Mrs Whippy (2 page)

“Charlie,” I said, opening the door before he put the key in the lock. He refused to return the key to what he considered “his house”. And it was his. He had never put my name on the deeds to the house. In fact, he had refused to.

He looked up at me in surprise. Then his usual scowl returned. He always seemed irritated by everything I did.

“Where are the boys?” he growled, looking past me.

“They're in the sitting-room,” I said, aware that my voice sounded child-like. He had that effect on me. “I just wanted to talk to you about something first.”

“What?” he snapped. “We've done enough talking. I'm not coming back. Don't beg me again.”

My face reddened. I felt my head get hot. I swallowed hard and looked down at my hands. I still had my wedding ring on. He hadn't. He had refused to wear it the day after he said “I do”. I should have known that meant “I don't”. I should have known it meant “I never will.”

“No, I … I … I don't want to talk about that,” I stammered.

“You, you, you what?” He imitated me cruelly. He was enjoying my discomfort.

“I want to talk to you about the boys, Charlie.”

“What about them?” He picked at the back of his teeth. When he removed his finger from his mouth, he studied his nail.

“They've been acting up for the past while. They –”

“They're always acting up. They're kids, for Christ's sake.” He waved his hand dismissively and looked irritated again. Even when we started going out, I always had the feeling he was embarrassed by me in public. When I began to tell a story he would interrupt and finish it. Sometimes he would make a joke half-way through to change the subject. He didn't like when the attention was on me, when someone else asked for my opinion. He was embarrassed by my opinions. He was ashamed when I didn't agree with him. He belittled me all the time. I said and did nothing about it because I
loved him. When I said “I do” at the altar, it meant that I really, really did.

“No, Charlie,” I said a little more strongly. “Mr Murphy called me into the school again this week. Vincent still won't talk to anyone. He won't talk to his brothers or any of the kids at school. He won't talk to the teacher. He –”

“He talks to me,” he said childishly. Accusingly.

“He does?” I asked in surprise.

“The boys are fine with me. They feel comfortable with me, Emelda,” he said. “If they're not happy here, we'll have to make different living arrangements.”

I felt like he'd punched me in the stomach. My body started to shake. I couldn't lose my boys.

“Charlie, I think it's important that you tell them to listen to me. I'm their mother. They're with me six days a week. I have to look out for them. I need
you to tell them that. I need you to tell them that we both know what's best for them. They should respect that.”

He had smirked the whole time that I was talking.

“You want me to do your job for you?” He looked over my shoulder and down the hall.

“Charlie,” I continued, “they don't –”

“Boys!” Charlie shouted loudly. He pushed me out of the way and walked into the living-room.

“Listen to me,” I continued quietly. I said it to myself, really, rubbing my arm, which had banged against the wall when he pushed me.

“Dad!” Mark yelped. I could hear him jumping up from the floor to wrap his arms around his father.

I tried to control my rage. Every day of my life, everything I did was for those boys. But I never received an excited hug like that.

“Hi, Brian, how's the girlfriend?” I heard. My eyes almost popped out of my head. Girlfriend? What girlfriend?

“Shh,” I could hear Brian say.

“Don't worry, she can't hear.” Charlie dismissed me and they both laughed. She. He called me
she
.

They left the living-room and pushed past me in the hall. Nobody said goodbye to me apart from little Mark, who was being carried by Charlie.

“Bye, Mam!” he called, leaning over to give me a kiss.

“Bye, love. Be good for your dad,” I said, kissing him on the nose.

He nodded excitedly and Charlie carried him away before we could hug.

I watched them walk toward the car. For the first time I noticed that
she
was in the car. The Russian broomstick. The one who swept the ground right from under me. I didn't know her name and I didn't care.

“Hi, Goldie,” a voice said as they opened the doors. My heart almost stopped.

It wasn't her name that shocked me. It was the fact that it had been said by Mark.
My
baby Mark. He jumped onto her knee in the front seat and innocently waved at me, bursting with excitement.

