If I Was a Child Again Read online

  He smiles at me in his long light-brown coat and I see his two missing teeth.

  “Comin’ up, missy!” he roars at me and my fringe blows on his breath.

  His gigantic hands lift the largest block of cheese in the world (from Kerry too, I imagine) and he slices.

  I’m not sure I like the smell in here – sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t. I turn and find the cardboard box with the tomatoes. There is an old man feeling them so I stand patiently behind him. He makes a growling sort of noise as he rummages and rummages and then he chooses one. It takes him ages to straighten up and he has to hold onto his back. I smile at him and I bend down. It’s not an easy job. ‘Hard’ seems easy enough to figure out but, you see, they all seem hard to me. But they can’t all be hard otherwise that man wouldn’t have felt so many. It’s very tough. I dig right to the back and pick out two perfectly red, rounded, hard tomatoes. Then I pull off my runner and sock and get my money. I pay big Tom.

  I skip back through the lane and in through the door. Granny’s in the tiny kitchen. Enough room for one person only. The table is set. The tea’s being made. I hand over the merchandise and her change. She smiles at me. She feels and smells and pokes and prods and I might have done alright because she doesn’t say “What ails that man at all, selling this rubbish? Does he think I came down in the last shower?”

  I pull out my wooden chair and she butters the fresh turnover and makes up our cheese and tomato sandwiches. She always makes my one first. We are going into town on the No. 3 bus after this and I’m sure she will buy me that Michael Jackson poster I saw on Henry Street. She’ll defo buy me an éclair. She wants to get her fruit and veg in Moore Street. When she’s done the dishes she will look into the glass above the fireplace, brush her dark curly perm with her red comb and push on her glasses. She never wears make-up or puts in her good teeth unless we are going out at night-time. I much prefer her without her teeth.

  I often wonder why she spends so much time with me: she has loads of grandchildren, but deep down I think it’s because she loves me the best and I love her the best too. I always sleep the night with her at weekends. She has to live on her own, you see, on account of Lar (that was her husband) being dead. I worry about her every minute I’m not with her and sometimes I put my head under my pillow at home and sob myself to sleep when I think of her on her own all night in the house. I don’t want her to be lonely. She’s too nice. I don’t want her to meet a new husband or anything like that but I would love her to live with us. She can’t, she tells me, and that’s that. She’s really kind to everyone, she feeds the birds every single morning and night and she takes such great care of her Geranium flowers. They have to come in from the tiny garden every night and she puts them on the stairs.

  I eat my sandwich and we don’t need to talk.

  She’s dead now. I’m old. Well, oldish. I’m thirty-six. I wasn’t there when she died. I so wanted to be. I wanted to be with her so, so badly when she was leaving me. I never wanted her to be alone. She’d never have let me die alone, I know that much. I asked them was she in any immediate danger when I left and they said no. I shouldn’t have gone. I should have stayed there 24/7 but I didn’t. She would have. They aren’t God, my mother told me. I wasn’t a bit afraid of watching her die, I always saw myself there holding her blue-veined hand and whispering comforting things into her oh-so-familiar face.

  Regret.

  When I pull up my childhood in my head these are the thoughts I am filled with: her warmth, strength, kindness, loyalty, defiance, independence; pink balloons, pigs’ feet, sweeping carpets, open fire, ‘chucky’ eggs; Gay Byrne on the old wireless and the smell of Brasso wafting up the stairs. When she went all modern and got the electric fire, I’d hold the knife through the grids with bread on the end making toast. Toast has never tasted so good.

  She was my wonderful granny, Margaret Kilroy. She was as strong a woman as there can be and a true fighter in every sense of the word. So incredibly strong. I miss her every single day and there are always times when I just want to have a cuppa with her and a hard cheese and tomato sandwich but I can’t. I do talk to her in my own way a lot and that helps. Such memories need to be cherished and respected and never forgotten. She gave me unconditional love and I was so lucky to have such a woman in my life.

