by Clodagh O Connor
Alice is by the pier again, looking. Her eyes are blurred by drink or tears; she is no longer sure which. Finding a tussle of bushes she squats down to piss. As she rises, a gaudy ribbon tied to a twig catches her eye and it pulls out a memory – a time she stood, hemmed in by a gathering, Her ears filled with murmurings, words without meaning, a susurration of comfort, the percussion of beads clicking. Above the crowd, on a wooden plinth, a statue – the object of their adoration.
Now she looks around and finds wooden steps hidden under the old willow’s hanging branches. Alice climbs, her feet sliding on moss and decay. Her head spins as she looks upwards, When her eyes come level with chipped pink toes she stops, sucks in air until she finds her voice.
“Well, if it isn’t the Mother of God! You’re not so perfect now, are you?”
Steadying herself with one hand on the wooden rail, she prises open the green-grimed door to confront that serene face. She spits on the hem of her petticoat and uses a wet corner to reveal the sapphire-blue eyes. Fishing in her pocket, she angles a small mirror so that the sunlight blinds the statue.
“Can you stand to look at yourself? Where is your boy? Did you just let him die?”
The Virgin stays calm, her expression unchanging.
“At least I tried to save mine, but boys don’t listen to their mothers, do they? You look a bit under the weather yourself – did you have too good a time at that wedding in Cana?”
Alice wipes a small circle in the glass door and closes it, giving the Virgin a clear view to the sea between the overhanging branches. They watch together until tiredness finally grants Alice some sleep.
The voice of a boy calling disturbs her rest,
“Mammy, mammy, there’s a lady here!”
and, in the confusion of waking, she thinks her son is there.
Another voice finds its way through her fogged brain.
“I’ve told you not to climb up there! It’s just the statue of the Virgin Mary, come down here this minute!”
Boys don’t listen to their mothers.
Alice eyes the boy blearily, puts her fingers to her lips,
“Hush.” she says.
“Did you clean her to help her see?”
The boy whispers his question, pointing to the statue. Alice nods and the boy slides down the steps, greening his short trousers. He lands hard on his ankle and yelps.
“I told you not to climb up there. We can’t have the two of us lame”, his mother says, “Get up now and help me gather the mussels.”
Alice creeps down a step or two and sees the mother tie another ribbon to a twig and whisper some words. She watches the pair limp towards the rocky shoreline. That night she tosses in her bed. She is jealous of Mary with her constant watch on the sea. The Virgin has her eyes open all night – she’s not going to miss the moment when he comes back.
The next morning Alice brings her garden tools and cleaning rags, clears the moss from the stairs as she makes her way up to the statue. She sets down her bucket and opens the door.
“They say yours could walk on water, I wonder could he have taught my lad that trick? But sure, it’s all lies, isn’t it?”
As she curls her cloth around the Virgin’s feet her fingers find a tiny skeleton. Alice has a sudden vision of her son with his dead mouse in his hand, tears in his eyes. She remembers her own sharp response. Had he brought his sorrow to a kinder mother?
The two mothers face the sea together now and Alice pictures the Son of God sinking below the water weighed down by her disbelief; she smiles, for a while. Then she turns back to the statue, wets the stone face and the two women cry. Alice prays to the Mother while cursing the Son.
“Our boys weren’t so different. Wanderers, friends of fishermen. Never happy unless they were shooting their mouths off. Attracting the wrong sort of attention.”
Later, when she sees the mother and her son again, limping towards the pier, she calls out from the cottage door,
“Would you like to help me scrub her down? I’ll mind your boy up there.”
Alice and the boy scrape away the old candle wax and ragged stalks of long dead flowers. The woman cuts a rope of honeysuckle and the boy covers the chipped toes gently. At the foot of the steps the three turn their back on the sea and return together to the cottage entrusting Mary to the vigil.
Clodagh O Connor has always loved reading and storytelling. Her words have appeared in Silly Goose Press, The Hooghly Review and Trash Cat Lit, among others. Her story in The Storms Journal was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She is curious about the world and enjoys birdwatching, early medieval history and cycling. Sometimes these things leak into her writings.
Image by Albrecht Fietz from Pixabay
