Tucson, the mysterious Alice from God knows where. Maybe even Father Ernest in a stripy ethnic hat, in from Lima via Amsterdam.
A hosting of the Hegartys. God help us all.
We will do the Hegarty thing. We will be brave and decent and hearty, we will cry and suffer through. There will be no bollocks, because the Hegartys don’t do bollocks; the great thing about being dragged up is that there is no one to blame. We are entirely free range. We are human beings in the raw. Some survive better than others, that is all.