Read Online At My Mother's Knee by Paul O'Grady - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul O'Grady
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Theater and President Calvin Coolidge was in office. The Americans were still recovering
from the abominations of the First World War. It was also an
era of disenchantment.
Biddy was certainly disillusioned with America. She lived in
the Bronx with a relative of Uncle James's, a woman named Annie Duane . Annie was a jolly character of prodigious proportions,
who had one eye and a fondness for a drop of 'the
holy water' – whisky. She added the words 'Christ on
the Cross' to everything she said. 'Would you like a drop of
tea, Christ on the Cross?' she would ask cheerily, proffering a
cup of black, sickly sweet liquid to her disdainful houseguest.
Biddy would survey the claustrophobic, overcrowded,
cockroach-infested kitchen adorned with religious icons and
inhabited by this Cyclops and her blasphemous tongue,
and regret ever leaving Ballincurry.
'Would you not ever consider remarrying, Biddy, Christ on
the Cross?' Annie enquired, lowering her voice so the girls
wouldn't overhear such a delicate topic of conversation.
Biddy's eyebrows shot up to her hairline. 'Not at all, especially to one of these Americans. Why, there isn't a good
man amongst them. New York is nothing but a city of heathens
and whores.' Only yesterday, hadn't she taken the girls to the
Picture Palace to see Ramon Novarro in Ben-Hur and an
animated short called Felix the Cat and been called a 'snooty
broad' by a 'big, uncouth pig' of a man who had approached
her in the street? And hadn't she had to walk past a theatre
with pictures of naked women outside, and run, her hands
over the eyes of her two impressionable daughters in case they
saw these trollops parading in little more than their underwear
for everyone to see? Jesus, this country was no place for a
decent God-fearing woman.
After living in America for less than a year Biddy booked her
passage home to Ireland, sailing once again on the Franconia .
She took Sadie with her, while Mary elected to stay and eventually
married an Italian, Joe Schillaci . (That set the cat among
the pigeons – but that's another story.)
Biddy died from cancer on 16 November 1932. The house
that this independent woman had reared her family in is still
there. The upper floors have long collapsed and the building
stands empty, providing shelter still but only for the animal
feed and farm machinery that's stored there. The family who
own the property built themselves a bigger, more comfortable
home next door.
My dad took me to see his birthplace on one of our many
trips 'home'. An animated old lady with wild hair and an
apron that she kept taking on and off made a great fuss of us.
She rushed around, chattering excitedly, making strong black
tea and carving huge slabs of fruit cake, while an old man sat
smoking a pipe and spitting contentedly into a great open turf
fire. To my young eyes it was a dirty, primitive hovel. To my
dad it was home. 'I was born up there,' he said sadly, pointing
up the stairs to a bedroom.
He showed me where he'd carved his name in the back of a barn door when he was a boy. As he ran his finger over the old
letters that spelt out the word 'Pakie', a tear rolled down his
cheek. He hadn't been a rural hoodie in his youth, carving out
racial abuse on farm outhouses – the name was an abbreviation
of Patrick. It was what my dad was called by his family
in Ireland: 'Cousin Pakie'. My mum called him Paddy. I was
used to seeing my dad cry in Ireland. As soon as he stepped off
the boat he turned into a maudlin romantic, as did everyone
else he ran into while he was over there.
He loved Ireland with a passion. He loved the people. He
had always hoped that one day he would go back there, but my
mother didn't share his sentiments. She'd felt that some of my
father's family had objected to him marrying an English girl (as
indeed they had when his sister Mary married an Italian) so she
had been more than a little apprehensive about meeting them.
At the end of the war my dad took his bride and two
children
from the abominations of the First World War. It was also an
era of disenchantment.
Biddy was certainly disillusioned with America. She lived in
the Bronx with a relative of Uncle James's, a woman named Annie Duane . Annie was a jolly character of prodigious proportions,
who had one eye and a fondness for a drop of 'the
holy water' – whisky. She added the words 'Christ on
the Cross' to everything she said. 'Would you like a drop of
tea, Christ on the Cross?' she would ask cheerily, proffering a
cup of black, sickly sweet liquid to her disdainful houseguest.
Biddy would survey the claustrophobic, overcrowded,
cockroach-infested kitchen adorned with religious icons and
inhabited by this Cyclops and her blasphemous tongue,
and regret ever leaving Ballincurry.
'Would you not ever consider remarrying, Biddy, Christ on
the Cross?' Annie enquired, lowering her voice so the girls
wouldn't overhear such a delicate topic of conversation.
Biddy's eyebrows shot up to her hairline. 'Not at all, especially to one of these Americans. Why, there isn't a good
man amongst them. New York is nothing but a city of heathens
and whores.' Only yesterday, hadn't she taken the girls to the
Picture Palace to see Ramon Novarro in Ben-Hur and an
animated short called Felix the Cat and been called a 'snooty
broad' by a 'big, uncouth pig' of a man who had approached
her in the street? And hadn't she had to walk past a theatre
with pictures of naked women outside, and run, her hands
over the eyes of her two impressionable daughters in case they
saw these trollops parading in little more than their underwear
for everyone to see? Jesus, this country was no place for a
decent God-fearing woman.
After living in America for less than a year Biddy booked her
passage home to Ireland, sailing once again on the Franconia .
She took Sadie with her, while Mary elected to stay and eventually
married an Italian, Joe Schillaci . (That set the cat among
the pigeons – but that's another story.)
Biddy died from cancer on 16 November 1932. The house
that this independent woman had reared her family in is still
there. The upper floors have long collapsed and the building
stands empty, providing shelter still but only for the animal
feed and farm machinery that's stored there. The family who
own the property built themselves a bigger, more comfortable
home next door.
My dad took me to see his birthplace on one of our many
trips 'home'. An animated old lady with wild hair and an
apron that she kept taking on and off made a great fuss of us.
She rushed around, chattering excitedly, making strong black
tea and carving huge slabs of fruit cake, while an old man sat
smoking a pipe and spitting contentedly into a great open turf
fire. To my young eyes it was a dirty, primitive hovel. To my
dad it was home. 'I was born up there,' he said sadly, pointing
up the stairs to a bedroom.
He showed me where he'd carved his name in the back of a barn door when he was a boy. As he ran his finger over the old
letters that spelt out the word 'Pakie', a tear rolled down his
cheek. He hadn't been a rural hoodie in his youth, carving out
racial abuse on farm outhouses – the name was an abbreviation
of Patrick. It was what my dad was called by his family
in Ireland: 'Cousin Pakie'. My mum called him Paddy. I was
used to seeing my dad cry in Ireland. As soon as he stepped off
the boat he turned into a maudlin romantic, as did everyone
else he ran into while he was over there.
He loved Ireland with a passion. He loved the people. He
had always hoped that one day he would go back there, but my
mother didn't share his sentiments. She'd felt that some of my
father's family had objected to him marrying an English girl (as
indeed they had when his sister Mary married an Italian) so she
had been more than a little apprehensive about meeting them.
At the end of the war my dad took his bride and two
children
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