Anne's Song Read Free Page B

little bits of homework by the teachers at school. It was a wonderful carefree kind of a childhood. Our parents were there if we needed them, but we were allowed to be what we wanted to be. We might not have been rich in terms of material possessions, but we were loved and we were happy. There's no price you can put on that.
    Sometimes Dad would take us in his old banger out to Howth Head or we'd go by steam train to the seaside at Bray, where we'd sit on the grass on the promenade and eat fish and chips; or we'd walk into Dollymount and buy sweets, and then stay on the beach all day and eat the picnic Mum had made: bread and jam washed down with bottles of water or lemonade for a special treat. We couldn't swim, but we'd play in the sea and we never came to any harm. It was an uncomplicated, contented early childhood with no foretaste of the dark days to come.
    When Tommy and I went to school down the road, we'd run home at lunchtime to listen to a radio programme, a daily soap opera, called The Kennedys of Castle Ross while Mum made the food. She was a plain cook. It might be sausages, beans and potatoes or, one of her favourites, a joint of gammon served with mashed potato and cabbage or curly kale. We loved her banana sandwiches, and I remember Denise was particularly partial to her rice pudding. At the weekend, she'd always make a huge pan of stew. I don't recall her teaching us how to cook, although, when we were older, we were taught how to bake. I remember my Dublin days as an idyllic upbringing for a child, even if money was tight – and that was something that children don't really understand, or need to, when they're growing up.
    When I must have been no more than six, Nana Breslin died. It was a terrible shock. She had an asthma attack on a bus that brought on a heart attack. She was only fifty-two. I remember someone coming to our house when I was in bed. I heard voices at the front door and suddenly my mother let out a piercing scream. I could hear her sobbing her heart out, but nobody came to tell us what was going on or why she was so upset. So I got out of bed and called through the banisters, asking what the matter was. My dad said, 'Oh, it's just your mammy. She's fine now.'
    The next day, I asked him again. He said, 'Your nana's gone to heaven.' And that was that. I didn't really understand what I'd been told, but every time I tried to talk about it, someone changed the subject. I wasn't allowed to go to the funeral, so I never got the chance to say goodbye to her. Eventually, my granddad, Miles, got married again to a lovely woman called Madge.
    I think it took my mother a long time to get over the loss of Nana Breslin, but that is only a presumption I've arrived at with hindsight. She never, ever discussed her feelings with us. Instead, she was kept constantly busy round the house. If she was in a good mood, she'd let us join in and help her. She might suddenly shout out, 'Right. Who's for polishing the floor then?' You'd expect most children to make a dash for the door, but not in our house. The chorus of 'Me! Me! Me!' must have been heard halfway down the street as we rushed to volunteer. Mum would tie rags to our feet and we'd skate and slide the full length of the hall floor, polishing it in the process. If we'd been good, she'd give us money for sweets.
    There were two rooms on the ground floor on the right as you came in the front door. The one that overlooked the street was kept for best occasions; the other was a family room. There was a kitchen opposite. Upstairs, there was a bathroom with a toilet and three bedrooms. I shared with Denise and Maureen. Tommy and later Brian had the second room, and our parents had the other. It was a long time before any of us had a bed to ourselves and certainly never when we lived in Ireland.
    We girls used to play a game in our bedroom called Standing On Knees. Denise and I would sit on the bed and raise our knees. Maureen – and Linda later on – would take