Time Present and Time Past by Deirdre Madden Read Free Book Online Page B

adorable-looking child. At no stage in her life had she gone through a gawky or awkward phase. Thinking of her now, Fintan considers that she had been like one of those seemingly cute animals with thick fur and big round eyes – some kind of lemur, perhaps – that have razor-sharp claws concealed in their little paws, and that would slash your flesh if provoked. Martina’s tiny frame had held an enormous will, and she battled against her mother in a way that had surprised Fintan. He hadn’t realised that there was any option except to go to Scouts or serve Mass or go to swimming lessons or any of the other things which he didn’t much care for but which his mother presented to him as an obligation. It had been a revelation when Martina flatly refused to recite a poem at the school concert, or to attend Irish dancing classes or piano lessons. There had been real battles between Joan and Martina over such things, which Fintan had observed, awestruck and slightly frightened. It had been like watching a little squaddie defy the Commander in Chief. It was somehow against the natural order of things and it had unsettled and disturbed him to hear Martina’s tantrums, even as, deep down, he had silently egged her on.
    â€˜What colour were the stable doors? I can’t remember; can you? It’s a pity it’s in black and white rather than colour.’
    â€˜Given how long ago it feels, it’s a wonder it isn’t in sepia. When exactly would this have been taken?’
    Â Fintan stares at the photograph as he says, ‘Do you know, I think that this could have been the last summer that we went up there. I’m going on the ages we look to be.’
    â€˜Do you remember arguments about it when we stopped going?’
    â€˜Vaguely. I don’t think it was so much Mummy and Daddy quarrelling about it; I suspect it was more complicated and strategic than that. I think it was Granny putting pressure on Daddy. It was her wanting us to keep going back in spite of the Troubles, and him then trying to coax Mummy, and her having none of it. I suppose she had a point,’ Fintan says, but Martina disagrees.
    â€˜Oh come on, Fintan, the Troubles were only an excuse. She always hated us going up there. There was no love lost between her and Granny Buckley. Can you remember Joan ever going up, even once?’
    And Fintan has to admit that he can’t. In all his memories of being delivered or collected when he went to stay, or on the day-trips they would make at other times of the year – in the autumn to collect apples, or at Hallowe’en, and always before Christmas to collect a turkey – it was their father that he remembers being with them. And he recalls how there was something slightly different about him when he was back in the house where he had grown up. Fintan can see him standing on the flags of the kitchen that was dark as a cave, can see him drinking tea, talking and laughing with his mother, Fintan’s Granny Buckley. But when he tries to think of his own mother there, he can’t. His imagination fails at the idea of Joan sitting in that room, in the collapsed armchair beside the stove, with its hand-crocheted cushion made from scraps of coloured wool, even though it was the most comfortable chair he has ever come across; nor can he see her at the long kitchen table, whether bare or with an oilcloth on it.
    â€˜She always used to nag us before we went, “Don’t be touching the farm animals because they’re very dirty and if you do happen to touch them be sure to wash your hands as soon as you can afterwards.” And then she used to nag us when we got back, because we might have picked up a bit of an accent.’
    â€˜Picked it up? I worked hard at mine,’ Fintan says. ‘I loved the way they spoke up there; I used to imitate Edward. I used to practise under my breath and repeat the things he said.’
    â€˜I came home one year and