My whole body shook and my knees weakened as I watched them all drive off, leaving me in silence. Even at forty-six years of age, I sat on the stairs and cried for my mammy.

As I said already, on Saturdays I usually collapse onto the bed and stay there until the next day. This week I couldn't do that. On Monday I had decided to go out and get a job. Well, I didn't have a choice. Charlie had cut my weekly allowance. When we were married he had felt very strongly about me not working outside of the home. I was happy to stay at home with the boys. Knowing that Charlie wanted to provide for me and the children made me feel safe and protected. I was a very
innocent young woman. I handed my independence and life to him on a silver plate. He took it and feasted on them.

I got a part-time job in the local supermarket, packing bags at the till. I could work from eight thirty to two o'clock, two days a week, and a full day on Saturday. I thought it sounded reasonable and that I could cope with it. It meant that I could still collect Mark from school. Brian and Vincent had long stopped wanting to be seen with me in public.

The supermarket was very handy, as it was only ten minutes' walk from the house. But I was feeling very nervous that first morning as I got ready to go to work. I had never worked outside the home. Ever. I met Charlie when I was still in school. We got married as soon as I left. We had children and Charlie felt it was best that I stay home with them.

My first day of work felt like my first day at school. I was going into an unknown environment. I would be surrounded by people I had never met. It was all very new to me.

After the ten-minute walk to the supermarket I was already panting. I was aware I was putting on weight, but I didn't care. Eating ice-cream in the evenings was my only comfort.

They put me to work at a till and, my God, was it busy. I would barely have the first bag open when I would be faced with a pile of groceries. They all moved so quickly off the conveyor belt and gathered at the end of the till. I found it so difficult to keep up. I was sweating after fifteen minutes. The customers just kept on coming.

From the corner of my eye, I could see the supervisor, half my age, keeping her eye on me. Every now and then she would make me take
everything out of the bag and start again. Apparently I was mixing dairy with raw meats and squashing fruit with tins. I could barely concentrate on what I was doing. Everything was being fired at me so quickly. All the groceries blended into one and became a blur in my eyes. When I got my first fifteen-minute break, I had never been so pleased to finish anything in my life.

I went into the staff room feeling tired, hot and sweaty. I was greeted by a few giggles. All the other bag-packers were less than half my age.

“You're Mrs O'Grady, aren't you?” one spotty-looking teen said.

“I am,” I said politely and pointed to my badge proudly. “Emelda.”

“I told you, Jenny,” he sneered and they all laughed.

I looked around the room to the girl he referred to as Jenny. I noticed her face was bright red.

“Scarlet,” she said, trying to cover her face with the collar of her polo shirt.

“Do I know you?” I asked her politely, looking around the small kitchen for a chair. My feet were swollen and sore, as I had been standing for hours. All the seats had been taken. I could once again hear my mother's voice in my head, giving out about the youth not offering up their seats to their elders.

I flinched with pain as I shifted my weight from foot to foot.

Jenny rolled her eyes and looked away, her face becoming even redder. The crowd all jeered her.

“No one's going to tell me?” I asked, still polite but feeling a little embarrassed now.

They all laughed and continued talking among themselves. Some
flicked through magazines, ignoring me. I looked around and spotted a kettle. I filled it with water and flicked the switch. I was absolutely dying for a cup of tea. My arms were sore from the constant movement of packing. I hadn't had that much exercise for years. Leaning against the counter for support, I looked longingly at the chairs. I hoped someone would leave so I could take their seat before I passed out.

Finally the teenagers looked at their watches and began to file out one by one. I spooned sugar into my tea, added a drop of milk and sat down at the table.

“Oooh,” I couldn't help but say as the pain disappeared from my feet. I kicked off my shoes and relaxation swept over my body. I took a sip of the hot, sweet tea and allowed it to slide
down my throat. It instantly calmed my nerves. I was afraid to close my eyes in case I fell asleep. I felt completely worn out.

There was a bang on the door.

