4 of 8 Mary

When are you old?

Stephen Nolan, radio presenter egged the two phone-in callers on “You are! You’re old when you’re fifty!” a woman argued. “It’s a biological fact.”

There was a strangled sound that fell somewhere between a splutter and a snort. I laughed out loud. Stephen was at it again. I stuck my cooling coffee into the microwave and sat down to listen.

“What age are you,” a man’s voice demanded.

. Would she be brave enough to give away her age on the ‘Biggest show in the country’s BBC ’Radio Ulster morning Chat Show?

“Never mind, don’t tell me. Let me guess, you’re in your 20s or 30s. Right?”

4 of 8 Mary

Mary lay still under the heavy patchwork quilt. It was her wedding day. She took in the room she had slept in since she was small. In the dark gloom of the November dawn she didn’t need to see the stout wardrobe and the tall chest of drawere with its mirror blackened with damp around its edges to know they were there. Every corner and everything in it was as familiar to her as her hands and her feet. Cautiously, she slipped to the edge of the feather mattress and slipped silently out of bed careful not to disturb Cassie. She didn’t want the lash of her sister’s sharp tongue on her today.
The heat of the bed left her as she breathed on the windowpane and rubbed a circle in the ice on the inside of the sash window and peered out. She could see the streaks of dawn forcing its rays against the dark. A movement in the yard below caught her eye; early as it was Willy Crossan, the farmhand was up and about already. Her instinct about him had been right that day she had persuaded her grandfather James at the fair day in Strabane, three years before that he had a civil face and big strong workman’s hands to match his frame. “A bit gormless if ye ask me, “her grandfather had retorted.” But he hired him to cool my anger after he took me away from Thomas,” she whispered under her breath.
The cold, creeping up her legs from the bare floorboards she moved over and pulled open the door of the oak wardrobe. It creaked on its old hinges but swung open willingly enough. Inside hung her wedding outfit; the black mourning skirt and blouse in stark contrast to the corn coloured crocheted cape trimmed with the deep purple fur ripped from an elaborate ball gown that had come in a parcel from her mother Catherine’s cousin whose family had emigrated in 1849 after the Famine to Boston looking for a better life. “It looks like she found it too,” Mary murmured stroking the soft fur. She traced the high neck of the black ruffled blouse. She had worn it to her father’s funeral, not three month past. She put a hand to her throat remembering how she felt it was choking her as she’d watched them lower her father into his cold grave.
A great weight of sadness descended on her. So much had happened since that day. The sudden death of his son from pleurisy had sent her Granda James into what the farmhands called ‘doting’. Now, he was too feeble in mind to even protest about her breaking the custom of keeping a ‘respectable’ time for mourning, before marrying. Mary felt a sob rise in her chest and catch in her throat. She knew her father didn’t hold with all that ‘superstition’ as he called it. How she wished he was here today to defend her against her brothers and Cassie.
The bed creaked and Mary knew Cassie was awake. “You’re marrying him, then,” she said watching Mary take the black skirt from its hanger.
Mary didn’t answer.
“It would be good enough for him if you left him at the altar rails – the way he left me,” Cassie said her voice dripping vemon.
“He didn’t leave you at the altar. He never asked you to marry. That was Granda James and the parish priest’s doing.” Mary said.
Cassie glared at her younger sister. She got everything the hair, the face and the figure, she thought, and I got nothing – nothing except a habit of saying what I’m thinking like Granda and a body like briary stooks of wheat tied in the middle, she raged her anger mounting.
“You think I didn’t know that? But it wasn’t me Granda was thinking of when he made that pact with the old priest. It was you. You!” She screeched. “He didn’t want his wee treasure Mary marrying a navvy, did he?” He had plans for you to marry a well set up farmer’s son. But Thomas, a labouring man would be good enough for me – poor Cassie who couldn’t get a man for love or a farm,” she said mockingly.
Shocked into silence Mary stood helplessly holding her wedding clothes in her hands.
Cassie leaped across the room. “Well, you can tell your darling Thomas even if he hadn’t run away I wouldn’t have married him on his 16th birthday as planned.. “
Mary grew frightened. Cassie was highly –strung and flew into fits of rage but she had never seen her as worked up as she was now. Why oh why didn’t their mother come. She must hear Cassie screeching, she reasoned.
“Let me get dressed. Willie is already up and getting the pony and trap ready,” she quacked sidling past her sister.
Like the thunder storms and flash lightening that often came and as quickly faded, Cassie’s fury died away. “I’ll help you get ready. Isn’t that what a bridesmaid does, help the bride on her big day,” Cassie said.
