The Mammy Read Online Free PDF

butter with the wrapping wide open like a greaseproof butterfly, and half a loaf of bread. Agnes decided she would put young Mark down for his nap before tackling the mess on the table. Once the child was asleep she would have the whole afternoon to herself. Redser never came back from the bookies on a Saturday before the last race was over.
    The fresh air had done Mark the world of good, and he went to sleep quickly, his rosy cheeks puffing contentedly. Agnes came back into the only other room of the flat and went over to her radiogram - a bargain she’d got from Buddha for three quid. She selected six records from her pile, all Cliff Richard of course, and loaded them on the spindle, set the speed to 45 and flicked the Play button. The arm lifted, and a record made a little ‘plap’ sound as it hit the deck. Agnes began to pin her hair up as Cliff went into ’English Summer Garden‘. She loved Cliff, and so did Redser. In fact, Agnes had noticed the letters C.L.I.F.F. tattooed across Redser’s knuckles before she’d even seen his face on the night they had met.
    Her hair tied up, Agnes attacked the mess on her new table. When the table was cleared, butter in the scullery, loaf in the bread bin, Agnes took a damp cloth to the table. On her first wipe she noticed them - four long straight gouges. They were made by the bread knife as it cut through the loaf ... they were made by Redser. Her heart dropped. She sat down and ran her fingers over the cuts slowly, as if somehow this might heal the wounds in her brand new formica-topped table. But it didn’t. As Cliff belted out ‘In The Country’, Agnes wept quietly. Her table was no longer new.
    When Redser came home Agnes was sitting on her new settee. Mark was by the fireplace, a cushion under his head, and one of his cot blankets over him. He was awake, but contented to lie there in the heat of the fire watching the flickering flames dance from coal to coal. Usually Agnes would have noticed that Redser was in a foul mood, but today she didn’t care. He didn’t say hello, or talk to the baby, but took off his coat, threw it over one of the new kitchen chairs and opened the oven. It was cold and empty.
    ‘Where’s me dinner?’ He spoke into the oven.
    ‘Yeh cut me table,’ Agnes said quietly.
    ‘What?’ The oven door slammed.
    ‘Yeh cut me table.’ Agnes’s voice now went up a notch. ‘Look at it!’
    ‘Fuck the table. Where’s me dinner, woman?’
    ‘It can’t be fixed, yeh know. Yeh can’t fix formica!’
    ‘Are you goin’ deaf ... Where’s me fuckin’ dinner?’
    ‘I didn’t cook yer fuckin’ dinner. Now will yeh look at me table?’
    ‘You didn’t cook the dinner? Yeh didn’t cook me dinner?’ Redser advanced towards Agnes and she saw the warning signs. His bottom lip went white and began to quiver, his forehead began to redden and his temples to pulsate. She stood. He stopped. There was a madness in his eyes, they seemed to jump about. She went to speak. The slap, when it came, seemed vaguely familiar. He used the back of his right hand, the one with C.L.I.F.F. across the knuckles. It met the right side of her face full on, her head spun to the left towards the fireplace and her now wide-eyed and frightened son. She remembered. It was familiar. It was identical to her father’s slap. She wondered if her Da had taken Redser aside and shown him how it was done, or did young boys get taught it in school? She tasted the blood in her mouth. She didn’t cry. A man’s slap had long since ceased to be a reason for Agnes to cry. She just slowly brought her face back to his. He was half-smiling, just like Daddy.
    ‘I don’t want to hear another fuckin’ word out of your mouth until there’s a dinner on that fuckin’ table.’ He walked to the table quickly. He slapped his hand on it. ‘Here! Right here ... on this table ... my fuckin’ table. Right?’
    She didn’t speak. She went to the cooker and prepared a fry. He turned on the radio