Going Home
What’s that? Is that the stairs creaking again? Do you hear it, Jimmy? We never did get around to fixing it. The list of jobs was always too long and time too short.
Mary Anne gazed out of the window. It wasn’t a bad view, considering: a nice green lawn, dotted with screeching cockatoos, the odd brush turkey ambling by. And like clockwork at five o’clock every evening, that big old lizard would snuffle his way past the bins, on the lookout for grubs, no doubt. The sky was a deep blue, with the odd puffball cloud and, way up high was the unforgiving sun. 35 degrees the radio had said. It was another blistering summer’s day in Sydney.
Yes, there was a pleasant view from the window but that wasn’t the one Mary Anne saw as she looked out. No! Her eyes saw quite a different sight, one filled with greys and greens: the rolling hills of her native Ireland, the drizzling rain of another fine, soft day, the low-lying clouds weighing heavily.
Did you hear that, Jimmy? Is it just the house creaking in the heat? Remember how you used to laugh when I wondered about ghosts.
Mary Anne sat up straighter in her chair. She’d sat at that window for so many days now that she’d lost count. Hours went by without leaving a trace. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Words that punctuated the day, dividing it into neat parcels. Mary Anne remembered times when days were filled with busyness. Children’s lunches had to be made, school bags sorted, children or, later, grandchildren delivered to schools, collected again, homework supervised, meals prepared and so on for what seemed forever. Where had forever gone?
What’s that you said, Jimmy? The kids? Oh, they’ll be out and about. You know how it is.
The so-called ‘kids’ were all grown up now. Had kids of their own. Mary Anne remembered. The joy of that first grandchild. She’d lost track now of how many grandchildren there were. She got confused these days but she loved them. Loved them all. Loved seeing them when they called.
Mary Anne looked down at her hands, clasped on her lap. She almost jumped with fright to see such gnarled specimens. She used to have nice hands, dainty hands Jimmy would say. They were capable hands too though, used to soothing fevered brows, to rocking sleepless babes, to handing out treats, picking up the pieces when things went wrong. Now, they were resting, no more work to do, idle. She didn’t like to be idle but there didn’t seem much to do these days.
Jimmy? Will I make us a nice cup of tea?
Slowly, carefully, Mary Anne stood up and made her way to the small kitchenette. Everything took so long these days. She found the cups, the spoons, the milk and the teabags, all neatly arranged. She filled the kettle, with some difficulty but she did it. Switched it on and waited. She was good at waiting.
Now, where did I put the sugar? Can’t have tea without a bit of sugar, that’s what you always say, right, Jimmy?
At last, the teabag was extracted from the golden liquid, sugar and milk added. Spoon stirred and all placed on the tray. Now go gently, Mary Anne. Don’t spill a drop. Back in the chair. Success!
The light is fading now, the sun is setting. Not like summer in Ireland when daylight lingered until almost 11 p.m. Mary Anne missed the long summer evenings. She remembered how they’d stay on the beach until late in the day. It would be cold but they’d still eat ice cream. And they’d be wrapped in soft fleecy towels. Of course, she’d been just a child then. She hadn’t seen her native city for years and years. Jimmy and she had set out on an adventure, arriving in Sydney almost seventy years ago now. They’d reared the family here, they’d buried their first-born here, and they’d mourned the deaths of their parents here. This was where they lived and laughed and cried but, for Mary Anne at least, it had never really been home.
Oh now, don’t get me wrong, Jimmy. I did love living here. It was exciting. We brought up our children. They’ve done very well. All are happy. We had a good life, now didn’t we, Jimmy? A good life, all told. No regrets at all.
But oh, to see the old streets again. To feel that particular cold air come in from the Atlantic. The smell of fires burning. Fog. Gentle rain. And to be out in the sunshine and not worry about getting burnt. And have real sausages and black pudding for breakfast. And bread and jam for tea. Not shop jam but mother’s gooseberry jam made from fruit picked in the garden. And cold Christmases. Oh, remember them, Jimmy? Our breath visible in the air as we waited for the carol singers to appear outside Cash’s. Going to the Coal Quay to buy the vegetables for the Christmas dinner. And visiting Santa Clause’s grotto in the Munster Arcade. Wearing mittens and wellies and duffel coats. Rushing to make a snowman before the snow melted in the watery sunshine. Lights twinkling on Patrick’s street. And, of course, meeting Jimmy outside Roches Stores when they’d first become a couple. She’d lived twenty years of her life in Cork and seventy more in Sydney. Yet, those early years were now clear as crystal in her mind while the later ones were dim, fading slightly with every day that passed.
Oh Jimmy. I’d love to go there just one more time! I’d love to go home just one more time!
Jimmy? What do you think, love?
Another creak on the stairs? Or maybe not, for this time the sound is coming from outside the window and it’s accompanied with laughter and giggling and the sound of tapping on the glass. Mary Anne looks out, squinting to see more clearly. She sees a gathering of people on the grass, some waving, others with balloons. There’s a cake and candles.
Gran. We’re here! Happy Birthday!
Happy Birthday, Granny!
Hurrah! What’s it like to be 90 years old, Mum?
Did you open your presents yet? Hope everything fits.
See the cake, Gran. Will I blow out the candles for you?
You get a wish if they all go out…
The window is filled with smiling faces. Mary Anne’s children, their partners, their offspring are all trying to peer into the little unit in the retirement village, to catch a glimpse of their beloved mother or grandmother they haven’t seen for so, so long. She’d moved into the village when they had all decided she could no longer cope on her own. She liked it well enough. It was practical. And the nurses were very kind. It certainly was better than rattling about in the old homestead, with its creaky staircase that always made her think of ghosts. Jimmy used to laugh at her and her imaginings. His wild Irish girl, he’d call her. They had told her he had gone a few years back. She didn’t miss him though. Why would she?
Jimmy? They’ve all gone now, so it’s just us, again, like in the beginning. Can you credit I’m 90 years old? Can you imagine that? 90 years old. Don’t you think it’s time for us to go on home now?
Mary Anne holds her breath for she hears, at last, the longed-for words:
Yes, you are right. It is time to come home, now, my wild Irish girl.
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