  I called my baby Maggie after her – I know she’d have loved that.

  Caroline Grace-Cassidy trained at the Gaiety School of Acting before landing her first television role as Mary Mull on the BAFTA-winning children’s programme Custer’s Last Stand-Up. She then went on to appear in various productions for BBC/RTÉ/TG4 and TV3 and various feature films. She is a founding member and a creative director of Smart Blondes Productions. Their debut film premiered at the Galway Film Fleadh in 2013 and they are currently in production on their second film. She is also a regular panellist on Midday for TV3. In 2011 she was delighted to secure a three-book deal with Poolbeg Press. Her debut novel When Love Takes Over was released in February 2012 and her second novel The Other Side of Wonderful hit shelves in June 2013. For more information, see www.carolinegracecassidy.com.

  Story 18: If All Else Fails, Blame the Dog

  Niamh Greene

  On the wall in my kitchen there hangs a vintage chart on “moral training” that I bought a few years ago at an auction. Based on the rules of the Children’s National Guild of Courtesy of 1898, it succinctly outlines the mannerly code of conduct that youngsters aspired to at the time. Funnily enough, the guidelines are still very relevant today. In fact, as I often remind my own children, they provide the perfect blueprint for the sort of saintly life your mother would be proud of.

  If only I’d had them to refer to when I was a child myself . . .

  Be honest, truthful and pure:

  Regardless of the circumstances, honesty is always the best policy. Unless of course you happen to accidentally break a precious family heirloom / destroy your sister’s favourite top / get caught breaking a curfew. Then forget about telling the truth and blame the dog for everything.

  Do not use bad language:

  Believe me, you do not want to be caught saying the f-word on the street by your mother because the disappointed look on her face will haunt you for the rest of your days. Cursing is a hard habit to break, so why start? Ditto smoking, drinking and kissing unsuitable boys.

  Help your parents as much as you can and do your best to please them:

  Violently slamming doors, making empty threats to run away and howling “I didn’t ask to be born!” multiple times a day do not count as pleasing behaviours. Right now, you’re convinced that your parents know nothing, but the day will come when you realise that, incredibly, they were right about pretty much everything. Usually this light-bulb moment coincides with the happy day you have children of your own. That’s called karma, my friend.

  Be kind to your brothers and sisters. Do not be selfish but share all your good things:

  Siblings are not the enemy. It’s hard to see this when everything they do seems specially designed to aggravate you, but it’s true. In time you’ll grow up and you’ll actually be able to have a conversation without wanting to throttle one another. Difficult as it is to imagine, you’ll genuinely like each other and quarrels about crossing the invisible line you’ve drawn on the back seat of the car so you don’t have to touch each other on journeys will seem silly. Instead, you’ll sit down to eat together because you want to – crazy concept, I know. You’ll even look back on your childhood and laugh. Until of course the whole “You lost my signed Nirvana T-shirt” debacle raises its ugly head. Then all bets are off and you revert back to acting like your teenage selves in a heartbeat.

  Be respectful to your teachers. Their work is very difficult and trying:

  You might think that you have the bum deal at school – after all, you’re the one who has to learn obscure Irish verbs and memorise useless French grammar. However, when you grow up, you will realise that teachers may not actually ha
ve the life of Riley that you thought they did. Why do you think your parents are so glad to drop you off at the school gates every morning? They need a rest, that’s why.

  Do not make slides on the pavement or throw orange peel there:

  Now, I love throwing orange peel as much as the next person, but your mother is right – this type of illicit activity might be all fun and games initially, but it’ll end in tears. Ditto running with scissors, incessantly ringing neighbours’ doorbells for the craic, and sticking Lego up your nose.

  Do not speak or drink with food in your mouth:

  This is only cute when you’re a toddler. Do you want people to have to duck when you eat? No, I didn’t think so.

