The Mammy by Brendan O'Carroll Read Free Book Online Page A

up and dust the little flat, sailing across the room on the musical waves provided by Cliffs voice. She opened the cupboard to return the duster just as Cliff began a soft, slow song. With the cupboard door open, she stood for a moment and imagined what it must be like to be married to Cliff - those twinkling bright eyes, that smile all of the time, his coal-black hair falling across his tanned face as she ruffled his quiff. Without realising it, she was running her hand through the dark grey strands of her upturned floor mop. When she noticed this, she giggled to herself and said to the mop, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Cliff,’ and with a swift brush of her hand cleared the ‘quiff’ out of the mop’s ’eyes‘. She took the mop from the cupboard and began slowly to ’lurch’ around the room. She closed her eyes. Suddenly, she was in the ballroom of the Savoy Hotel in London. Cliff had just collected yet another award, the one for being the most handsome, talented and loving singer in the universe. He had thanked the audience and stepped from the stage. He walked through the thronging crowd and stopped by the table where Agnes was sitting. Without speaking he placed the award on the table and extended his hand to Agnes. Coyly she stood, and as the flash bulbs popped and the lights swirled, Cliff began to sing softly into her ear. The crowd parted and, alone on the dance floor, Agnes and Cliff were the couple of the century, as they floated around the dance floor.
    Had a stranger walked into the flat at that moment they would have seen an attractive, dark-haired, smiling woman moving in slow circles, hugging a damp shaggy mop. They could not be faulted for wondering if it might be a good idea to call the home for the demented. This is what Mark saw as he stood by the bedroom door. The music came to a halt and Agnes opened her eyes and noticed Mark. She was both startled and embarrassed at the same time. ‘My God, you gave me a scare,’ she muttered and quickly went to the cupboard, replaced the mop and closed the doors. Mark did not move.
    Agnes sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Sit down, Mark,’ she said gently. He did so sullenly, sliding on to the chair. ‘Are you all right, love? You seem to be upset ... tell me what it is, and, sure, maybe I can help. Are you havin’ a problem?’
    ‘Yeh,’ he answered with his head bowed.
    ‘Well, tell your Mammy. Come on, love. What kind of problem?’
    ‘A willy one.’
    ‘And who’s Willie?’
    ‘My willy.’
    ‘What do you mean your Willie? Is he your pal?’
    Mark looked up at his mother. Maybe she really was going potty. ‘Me willy! What I use to do me pee,’ he said, now pointing down at his pants.
    Agnes panicked. She jumped up from the table and put the gas on under the kettle. Tea sounded like a good idea. It had never entered her head that she might have to explain to her sons what other uses a willy had. With her back to Mark, she calmly said, ‘I see.’ She sat down again. ‘And eh ... what’s the problem? Is it sore?’
    ‘No,’ Mark answered, without the elaboration that Agnes had hoped for.
    ‘Is it itchy?’ she asked, not knowing why she was asking such a stupid question, but probably in the hopes that Mark would take the initiative and begin to explain.
    ‘No.’ Again, no elaboration.
    ‘Well, tell me. Tell your mammy, what ... eh ... what’s wrong with your willy?’
    ‘There’s hair growin’ on it.’ Again Mark had lowered his head and actually looked as if he was talking to his willy.
    ‘Is that all? That’s all right, son.’ Agnes was relieved. A simple answer should put him right here. ‘That happens to all boys around your age. It’s the start of becoming a man. All young boys get hair on their willy.’ Agnes was smiling as she spoke and Mark was looking at her. His expression was one of relief. Agnes was pleased with herself, she was a ‘modem woman’ she thought. Her son had asked her a very personal question and she was