Och

When she needed to speak of anything but the comings and goings of any ordinary day it was a different matter altogether. For our Ma, drawing an envelope-sized rectangle on her lap with her one good hand had as many meanings as the drying tealeaves on the bottom of her Mum’s cup. If she drew just that and nothing more, it meant often a task we could perform without leaving The Vatican. But if she drew the rectangle and pointed out the window it meant that she needed something done in Carrickfergus, or something from Carrickfergus; it meant, possibly, that she wanted something from or done in Belfast, or something from or done at the church, or something from or done in New Ringgold, Pennsylvania, or something from or done in the bloody Land of Oz. Of an occasion it meant that she wanted something from the shops, a treat, a chocolate bar, stamps. Or it might be that there was a new bishop appointed in some suburb of some backwoods Brazilian town and she wanted to hear of him and his good works, because the TV had made a fuss of this particular gentleman and maybe she’d like a magazine to have read to her describing his good works. That rectangle meant that the Pope himself had signed some declaration about something, and that it affected something in her life somehow. It was important this rectangle, for frig’s sake, and she needed the news, the insight, the gossip there and then. If she drew the rectangle and pointed to the TV it meant that she had heard of good works by Bishop Desmond Tutu, and sure isn’t he a great humanitarian, at least that's what someone had read to her from the magazine she now wanted. Of an occasion it meant that she had learned of bad works attributed to Bishop Len Brennan, and she was laughing out loud but not without some hint of guilt, but sure she'd make up for it by putting an extra shilling in the weekly envelope. The rectangle and the pointing of the finger meant everything. It meant anything. She called me from the kitchen. She drew the rectangle. She pointed out the leaky window.

 “Okay, what is it, Ma? You want something sent? Card? Letter? A bill paid?”

“No,” she replied, blunt and emphatic, leaving me with little doubt that I need not ask those questions again, for frig’s sake, y’eejit.

“Is it a cheque? Do you need to pay something?”

“No.”

“Okay. I need something else, Ma, a bit more here. Is it to do with anyone in here?”

“No.”

“Is it to do with the church?”

“No.”

Every few questions I clarified, just to be sure. “Okay, it’s nothing to do with us, the church, the bank, or money? Yes? That right?”

“No.”

“Right... So… No as in it’s not something to do with them, or no it is something to do with them?”

“Yesths.”

“Right. Okay. Is it a letter?”

“No,” she replied, getting frustrated at my frustration.

“Okay Ma, I have no idea what the hell it is you want.” When at the very edge of giving up on her fruitless task she would swipe her hand in the air and exclaim “Och”. Och was another of the Irishisms I had removed from my vocabulary years previously. That short guttural utterance indicated disappointment, or frustration, and was as cast away an exclamation as those blessed and depressing and pervasive remnants such as “aye”. The modern Irish garnish liberally their language – foreign or domestic – with these ancient tics. Och, in this sense, denoted my mother’s mild anger and her frustration. Swiping her hand and uttering “och” was her way of getting rid of the previous conversation, the useless one that went nowhere, the failed chat that hung in the air between us, limply, benignly. The scrubbing of the air meant “Oh, let’s just forget it” or “Nope. You’re way off there, boyo.” Her good hand sent failed conversations crashing to the ground. 

“Is it the church? The bank? Someone in here? One of your sisters?”

“Yesths! Yesths!”

“Okay, was it the bank? No? Your sisters? The…”

“Yesths! Yesths!”

“Ah, your sisters. Okay, which sister Ma?” Our hearts would sink at the mention of our Ma’s beloved sisters: the guessing was to start again, but this time it would involve people we met only rarely; people whose birthdates were mysteries; women of whose pedigrees and predicaments we remained ignorant due to miles, years of seemingly happy absence, and more than a little indifference to their lives and deaths. Except Aunt Kathleen, whose influence remained. She did say “och” on an occasion or two that I can remember. I probably shuddered.

The stroke left Ma unable to remember the names of her sisters with the exception of Kathleen, so she called all of her sisters “Katleen.” She did the same with my sisters. And my brother. And me. And Aunt Phil. And Aunt Margaret. And Dad. “Katleen” was everyone she had ever known, and anyone she would ever know. Katleen was the name she gave to every face because she had no way of recollecting a name, or a duck, or a bus, or a cat, or of saying any of these with any clarity.

“Which sister, Ma?”

“Och!” Her hand rose, swiping away the notes she sang to the staff, dropping them to the floor like so many dead flies. “It’s Katleen.”

“I thought so. Which Kathleen do you mean? Do you actually mean Kathleen?”

“No.”

“Pauline then, that Kathleen?”

