Mother

The day my mother died, it rained in the islands and most likely rained in Ireland

where she decided to pass from this life to the next.

I received the telegram the following morning from my cousin, Rita, who urged

me to catch the first plane back, as I was the one who had had all the instructions on

what mother specified in funeral preparations. I rang her house to give her the

immediate necessary information, confirming I would begin my flight home later that

evening.

Rita met me at Shannon airport and we drove in her car to the small village

where mother lived for the past 80 odd years. My grandfather, a Cornishman of dubious

reputation, had moved the entire family a mere one step ahead of the customs men, to

this small settlement when mother was just a slip of a girl.

Everyone knew everybody else, and despite the fact I had not been home for

over five years, the residents welcomed me wholeheartedly as we rode into town. All

had a word to say about mother, mentioning her generosity and her caring nature.

Politely they never spoke of her increasing peculiarities as she aged.

She constantly refused to leave her home to move to one of those antiseptic

nursing facilities so popular with yuppies with busy lives and no time for elderly

relatives. Mothers' eccentricities grew with each passing year. She had never had a

license and had always walked to the village from her little cottage for her supplies and

the increasing number of drugs the doctors prescribed for her. At times, kindly

 

townspeople found her waiting at the school where she had taught years ago,

bemoaning the fact her students were late.

She constantly criticised the garda, our police force, convinced of their

dishonesty. I thought this suggested a carry over of her father’s distrust of the law.

When she absentmindedly removed the milk from the porch of neighbour, or indulged in

some other petty piece of kleptomania, the long suffering sergeant in her village

discreetly returned the items to the rightful owners. Mother, convinced these things

belonged to her, suspected the garda had stolen them from her.

At night she refused to answer the door after 8pm, certain the wee men would

put a spell on her and turn her hair grey overnight. One of the most unusual things

about my parent was the full head of fiery red locks she maintained . . . kept in constant

shades of brilliance by young Heather from the local beauty salon, along with a

generous dose of henna.

Mother was sure no one knew she "touched up" her hair, but the entire village

enjoyed the privilege of the information, though none would ever mention this in her

company.

Now as I gazed at her in the coffin, despite the copper hue of hair, her face pale

and almost waxy, all I saw was an empty shell. Yet I was still aware of her presence

around me and I already missed her wonderful sense of humour.

After the funeral, a wildly liquid wake, and the reading of the will, we discovered

my only inheritance to be a beautiful sterling silver tea set. This set had often puzzled

me. It seemed far too expensive to have been the normal part of an estate of a woman

of limited circumstances. However, here it sat in front of me, and it was now mine.

 

Going through my mothers papers, I located an evaluation of the silver service and

gasped aloud when I caught the total at the bottom of the sheet.

Rather than sell this beautiful set, which I believed had a fascinating history, I

decided to take it back to my island home, along with mother's ashes in an ornate

copper urn. They would not fit in my suitcase, so I bought a sturdy carry-on to hold my

silver and mother. I could then be sure of both arriving safely back home with me.

A little background is needed here. Whenever someone goes off island, and

returns with any goods, be they personal or purchased items, they are required to pay

fairly daunting customs on the objects. Convinced that somehow mother would allow

me to bring my valuable inheritance to the island without having to mortgage my

firstborn, I boarded my flight.

As I disembarked from the plane, and headed for customs and immigration, one

of the local officers, Eustace Hand, stood at the luggage check-in station. I smiled to

myself. Eustace was terrified of Jumbies, those ghostly oddities he knew inhabited all

places where the dead hung out. These creatures petrified him and his fellow members

of the church he attended. They all felt perfectly justified in doing everything in their

power to avoid any potential run-in with a Jumbie.

Mother, I begged, do your thing!

The islanders were normally friendly towards me, preferring my Irish lilt to the

clipped sounds of the English ex-pats, and the lazy drawls of runaway Americans who

shared this lovely part of paradise with them. The Irish, they had long decided, were

neither arrogant nor patronising.

 

I donned my best broad, Dublin Irish and greeted him. “Good evening, Eustace.

Busy day?”

“Too many tourists, mon. Too many foolish questions. I need to be getting back to

home.”

He eyed the large carry-on bag. “What’s in that? Put it up here.”

Oh, dear, he’s in a surly mood.

I lifted the heavy pack on the counter and he whipped open the zipper. On top of

the cloth wrapped, and well concealed silver set resided Mother’s urn.

"What's that mon," he demanded

"Ah yes." I thickened my Irish lilt even further and offered a pitiful expression.

"That's me mother. I’ve come back from her funeral in Ireland."

Eustace’s eyes expanded. "What you say?"

I pointed at the jar. "That's me mother."

By now his eyeballs had grown so huge they practically filled his entire face.

"Take it away mon. Take it away." He wouldn't even touch the case.

I could almost sense Mother’s hand on my shoulder, cheering in the tradition of

her Cornish ancestors of another victory over the customs men.