I can鈥檛 remember when the image began to fade. How
could I? I was only two and a half for God鈥檚 sake,
and time has danced on memory鈥檚 fragments.
My mammy is carrying God鈥檚 gift, a tight white pupa
of swaddling clothes across her breast. I can see that right
now. That bit is always there. She鈥檚 walking towards
us, never getting closer, too far away to smile. Sometimes
she is away up beside the green gaslamp, and sometimes she
has almost reached the first house on our side, the McGoogans.
She鈥檇 hardly have been wearing one of her scarves
that day; more likely was her proud thicket of auburn catching
the August morning鈥檚 sun (and kept catching it for
years later through my frequent races round to the chemist鈥檚
shop for an Auburn Tonerinse). That piece is missing. But
I can remember her slenderness and height and poise; her
back would still have been straight then.
That鈥檚 my daddy behind me on the steps. And that鈥檚
me under his belly, one hand on the doorframe to lean my
head into the street. Sometimes it鈥檚 three and sometimes
it鈥檚 four of us, but at least one of my two older
sisters was there. They are all behind me you see, so I
can鈥檛 see them. But I can see they are there. We are
all leaning into the street, looking up. Sean was coming.
That鈥檚 him in my mammy鈥檚 arms. Getting closer.
Never getting closer. McGoogan鈥檚. The lamppost. Halfway
in between. Fragments rearranging.
It鈥檚 hard now to see how big and open it all was
when the wasteground was there. Wasteground 鈥� that
was its name. You have to say it fast, joined up. It鈥檚
just one word, wasteground, not waste ground. She is coming
down our side of Eglinton Street between the big blocks
of red brick flats. I have to work hard to remove the flats
they built there. They weren鈥檛 there yet. They shouldn鈥檛
be there. The flats weren鈥檛 there. I try not to see
them; I try to see the wasteground where we played for years.
But it鈥檚 hard.
And the green gas lampposts with their arms pointing up
and down the streets 鈥� there was hardly a moment when
some urchin wasn鈥檛 swinging from a frayed piece of
salvaged rope in quickening spirals around them, the whole
thing leaning to follow the game like an old man too stiff
and tired to play anymore. The lampposts dug their own graves
in increasing circles, often in the sickening stench of
escaping gas. Why is this not there?
It鈥檚 like a picture you see. Like a picture where
things change. Never lying, just changing. But it鈥檚
definitely Sean there in my mammy鈥檚 arms. Getting
closer. Never getting closer. Never making a sound. Mammy鈥檚
hard heels silent on the concrete paving. Here comes mammy!
- one of us must have blurted it. But no one is saying it.
No thump from a swinging child against the solid post, nor
clunk of straining metal against kerbstone. There鈥檚
no time for sound; it鈥檚 all just a blink. A broken
blink. Silent and still.
It can鈥檛 have been the Christening, that鈥檚
a family thing; we would all have been there. Mammy must
have been on her way home from the Mater Hospital some days
after birth鈥檚 pains had eased. That was a woman鈥檚
thing; so now it was time to go home and there she was walking
down our street on her own with the new baby.
She is walking close to the new wall with its parallel
layers of red brick, the wall around the flats. But the
wall wasn鈥檛 there yet. The flats weren鈥檛 there
yet. Where is the flatness of the wasteground where we stole
mammy鈥檚 yard brush to push twisting train tracks through
the granite beads and raise the summer鈥檚 dust in choking
clouds?
When I try hard, I can still see how the dust would build
invisible layers over the pavements and lie in wait to catch
the first overgrown droplet which threatened a summer storm,
signalling capture by a creeping inkblot of damp as dark
as the sky that sent it. Those first raindrops would throw
the warm dust up into a thick miasma that bit at awakening
nostrils. In my mind鈥檚 eye, why is the first echo
benign, odourless, clean?
You can see photographs of our street in Bombs on Belfast.
You can see the homes blown to bits, crumpled by errant
German bombers, and the hard hatted help scratching through
the detritus with no more for tools than the strength of
bare hands. But another photograph shows that ample hands
cleared it to perfect flatness except for one curiously
lumpy knee-high rock that protruded to add a surreal adornment
to one corner of the wasteground. The focus of many a head-scratching,
ice-cream-licking moment turned out eventually to be nothing
more than an excess of concrete dumped for want of further
use; it seemed that it didn鈥檛 go the whole way through
to Australia after all.
There鈥檚 my mammy and Sean just across the street
from our rock. But I can鈥檛 look over to see it. It鈥檚
not part of the picture. And there鈥檚 us leaning out
from the steps to see them coming. That's me under my daddy's
belly with one hand on the doorframe and the other supported
on the gloss painted render covering the front wall. But
it wasn鈥檛 rendered yet. Why can鈥檛 I see the
hoary wash of age bleached into the flaking brickwork and
crumbling mortar?
I can see mammy getting closer. Never getting closer. She鈥檚
at the gas lamppost. McGoogan鈥檚. Halfway between.
Fragments.
