Martin Bridgeman

I came across a Facebook post recently, written by Billy Ó’Hanluain… It was about how grief never allows you to make plans, in a way. It was a truly great comment and post. It set me off and this flowed out over the next thirty minutes. Here’s what I scribbled: first thought, best thought….

Usually, there’s no warning or trigger. An unexpected thought, out of nowhere and you’re off.

I was in a charity shop a few years back and came across a scarf like my mother Maisie wore. Very much of her generation’s style, a big square of almost gaudy, patterned silk with horses and bridles. I remembered the ritual of her putting it on, the little twist to fix it in place. I remember her leaving it on her shoulders as we walked to early mass one morning, then swiftly fixing it in place almost in time to the walk up the chapel steps. I remember the dip to the font, lifting my small hand to reach the cool, holy water. It was a Latin mass that day. Impenetrable, special, almost secret, on a side altar, in a dim corner, the sun opening up the sky as we headed out after to a summer’s morning, the school closed across from us, just her and I.

Then the sucker punch. Another wave of remembering…almost 30 years later. Maisie and I in a cafe in Kilcullen, late in 1993, both knowing that it wasn’t just for a cup of tea, more a chance to ease her discomfort on what was then a long drive home. She had been in and out of hospital a number of times by then, keeping details to herself. I knew. She knew. She had something to say…

She’d been staying with us for a few days and we were on the way back to her home, my old home. Sitting down, the familiar brown scarf with the horse heads and bridles around her shoulders again. It had survived multiple but careful washings and ironings, all down with care and attention.

The tea arrived, left to draw, steaming, then the sugar and milk, the familiar motion, but today, the spoon set down purposefully. The look over the glasses. It was the start of a conversation we both knew we had to have but neither really wanted to have.

We began, her as straight and direct as always, telling me how I should be so very proud of my little family, how she was happy for me…then telling me that I owed it to them to find out about my birth mother. Then, before I could articulate the long buried argument I had used in the past, saying that there was neither time nor need to be worrying about her feelings. There seemed little point in trying to argue in any event. We finished up and carried on for Dublin, her piece said and me reeling. Once again, straight to the point. Shock and awe for her generosity of spirit and true, matter of fact Christianity.

Once back home again I tried to make sense of it all, knew she was absolutely right and then decided to put it to one side, avoid the feelings and how to deal with this sucker punch, but she said it again to me a few months later, in the week before she died. She said her goodbyes sincerely, honestly, and most of is realised it when we shared our last individual moments. She would always say “See you”, but she said “Goodbye” that week.

She also made me make a solemn promise. I kept it.

All this from a scarf in a charity shop on George’s Street, while my then teenage son wandered around his favourite music and bookshops around Temple Bar, almost 15 years later.

One or two deep breaths later, I wiped my eyes and went straight back to the CD rack to let the moment wash over me. I didn’t buy the scarf. My mother’s one was in her granddaughters drawer back home. Later that night, when were saying our good nights, I did look for it on before I switched off her light, held it in my hands one more time, took a deep breath, breathed it in, caught the faint scent of perfume and powder (remembered the lyrics from Elvis Costello) smiled and let the tears out. Just as I was about to close the door I looked over and saw another picture and had a clear and strong memory. I spotted the little picture of Maisie with her baby granddaughter on their last Christmas together, proudly up on her bedroom wall.

Granny had come down to us on Christmas eve and hooshed us out of the house almost immediately, so she could put her grandchildren to bed. We stayed out as long as we dared and arrived home about an hour or so later, to find both grandchildren resting on her lap in the big armchair at the fire. Our eldest (the boy) had woken up not long after we left and managed to get out of his cot and was pottering around while his colicky baby sister was having a hard time of it. This had been our routine for a while and it was stressful on us all in different ways. Granny arrived down and worked her magic and so, as we we took off our coats, her littlest grandchild calm, resting and content for the first night time in ages, her eldest grandson enjoying a bottle, cosy in the armchair.

I should have taken a picture of that scene, but I was overcome at the calm that we all just smiled and I made tea. I took the bedroom wall picture on Christmas Day, our littlest one calm for the first time in daytime for a few months. The smiles on their faces said it all and always will, two generations of women in a moment of calm and love. Our daughter swears to this day that she remembers this moment. I know people may find that hard to believe that a three month old child could hold that strong and clear a memory but I can tell you that her grandmother’s love was strong. No question. I believe her.