She went about her business indoors like a wound-up toy, everything to be done on time and any exception put her into bad humor. She was such a presence about the place, there’s days I half expect to meet her on the landing, standing up, straight as a willow, her thick auburn hair tucked up tight, her face like a mask, never a smile on it. I know something now about what it is to feel trapped and though it’s a strange thing to say, with all the money they had, I think that must have been how she felt. And, hard as she was, I think I understand her better now. Oh, don’t look so shocked I survived that and many another thing. Your grandmother was a hard woman, Anna, brittle as yellowman and fond of her “apt punishments.” This was to teach me to keep my nose out of the affairs of my betters, she said, and in the dirt where it belonged. I’ll never forget that smell, that taste in my mouth: it’s as strong as the day, nearly eighty years ago, that I was made to lie down on the avenue with my nose buried in it.
Metallic tasting, like the shock you get when your tongue hits the tine on a tarnished fork.
You must have carried it in on your feet. Can you smell that? Gravel, after the rain. If you stay for your tea you’ll get a bit of cake. One thing’s certain: within the week I’ll be ninety-two. If it’s not the exact day, it’s not far off it. When I was born, Daddy went to register the birth but not having had much schooling he wasn’t sure of the date. At least, it’s the day I call my birthday. You couldn’t have known it, but you’ve come on my birthday, of all days. I suppose we’re none of us interested in the stories of our people till we have children of our own to tell them to.
And then they can’t get enough of it, peering after it, asking it where it’s been. It’s an odd thing, isn’t it, the way the past has no interest for the young till it comes galloping up on the back of the future. Sure, why else would you be here? I know by the face of you there’s a baby on the way, even if you’re not showing. There’s not much change on you, apart from what we both know. You’re the spit of your mother standing there-Florence, God rest her-and you have the light of her sharp wit in your eyes. RESIDENT, ORANMORE NURSING HOME PORTSTEWART, NORTHERN IRELANDĪnna.
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