Mary looked at her reflection in the mirror of the wardrobe as her sister fussed her long hair into a fancy bun at the nape of her neck. Dissatisfied with the result she tugged Mary’s hair free and started again. “It’s alright,” Mary pleaded as Cassie started to become agitated again.
“It’s your wedding day. It has to be perfect – just like you,” Cassie muttered.
Below, they could hear Willie cleaning his boots on the scraper before coming into the kitchen for his breakfast of porridge and scone bread.
“I should get dressed.” Cassie suddenly decided. “You’re not the only one who is going to look perfect today,” she said pulling her own clothes from the back of the wardrobe. Mary’s eyes widened. Cassie was holding up their granny’s wedding dress.
“What do you think,” she smiled.
Mary was completely stuck for words. “Will it fit,” was the best she could manage.
Out in the yard Mary could hear Willie hitching up the trap. “Come on, you know how Father Hughes hates to be kept waiting,” Cassie said.
Willie’s eyes widened as he helped Cassie up into the trap. Her broad form spread out like a cloud taking up all the space. He took of his flat cap and scratched his head in confusion. He was sure it was Mary who was marrying…
Mary bunched her skirt in her hands and climbed up into the seat beside Willy.”Ah don’t know why the good Father has to marry people at Seven O Clock in the morning,’ he scolded noticing Mary’s knees trembling under the long skirt. But he had something that bring back the smile to her face, he thought. Glancing over his shoulder he check her sister wasn’t looking he deftly slipped her a note. He sighed. He supposed after the day Mary wouldn’t get any more secret love letters. He was going to miss seeing how happy they made her.
Mary clasped the thin slip of paper in her gloved hand. She had only seen Thomas once in person since that day at the fair – at the chapel gates the Sunday after. Willie had driven her home from Mass that day under strict instructions she was never to be allowed to be with Thomas Cannon again. But secretly they had written to each other and Willy acted as the postman.
She looked at the slim sheet of paper with trepidation. What if it was to tell her he had changed his mind and didn’t want to marry her after all?
Willy work worn hand patted her knee. “Remember that bit you read out to me about Thomas saying you were the only girl for him,” He said softly. Then his face folded into a confused mass of lines. He remembered that letter had also said he was never going’ to marry her sister Cassie but here she was in a grand weddin’ dress and Mary wearing the clothes she wore to her father’s funeral.
Murlog Chapel was in darkness except for the light over the tabernacle on the altar and two tallow candles in tall brass candleholders at the altar rails. “You are late,” Father Hughes stated crossly hurrying Cassie and Mary up the aisle in front of him. With relief Mary saw Thomas and his best man standing beside the steps that led to the altar on the men’s side of the chapel.
As if he was making up for them being a few minutes late, the priest started celebrating the mass in Latin as if his life depended on getting it over as quickly as possible. He indicated the wedding group should kneel at the altar rails to receive communion. Mary felt the coldness of the silver platter as the altar boy thrust it under her chin as she leant forward to receive. She startled and the Holy Communion slid off her tongue and into the back of her throat making her splutter and cough.
She had hardly recovered from her fit of coughing when it was time for her and Thomas to take their vows. With a quick shove Cassie pushed Mary back and took her place beside Thomas. “Say after me,” the priest began…I Mary, Take you Thomas, to be my wedded husband for better, for worse ‘til death do we part.”
For the longest moment there was a deadly silence. “She not Mary, she Cassie,” Thomas said finally, the sound of his voice reverberating up into the gallery and bouncing off the walls and the empty pews in the women’ and men’ aisles.
Father Hughes thinned his lips in exasperation. Why did these people christen their child one name and called them by another name. “You mean your bride’s name is Cassie – Catherine Mary?”
Thomas was shouting now. “No! Her name is Cassie. And I am not marrying her. “
“You promised! He promised,” Cassie screeched turning to the priest. “If you don’t believe me ask the Parish Priest,” she said started to babble.
Outside the chapel Willy was patiently waiting. With a great swoosh the crows in the nearby trees took flight cawing loudly. Willy wondered was it the shouting in the chapel that frightened them off. He was glad the curate wasn’t marrying him if that was the way he conducted himself.
The chapel door opened and Cassie rushed out. Tearing the wedding dress from her she flung it over the horse’s head in temper. With more speed than he thought he had in him Willy rushed her up into the trap and covered her with the old rug he kept for drying the horse. “In the name of all that’s holy, what’s goin’ on, “he asked as Mary and Thomas followed by the priest, best man and a parishioner came out of the arched doorway of the Church..
Gemma Hill © 2020