Live Encounters Poetry & Writing Volume One November-December 2024
Sissy at Number 8, story ny Margaret Kiernan.
The three -story building over basement houses a mix of people. Some of them could have walked straight out of a comic strip, loud in garish colours, a mix of ages, young and old.
Sissy Norton lives on the top floor. She is the house owner, but even she has forgotten that. After all she is aged ninety- four.
Then, there is her son-in-law. Everyone calls him Coogan, but his mother had named him James at birth. His wife Bibi is long dead. Sissy has mostly forgotten that too.
Coogan is Nicola’s stepfather. He doesn’t allow anyone to remind him of this. A loner, he rarely joins in any family events. Leaving the house each day, he lives his life in spaces elsewhere.
Coogan is not dour, but he refuses to cheer-up, his energy is heavy. He makes the house happier after he leaves.
The parents of the brood of kids, are Jack and Nicola. They have seven children of varying ages from sixteen to six. Arthur, Rollo, Anna, Elizabeth, and the twins Cass and Jenny and finally William.
Down in the basement beneath the three stories is a paying resident, Mike Lee. Mostly unsure of when he is in the building, they just forget about him. He is missing for days, but he always pays his rent. Occasionally he is available to do chores and help Nicola when she lets him know in advance.
All floors shake with life, weighted down with running feet, Benji the cocker spaniel ,Trixie the terrier dog, cats racing and screeching, doors slamming and the constant ringing of the house phone. No one seems to answer it.
Sissy bangs the floor, with a long rolled up umbrella with a metal hawk head, she calls for her needs during the afternoon. Someone eventually will answer her.
Coogan, when he is at home, will rouse from slumber and swear blue murder at her, roaring back at the banging with his own query,
“Is that woman still alive. Will someone take her next door to the graveyard?
Rollo, the fifteen-year-old, often climbs out the upstairs window onto the flat roof at the back of the house. He lies spreadeagled beneath the sky. The enormous garden bamboo plants reach high and swirl about him. He loves it out there. On hot days he can smell the tar pitch from the roof felt.
His dreaming carries him away to wherever he wants to go. On dark nights he goes out and watches the moon and stars. He owns a telescope and considers himself an astronomer of sorts. He is familiar with the position of planets and stars and can name them. He likes to hear the owls from the nearby shed . Sometimes bats fly about, and they swoop by his head.
This is the pattern and rhythm of days at number eight. The sun always seems to shine there. On wet days, the children play dressing-up. Under the back stairs there is a large trunk, a relic of travels abroad. It is full of clothes, bits of brightly coloured material of odd shapes and sizes, old tuxedos, brightly coloured shawls, hats from Brazil, Nicola and Jack still wear those occasionally. The kids dress up and earnestly perform dramas and make-belief sketches.
Outsiders rarely call to visit the house. Nicola once declared, “There just isn’t enough room for any more people in this house. No room for any more bodies.”
Jack Monroe adores Nicola. He agrees with her that they are enough. But he said that way back in the beginning, when they met in Recife, in Brazil. They both were working on UNICEF projects there. Child mortality amongst the Alto women was the primary focus. The research was harrowing for both of them. It was very intense work with hours spent data logging.
They took a class in basket weaving, figured it would be a distraction, enable both to relax for a couple of hours. Nicola developed a talent for the craft. She took her baskets and sold them at the monthly markets. On Monday morning it was back to the real job.
Some weekends they had taken a bus to get away. They travelled further up into the mountains, camped under the skies, ate little and were enough, just the two of them together. Little did they know back then that one day they would have seven children of their own, and live in Bray, near the city of Dublin. In a house big enough for them all, and Great-aunt Sissy.
On their front lawn stands an ancient sycamore tree. It leans toward the yew tree at the broken fence, which is next door to the ancient cemetery. To the side of number eight, there is a clearing. It is where the family’s dead dogs, cats and birds lie buried. Bits of wood with those named pets marks the burial spot.