“Emelda!” came the shout from the young supervisor. “Back to work, break's over,” she snapped. “There's a line of people waiting at the till.”

“Yes! OK!” I replied, jumping and spilling hot tea over my hand. I forced my swollen feet into my shoes. I put the hardly touched cup of tea back on the table and hobbled my way out to the shop floor.

It was only eleven o'clock.

Why do I love ice-cream so much? It's not just the taste I like or the soft, creamy texture. I appreciate ice-cream like a wine drinker appreciates a good glass of wine. Like wine tasting, ice-cream appreciation is not just about drinking or eating it. To experience the true flavour you need to pay attention to your senses. Sight, smell, touch as well as taste.

The colour of ice-cream can tell you its origins. I'm not just talking about
brown for chocolate and white for vanilla. I'm talking about rich homemade ice-creams with juicy raspberries, strawberries and blackberries.
Real
ice-creams that don't have artificial flavourings. Ice-creams that don't come straight from a factory and into a tub. I'm talking about ice-creams made in someone's kitchen from organic ingredients and freshly grown fruit, filled with natural flavours. Tangy orange, bitter lemon and country brown bread ice-cream.

Gourmet ice-creams have the right thickness and consistency. The texture on your tongue can be balmy or harsh. Does it give a refreshing zing to the edges of your tongue, enough to make your mouth water? The ideal touch is a mellow softness that leaves a velvety feeling in your mouth. Like the perfect kiss.

When I taste it I take small spoonfuls, like wine tasters take small sips of wine. I leave it on my tongue and allow my tastebuds to get to work. Sometimes it doesn't taste as the aroma leads you to expect. Sometimes the aftertaste is different. Most importantly of all, and the point I've been making about ice-cream, is what is the memory evoked by the ice-cream? Not only on your palate but in your mind.

You've already heard my memories. Childhood days on the beach, wedding days, garden parties, romantic dinners and perfect kisses. Well, I have a new and fresh taste in my mouth to represent a new and fresh memory. Here it is.

I returned from my first day of work and collapsed onto the couch. As soon as I sat down I was sure that I would never, ever stand up again. The more I
sank into the couch, the more it seemed to wrap itself around me. It held me tight and hugged my body and I felt loved. By a couch. The phone rang and I ignored it. I couldn't move. I couldn't even make my way to the kitchen for some ice-cream. That's how bad the situation was. All I could feel was shooting pain running up and down my legs, my arms and my back. Packing bags was proving to be very hard work.

Just when I thought that not even an earthquake would move me from my spot, I heard a sound that made my heartbeat quicken. It was the tinkling music of the Mr Whippy van. It got louder and louder as it came nearer and nearer to my road. My heart beat so loud I was sure my neighbours could hear it.

Grabbing my bag from beside me, I forgot my pain and jumped up like a
thirteen-year-old who had just spotted Colin Farrell. As I opened the door I saw at least fifteen children running excitedly toward the van. And there he was. Mr Whippy himself, standing at the window, smiling proudly at the approaching crowd.

I joined the back of the queue, feeling like a child. For once in my life it was the man that was having this effect on me and not the ice-cream. What age was he? Early fifties at least, I guessed. He had brown, leathery-looking skin, like he had just been away on holidays. He was dressed in a white T-shirt with a white apron. He had a little white hat on. I could see wisps of black and grey hair sneaking out from under it.

I checked his hands to see whether there was a wedding band on his finger. But he was wearing white
surgical-looking gloves. There were no bumps beneath the gloves. Then again, Charlie had never worn a wedding band. So that didn't tell me much. I looked around to see if anyone was watching. I tried to tug my wedding ring off my finger. It wouldn't move. It had been on my finger for so many years it was like a part of me. The fat on my fingers was gathering around the ring, almost cutting off my circulation. I would have to hide my hand from Mr Whippy.

“Hello there,” Mr Whippy said to the little girl at the head of the queue.

“Hello.” She smiled at him shyly.

“What's your name?” He smiled back.

“Amanda,” she said quietly and sweetly.