The Aunties

I still vividly remember the time I spent with the Aunties on Dawson Street. I was aged 11, or thereabouts. This extended visit was a relief, away from the dark reality that was real life. Daddy had just died, and Mammy had been sent away after she refused to believe he was gone. I would find out, years later, that she had been forced into what was cruelly called a “lunatic asylum”. But she was no “lunatic”, she was just a woman who had a lot of love to give, and whose poor heart was shattered into a million pieces. Plus, she was my mammy.

Auntie Janie said we couldn’t stay at home, that there was too much going on, too much she didn’t want us to have to see and contend with. But where was I to go? All my family lived near us, in Drogheda. Except for one person – Auntie Maggie. I was told that I would be sent to stay with her until the situation at home had improved. Despite the fact that she was my godmother, I couldn’t even remember meeting her once – all I knew about her was that she lived far away, in the big city. Whenever I asked about her, Mammy and Daddy would look at each other and exchange a glance I never truly understood, audibly sigh, and then go back to whatever they were doing. I always wondered why they’d react like that, and why no one ever talked about her – all I knew was that Auntie Maggie had made the beautiful dress that Mammy wore in that old photograph that had pride of place on the mantelpiece, above the fireplace. But if she had made the dress that Mammy had on during what she always referred to as the best day of her life, why would she be so embarrassed to even hear me say her own sister’s name?

And so, after Auntie Janie had got me ready and my case packed, I was sent off to Dublin. Uncle Jack brought me by horse and cart, but when the time came for us to get off, he simply tipped his cap to me, and said he’d be back in a few months’ time. And that was it: there I was, left, alone, in the largest city my young eyes had never seen, and at the doorstep of a woman who I had never consciously so much as exchanged a glance with. I stared up in disbelief at the huge building looming before me – it stood four stories tall, its red-brick facade looking like nothing I had ever seen before. I thought to myself that this great building must be at least four times the size of our own house back home! But if Auntie Maggie was so rich, wouldn’t my family be proud of how well she was doing?

Once the initial shock and awe at where I would be staying subsided, I began to wonder if Aunt Maggie even knew I was coming. But then, to my surprise, without me having to even do so much as knock, the great Georgian door creaked open. Opposite me stood a tall, trim, smiling woman, wearing an eye-catching turquoise gown and a great big hat with a feathered plume extending from it. She had the same dark hair and complexion as Mammy, but, while Mammy always had a severe look to her, this woman standing in the doorway had a softer expression across her face. She cheerfully extended a gloved hand towards me, uttering the words, “Ah, you must be young Tom. It’s so nice to finally meet you properly now that you’re all grown up.” I beamed, naturally, though I wondered how she even knew who I was. She explained to me once I came inside that Auntie Janie had written ahead, telling her to expect a little boy at her door around the late afternoon.

Scéal Sí

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Beo Bocht

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Voice Dysphoria

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Soon after my arrival, I was introduced to Miss Collen, a big, happy-looking woman with a posh English accent. I had seldom met anyone from England before, and Daddy had always complained about them as I was growing up – he’d say how they were to blame for all of our problems, and how I should never trust one of them. But Miss Collen seemed both friendly and kind, so I chose to trust her. As time passed, she even told me that I could call her Auntie May instead, which I happily took to calling her. Auntie Maggie hated discussing business, but, when she was out running errands, Auntie May would sit me down in their expansive drawing room and regale me with all manners of tales, especially those about the dresses she and Aunt Maggie made. There were pictures on the wall of various people, who Auntie May insisted were all very well-to-do and influential, wearing dresses hand-made by them. She even told me that some of their dresses had been worn by the important figures who went over to England to have audiences with members of high society, and even with King Edward!

During the months that I spent in Dublin, some of the best times we had were at the theatre. I had never even seen a play before, but, on the weekends, the Aunties would take me to the Abbey Theatre, and we would watch all sorts of fantastical stories play out on the stage. I was having the time of my life, and, despite how much I missed Mammy, my friends, and everything else back home, a thought often crossed my mind – what if I could stay here for ever? One night, when the three of us were sitting around the fire and reading various books, I spoke up and posed that very question to Auntie Maggie. She smiled. However, with a tinge of sadness in her voice, she told me that it couldn’t be. Dejected, I went straight to bed.

Still, despite this let-down, I decided that I would make the most of my stay there, and enjoy this tranquil oasis of happiness while it lasted. The more time I spent with the Aunties, the more I began to notice certain things about them. They both wore rings on their fingers, but they never mentioned any husbands. And they certainly weren’t widows, a detail I managed to pick up on after seeing them referred to in a newspaper article about their shop as “Miss McQuillan” and “Miss Collen”. The final thing I took note of was that Auntie May didn’t seem to have a room to herself, despite there being two spare bedrooms other than my own and Auntie Maggie’s. I found it odd, admittedly, but my young mind didn’t think much of anything that may have been going on.

When my time on Dawson Street finally came to an end, I was absolutely devastated. I can still recall grabbing on to the folds of Auntie Maggie’s dress as Uncle Jack tried to wrench me from her arms. In an effort to coax me out, he told me about how Mammy was doing much better, that she was finally back home. But I didn’t want Mammy, I wanted Auntie Maggie and Auntie May. After Daddy died, Mammy brought to mind everything cold, unhappy and downright depressing about the world, while the Aunties were everything that was good in it – I couldn’t leave them behind. Clearly, fate had other ideas. Uncle Jack finally succeeded in dragging me out the front door and back to Drogheda, while I sobbed inconsolably all the way through the journey home.

As the years went by, I wrote countless letters to the Aunties, but nothing was ever sent back to me, so I eventually gave up trying to contact them. I would never see Auntie Maggie again, nor would I even hear about her until her death, by which point I was a young adult. Mammy, Auntie Janie and Uncle Jack all made the trip to the funeral with me, something which surprised me – at least they had the ounce of kindness required to say goodbye to their own ostracised sister. At the funeral, I saw Auntie May, draped in black and standing teary by the graveside. I approached her afterwards, and the two of us talked for hours into the night. She told me about how she and Auntie Maggie had received all my letters, and how their hearts ached more and more each time they read them, knowing that they could not respond. You see, Mammy had told them that they were forbidden from contacting me in any shape or form whatsoever, out of her fear that their “sinfulness” would rub off on me.

It was at that moment that something about the Aunties which I had long forgotten about finally clicked. But all I could do was smile. They had found their own happiness in a world where the odds were so heavily weighed against them. And what could be a greater thing than that?