  Remember to say “please” and “thank you”:

  It only takes a second, but it makes a big difference. People respond well to courteous behaviour so start practising early and you’ll be extremely popular. It may also help you to avoid unpleasant road-rage incidents and run-ins with the law in later life.

  Mind your own business:

  Gossiping about others can be fun, but ultimately it’s not big and it’s not clever. Would you like it if people were sniping about you behind your back? No nasty texting, tweeting or Facebooking either please.

  I’d also add a few of my own, more modern, rules to the list.

  Dream big:

  You can achieve anything you set your mind to. All you need to do is work hard and focus. When I was a child, I dreamed of being a writer one day. I still pinch myself when I see my novels on shelves.

  Don’t stop believing:

  Yes, this might be just a corny song to you, but the sentiment is real. Keep dreaming, don’t give up, it’s never too late. It took me a while – and quite a few wrong turns – to get where I am now, but I made it in the end. Besides, nothing is ever a waste – it’s all experience. (Or, in my case, material for stories.)

  Accept your hair / body shape / wonky nose:

  Why waste time worrying? You are perfect just the way you are. Learn to love yourself early on in life and save yourself a bucket-load of unnecessary angst and heartbreak. As writer Nora Ephron once said: “I wish I had worn a bikini every day when I was 26.” You will inevitably curse yourself for not capitalising on your youthful beauty, so put the bikini on today, even if only metaphorically.

  Appreciate your youth:

  They say that youth is wasted on the young – it’s only when you’re old and grey that you realise you had it so good. My top tip? Enjoy it while you can. Wring every day of its last drop. Before you know it, you’ll be looking back, not quite believing that you are officially “all grown up”. Supposedly.

  Niamh Greene is a novelist and columnist with the Evening Herald. Her latest novel, Coco’s Secret, is published by Penguin. Find her on Twitter @niamh_greene and Facebook at niamhgreenebooks.

  Story 19: Whispered Words of Wisdom

  Carmel Harrington

  If I was a child again . . .

  What a scary thought! Would I choose to go back and do it all over again if I were given the opportunity? I don’t think I would have the energy! But if I could go back for just a short visit, I would choose to go back to a time when I was a young teenage girl, on the brink of that often difficult transition from child to young woman. At fourteen years old I was terribly self-conscious and had far too many worries that were ill-warranted. I often think of the wasted time I spent as a young girl fretting about how I looked. Peer pressure came from all sorts of places, but the worst pressure came from myself. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be able to go back and change that? To take away that overwhelming feeling of not fitting in and being different and teach myself to look those self-critical demons squarely in the eye whenever I looked at my reflection?

  If I could, here’s what I would whisper repeatedly to myself until I believed it to be true: “You are perfect exactly as you are. You are not too tall or too skinny – you are simply a beautiful young girl with a wonderful future ahead of her.”

  I would then repeat several times: “And despite that moron who called you a boy recently, you do not look like a boy!”

  Actually, I can still remember that moment nearly thirty years later. It was a moment that I would say most who were present at the time would not even remember, because really it wasn’t such a big deal. But back then it felt like a big deal and I’ve never forgotten it, the memory never dulling with time. This particular memory is one where a neighbour mistook me for my brother, loudly saying it in front of a large group. Okay, I was tall and, yes, I had short hair, but come on – I was a girl! Clearly he should have gone to Specsavers!

  I remember that flush of embarrassment in the realisation that I had been mistaken for a boy – not for the first time either. My mortification only intensified as I heard giggles from those around me. I bravely smiled and pretended that it didn’t bother me. But it did bother me; in fact, it bothered me deeply. I cried myself to sleep that night, hating how I looked and wishing with all my might that fairy tales did exist and my Fairy Godmother would suddenly appear any minute. I knew exactly what I would wish for too: about five inches chopped off my gangly frame.

