So long, Mary Ann.....

When its a clear night, I like to take a piece of plastic sheeting, spread it on the ground, and lie down and look at the stars.

Silence.

The image ricocheted round the room.

Mary Ann, flat on her back in the tiny suburban garden, those regally upholstered bosoms, pointing skywards, like rockets.

The little house overflowed with what was left, after each successive move down the property ladder, of all the stuff acquired and abandoned, lost, stolen, given away, smashed, borrowed by strangers and never returned.

Now she stood out, like a Mighty Wurlitzer, glowing and crenulated, in the midst of this choked, dusty auction room.

We were outsiders, who could afford to be amused by her eccentricity. They were her daughters by the famous actor, exasperated, sick to bloody death of it all, of a lifetime of chaos and turmoil, lived in her wake. Sick of every trick and turn in the repertoire, the heavy sarcasm, the savage humour, the old movie star anecdotes, the roaring, increasingly rowdy board games. But Mary Ann was on a roll. And, well, we at least were going to enjoy it.

She was not in favour of electricity, candlelight was much kinder...like snow don't you think, on a ruined landscape....

Eight of us squeezed round a table illuminated by ecclestical sized candles.

She had not cooked anything, but then she never had, according to her daughters.

She had ordered a Christmas hamper from a well known store, and even more astonishingly it had been delivered. Though true to form, according to her daughters, she had not bothered to open it.

The blag had worked. She had lost interest.

Who was going to pay for it, her daughters wanted to know. You know what Daddy said last time.

Oh shut up - you censorious little cows! Effortlessly, Mary Ann faced them down.
We smiled, just glad not to be the telesales who questioned her credit rating - or the daughters who remembered too much.

Eating was always going to be hazardous. The accident was in the wings. Just a question of who and how soon. Ciaran, aged three, brushed his fingers against a candle flame. He squawked momentarily, but didn't seem too concerned.

Mary Ann examined his hand, soothingly professional.

What's your name darling? she asked.

He told her.

There was just the briefest flicker of a reaction in her eyes, then it was gone.

Third degree burns! she announced.

Well, I don't think....I started to protest, but decided to bow to her superior knowledge.

After all, who hadn't seen ABOVE AND BEYOND, that legendary war epic, starring Elizabeth Cambridge as the resourceful, indomitable Nurse Dawn Albion, beautiful, brave and British. And who would forget the sight now of her well covered derriere
framed in the garage doorway as she rummaged among the accumulated boxes, crates, suitcases and cabin trunks.

Elizabeth Cambridge lived. Nurse Dawn was in charge. Mary Ann the sombre orphan girl from some rural Irish slum was long forgotten.

When at thirteen or fourteen Mary Ann began to attract attention from the local talent, the tooth rotted farmers and their gobsite sons, the nuns decided to act. They had no desire to welcome into the sisterhood a daughter of the local hooer, besides there was no dowry.

So, one Christmas Eve , they sent her off to London. Her three younger sisters and two brothers could wait.

She had a fiver in her pocket and a letter of introduction to Father Brian Mulhern, SJ, in Highgate. The next Christmas, when - again with the help of the nuns - it had all been sorted out - thin, pale and shivering - on a street corner in Soho - she abandoned forever Mary Ann, Father Brian, their baby daughter and the Sisters of Blessed Expedience.

No mention of that time - or the dirt floor tigeen in Drimoleague were ever found in Picture Show or Picturegoer, memories easily erased in the sprawling homes and casting couches of Weybridge and Feungirola.

Ah, here it is. Stand Back! Stand back there! Gangway! Gangway!

Triumphant, Mary Ann emerged backwards from the garage, holding a large prop medical bag.

Young Ciaran's wounds were bound with quanties of yellowing gauze tied with the prescribed knots and double knots.

Look Ma! I'm a mummy! Delighted, he clapped his hands, the ends of the bandages, trailing fluttering pennants which were to catch fire at least a dozen times more.

Mary Ann disappeared into the kitchen at frequent intervals, returning each time louder, more raucous, more defiant.

The daughters exchanged looks, first one paid a visit to the kitchen, then the other. The fridge door was heard to open and shut.

Vodka, the first one mouthed across the table

The second nodded. In the orange juice.

Mary Ann was off to the kitchen again.

Feeling thirsty Mummy?

Yes, its extraordinarly hot in here, said Mary Ann.

You certainly look very flushed, the daughters agreed.

An hour or so and several visits to the kitchen later, Mary Ann was onto the rebel songs. Always a bad sign.

Ciaran jigged up and down on her knee keeping time. He was now wearing her black acryllic wig, tipped to one side, like a yachting cap. She sat very straifght, head back, eyes narrowed. Through the smoke rings, the voice was pure, clear, powerful, chilling, the raw West Cork accent like the crack of a whip.

and the Tans
we were eagerly waiting
sailed into the spot where we lay
and over the hill came the echo
the peal of the rifle and gun
and the flames from the lorries brought tidings
the boys from Kilmichael had won

Ciaran reached up a sooty finger to trace a tear down her face.

Yes, well, said one daughter, I think that's quite enough of that.

Thank you Mummy, we've had a lovely time, but I think we'd better make a move, said the other, the traffic you know....

You can always stay here....there's plenty of room.....

From the pavement Ciaran, bewildered to be so suddenly bundled into his coat and hat waved his little starfish hand, in its singed and tattered swaddling. Bye bye, Mary Ann, bye, bye....

We never saw her again, but we were surprised and pleased to hear that she had gone on holiday - to Australia.

Her daughters by the famous actor told us that that same evening, completely out of the blue, she had received a phone call from her daughter by Father Brian. The girl had been adopted by an Australian family and been taken back there, the new parents stopping only long enough to grease the diocean palm.

The daughter's name was Anne Marie, and that day had been her birthday.

She had spoken to her half sisters too.

Well, I told her what to expect, said one.

Yes, good luck, that's all I can say, added the other.