William tries to poke a hole to see his recently demised pet budgie. Nicola tells him it has flown up to bird heaven. William continues to poke there.
Over the boundary wall, wild roses, and briars tumble over headstones. White butterflies hop from bush to bush. The old church sits in ruins, resting into the red clay. A Holly tree grows through the ruins. On winter days, when the wind howls around, it blows through the broken walls. The Holly tree is always laden with bright red berries.
Sissy says one day she will lie out there quietly, in the ground. The children do not believe her. Sissy is never quiet. One of the twins suggests she accept a place in the pet’s corner. Everyone laughed at that. They knew Sissy had never like dogs. Or the budgie.
The dogs gave wide berth to Sissy and her long reach, with the brass topped head of that umbrella, she could give a lethal swipe. The cats were much sneakier. They crawled behind her, or over her, they watched for a day when she was behaving softer, before sneakily pushing onto her lap.
Jack worked in the city, as the CEO of a large charity group. Nicola stayed behind and took care of the family and home. She also worked at her basket making business. She had found an overseas purchaser; she no longer had to find buyers and could avoid having to go to markets.
She also got other people to make baskets for her in their homes. A cottage industry of sorts. Nicola purchased all the materials and delivered the stuff in her van to the workers. Later in the month, she returned and collected the finished products from them, paid them in hard cash. It was at these times that she asked Mike Lee to help. It was a job he seemed to like doing. At least, he never said otherwise. She paid him a small sum, said it would give him something to do. He agreed. However, Nicola rarely noticed that he scowled when she said it.
When she gets back to number eight, Mike takes his leave, goes down into his basement apartment. She gets the goods ready for shipping overseas to her client.
The bigger children help during their holidays, after school or at weekends. Arthur and Rollo do the lifting. Anna and Elizabeth help with the packing and invoicing. The twins, Cass and Jenny keep William amused.
One day in late August, when the apples were ripening on the back lawn, an incident occurred that Nicola found disturbing. Jack arrived home from work early, he was irritable, mostly about that revenue was querying his taxes. His substantial salary was known to them, but they suggested he had made an insufficient declaration of his income.
It had come about when his employer, a large global charity, was under investigation. The media were hounding the story, getting coverage in the global news press. Now the revenue commissioners were double-checking everyone on the payroll, and Jack was under the limelight. It troubled Jack that his life was being scrutinised. Nicola and Jack debated about this new turn of events.
What could have drawn tax revenue to them, Nicola wondered. She was in a mood to reflect and began to jump from one notion to the next. She dwelt on the last time Mike Lee had helped her out. When she had handed him money, he looked at it and stared her down.
She had asked if everything was all right. He closed his fist on the money and strode away without answering. At the time, she put it behind her, figuring he was in a bad mood. Now, she was trying to recall if he had ever queried her paying the basket weavers in cash.
She seemed to remember it coming up in conversation one time. They were in rural Wicklow, and she hadn’t enough cash in hand. She made a detour to the nearest town to withdraw money from an ATM . Mike had laughed at her, suggested the weavers would hold-on to the baskets. He had said in a mocking voice, “Why not use a chequebook, Nicola”?
She replied that it was the weavers pocket money, not wages at all. They did not want to bother with the business of keeping accounts and submitting returns to revenue. It was a hobby for them. Living on the margins sort of thing.
He had replied, “Tell, me about it. If I could borrow your van, I could make a bit of money myself too. Wheels would improve my work prospects; I could shift stuff.”
Nicola had given him reasons why she wouldn’t loan the vehicle to him or to anyone else. She refused to loan him or anyone her van. He seemed to take the refusal in his stride. That was months ago.
Now, she wondered, did he tell anyone about her business arrangement with the weavers. Who could be malicious towards her after all? Did they have unseen enemies? Could Mike Lee, who rented his apartment form them, be capable of a grudge. Would he have informed the tax office about her arrangements? How could he know that she was undeclared in the first instance? She then recalled the chequebook comment. It was possible that gave Mike the clue. His grudge may have been her refusal to loan the van to him. Nicola was making herself dizzy with the speculation.