  And that makes me so very sad. To think that I would have chosen to change how I look had I got the opportunity is undeniably sad. If I look at photographs of myself back then, do you know what I see now? I can see a young, pretty girl with big blue eyes and an even bigger mop of curly dark hair. I looked absolutely fine back then, but of course how you actually look and how you perceive you look are two very different things to any young person with insecurities.

  So what would I teach myself if I could go back in time? I would teach myself that in this wondrous world we live in, this diversely imperfect world, it is in fact our very differences that make it so gloriously interesting. Whether we are tall, short, fat, thin, curly or straight-haired, red, brunette or blonde, we are all perfect just as we are.

  How would I impart this wisdom? Wouldn’t it be amazing if I could put pen to paper and write a letter to my younger self? What if I could simply stroll to the local post office and pop a letter into a post-box marked Time Travel and whoosh, off it goes!

  Here is what I would say in that letter.

  Dear Carmel,

  Now this is going to sound a little bit crazy, but remember that movie you watched with Fiona, Shelley and John last week that had that very cute guy Michael J Fox in it? It was called Back to the Future and you had never seen anything like that before! Well, you might want to sit down for a second because, albeit without the help of any vintage DeLorean cars or mad scientists who answer to the name of Doc, this letter you have just received has in fact been sent all the way back from 2013.

  That sounds like a lifetime away, I know, and truth be told it is a lifetime away. You have so many wonderful adventures to experience, and the places you will travel to between your now and my now will blow your mind. I’m smiling just thinking about the fun that’s ahead of you! I know you must be wondering who is reaching out to you nearly three decades later and for what purpose? Well, let me introduce myself first of all: my name is Carmel Harrington. How can I put this without freaking out your fourteen-year-old mind? Okay, brace yourself, because this is Back to the Future territory. This letter is from you! Well, an older version of you as I’m now forty-two years old. I’ll give you a moment to let that sink in!

  I’m trying to work out what questions you would have for me if I were actually sitting in front of you and I reckon you want to know about boys. Am I right? Yep! Thought so! So, yes, you will love and you will be loved and that guy you have a crush on? Well, he likes you too.

  But I’m not here to talk about crushes, Carmel pet. I have lots I need to share with you. First, stop twisting your hair. You are doing that right now, aren’t you? You always do that when you’re nervous. That’s a habit I still haven’t managed to shift. I’ll keep working on that one! There’s nothing to be nervous about, though, as I’m just here to help. I promise.
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  I want to talk to you about how you look, or rather how you think you look! You are fourteen years old right now and I know that you are very self-conscious, about your height in particular. You have always been the tallest girl in the class and you hate having that particular tag, as you are also very shy. You try so hard to fade into the background, but that’s a bit of a tall order (sorry, terrible pun I know!).

  Let’s see if I can reassure you about something first of all. I know that late at night, when you can’t sleep, that extremely over-active imagination of yours goes wild and you often fret that you will continue to grow and grow until one day you are over seven feet tall. You have already imagined the national headlines: Wexford Giant in Guinness Book of Records.

  Relax – you have pretty much stopped growing now. You will reach the dizzying heights of five foot ten by the time you are fifteen and then that’s pretty much it. Relieved? Good!

  I know that right now it feels like you will always be this lanky, skinny girl who gets mistaken for a boy far too often. Here’s a little bit of free advice from your older and wiser self: the short hair doesn’t help, pet, so maybe let it grow again. And trust me when I say that pretty soon it will be impossible that you will be mistaken for a boy. Change is afoot. Or abreast so to speak! Ahem!

  I also know that there are nights that you cry yourself to sleep because you are so self-conscious and feel so different to all the other seemingly perfect, petite girls in your class. Why is it that you never tell anyone how you feel? You have always bottled up all your insecurities inside, with the occasional confession in your journal. Carmel, it’s not a sign of weakness to share with others how you feel. It is, in fact, a sign of great strength. Don’t be afraid to let others in.