“No.”

“Bernie?”

“No.”

“Sally?”

“No. Oh god, it’th fantathtic.” She felled our benign chat with one swipe.

“Right, okay. So it must be Rosaline then?”

“No.”

“Oh for Jesus sake, Ma! I’ve said them all. Is it Kathleen? Pauline? Bernie? Sally? Or Rosaline for god’s sake?”

“Och, no! It’s Katleen! Och!” Her hand rose and erased again, and the pile of flies grew.

“You said it was to do with one of your sisters, Ma.”

“No. No. You’re thithterth!”

“My sisters? Anne-Marie and Martina? Those sisters?”

“Yesths! Your thithterth!”

“Ah, right. Gotcha. What is it?”

Composing herself, and savouring a minor triumph, Ma drew the rectangle on her lap once again, pointed out the intact but still leaky windows and then back to herself.

“O-kay. First off, is it Anne-Marie or Martina?”

“Yesths.”

“Which one, Ma?”

“Katleen.”

“Anne-Marie?”

“No. Oh god… Katleen! Katleen!”

“Right. Okay. What do you need Martina to do?”

“I need…” She had no way of telling me what she needed, so she drew the rectangle. 

“Oh, I don’t know how to thay it, you know? It'th all wight but it'th all wong at the thame time, you know?” As she said that she pointed to her throat and drew a dividing line up her body, from her nave to her chaps, cutting her good-bad body in half with her long index finger. This was her way of saying, “If this damned operation hadn’t given me a bloody stroke and sliced my vocal cords and taken away my ability to think I’d be able to tell you what I want to say, so I bloody well would!”

“I know, Ma, I know. We’ll get there. Is it money?”

“Yesths.”

“Do you need money from the bank?

“No.”

“Do you need to put money in the bank?

“No. Och!”

“Do you want to give someone money?”

“No.”

“Do you need some money now?”

“No. Oh yesths! Yesths! Mawtina… money. Och!” More notes trailed from the air.

“Okay… So you want Martina to do something with money, but you don’t want her to take money from the bank or put money in the bank? Is that right?”

“Yesths.”

“Money, money, money… Is it someone’s birthday? Do you need her to buy a gift?”

“No!” More dead flies.

“Okay Ma, let’s just keep trying here.”

“I can’t thay it, you know. Oh god, it’th fantathtic!” Her hand went to her cheek, and she lay on it heavily, pushing her elbow into the side of her belly. Her head she shook in confused desperation, and she regarded the fire in the hearth with a look of resignation.

“I know Ma, I know. But we’ll get there. Trust me. Do you have to pay for something?”

“Yesths! No. Oh God. Katleen hath to pay thomething!”

“Martina has to pay something? That Kathleen?”

“That'th it! That'th it! Katleen haths to pay thomething! Oh thank god, thank God.” She took my hand, looked me in the eye and said, “I love you, oh god, I love you, I alwayth have and I alwayth will, you know.”

“I know, Ma. Love you too. Right, now we’re cooking with gas, Ma! Let’s keep going. So, what does she have to pay?” She drew the rectangle on her lap once again.

“Do you have to give money to Martina for her to pay this?”

“No.”

“Right, okay. Is she buying you something?”

“No. Thee’th got the money.”

“She has the money, and she knows she has to pay someone the money, I take it?”

“That’th it shon. Sthee hath to pay money to me!”

“Oh, right. Martina has to give you money? Why?”

“For… I gave her…to… Oh god…” Near-dead flies and near-dead notes hung, mingled momentarily, then crashed.

“I can’t thay it, you know. It’th all wight but it’th all wong at the thame time, you know.” She carved from her nave to her chaps again, pointed to her head, spinning her hand at the wrist. I’m confused now, that is what she meant.

“I know Ma. Try to relax. We’re nearly there.”

“I gave her money, and…”

“And you need it back, I take it?”

“That’th it! That’th it. Oh thank god…”

“At last Ma! Told you we’d get there. How much did you lend her?” She drew another rectangle.

“Paper money?”

“Yesths.”

“A five?”

“No.”

“Ten?”

“No.”

“Twenty quid?”

“No.”

“Thirty?”

“No.”

“Okay. Was it more or less than thirty?”

“Lesth. Och!” Flies.

“Ten.”

“No!” Notes. Then flies. She turned her hand at her head.

“Twenty?”

“Lesth than that ath well.”

“Fifteen?”

“Yesths! Yesths!”

“See? We got there. Didn’t I tell you we would? Don’t worry, I’ll give her a nudge about it. She owes you fifteen quid then?” I laughed.

“Thank you, shon. Thank you.”