Their household had become unsettled. Jack was stressed out. They were sleeping badly; the anxiety of investigation and the possible repayment of money arose. Jack had the worry about his job and the outcomes for his employer.
Nicola was upset. Her thoughts went round and round. Circling the questions, she didn’t have any answers to.
She joined Rollo out on the roof one night. He made room for her on his Lilo mattress. They lay side-by-side. The sky shone with clear stars. It was peaceful out there.
The breeze from the sea wafted over her, carrying the smells of the ocean, as the bamboo canes swayed about them. Reminded herself that out in the shipping lanes beyond Wicklow Head, large ships sailed by. Submarines too. From places far away in the world. She remembered her days and nights in Brazil. It now seemed a lifetime ago. In so many ways it was.
Life had seemed simpler then, well for her and Jack at least. Nicola began to think running a business from home wasn’t all roses. Being a stay-at-home mom was what they had chosen, it was best for the family both had agreed, years ago.
There was Sissy too. What would happen to her if Nicola went to work each morning in a regular way? Coogan wasn’t one to be depended on to mind Sissy. He slept and kept to himself when he was home. Sissy liked her early morning tea and toast to arrive upstairs to her. It was how she started her day.
The children took it in turns to carry the tray up. Nicola was considering the shape of her day if she went out to work. The kids at school would be fine but what about after school and holidays? There was so much to consider, she weighed the pros with the cons.
Crunch time came for Nicola, after one turbulent night of nightmares. She sought Jack out at breakfast between making toast and scraping the last of the marmalade out of the pot. Between all the chatter of the brood and mouthfuls of toast, she told him she was going to declare all, put her house in order, was how she said it.
Becoming compliant with revenue would be the catalyst for her to expand, she stated.
She said, “I will take the responsibility for not filing my returns. You are not to be worried any more Jack. Not about the home front at least. I will explain all. It’s not your fault. I was not doing the thing right. Leave it with me. I will see an accountant today. This will be fixed.”
Jack was relieved. He asked, “What about Mike Lee. Is he going to continue living in the basement What will you do about him”?
Nicola replied to her husband, “Well, he might have done me a favour. I will never know. I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt. How else can we live in peace?
I will offer him a job. It will be up to him to decide , choose what he wants to do. He will have to be on the books. Work regular hours. I will go down to his apartment and speak to him, after I have spoken with the accountant.”
The atmosphere eased and the banter picked up around the table, broad smiles all round when suddenly the rapping of the umbrella hammered them into the moment. Sissy was looking for attention. The dogs began to answer her, barking furiously. Elizabeth raced upstairs with the toast and tea. Life at number eight was finding its own tempo again.
© Margaret Kiernan
Margaret Kiernan is an Irish author and a Best of The Net Nominee for Creative Non-Fiction Award, 2021 and, 2022 and poetry and essay, 2023. She writes poetry, fiction, essay, memoir, and flash. She has had poetry and prose published in hard back, in e-book, on-line, and in literary journals and magazines, in Ireland, UK, America, India, and Australia. She also has multiple short stories and poems in anthology collections and cultural publications. She has Professional Membership at the Irish Writers Centre. Dublin. Ireland. She participated in a published collection in which professional writers and recognised curators participated, Published on December 6th, 2022. Ref: K. Higgins Chapbook Gift Presentation. The Arts Council of Ireland and Westmeath County Council Arts Office awarded her a Professional Development Bursary, 2021. Mayo County Council and The Arts Council of Ireland granted a Heinrich Boll Residency and Bursary, 2023. She launched her Live eBook, a fiction, in June 2024, titled, The Bay of Nectar” published by liveencounterspublishing.net- Issuu. https://issuu.com/liveencounters/docs/the-bay-of-nectar-by-margaret-kiernan-issuu Alba Publishing, UK, published her first poetry collection in July 2024, titled, A Mirage of Lost Things.