by Conor Lynch
The new washing machine had arrived two weeks earlier. Mary still marvelled at how handy it was compared to the old manual one. She was the talk of the women’s guild and only Rosie O’ Shaughnessy had “an automatic” before any of them. The prize bonds had yielded Mary a small windfall, nothing too big mind, but enough for a “few luxuries” was how Mary put it to Mrs. Reilly in the Post office.
“Mam, Tex keeps chewing on his lead”.
“Not now Tommy. I’m talking”.
Tommy, her only child, was eight years old. He too was delighted with the news. He got the dog he had been pining after for the past year.
As they strolled back up the main street, the late September sun glistened on the roof of Pat’s new Cortina. Mary smiled as she looked at her husband, one arm resting on the door as he spoke to two of the men from the bar he had parked outside.
“And you push this one in here and you can light your cigarette,” he boasted as the two looked on in awe.
“Lads,” Mary said as she opened the back door and ushered Tommy in with the dog. The two men back pedalled hurriedly in case they should break the momentum.
“Well Mary, you’ll go up to Dublin in style on Saturday now. The pope mobile will be in the h’apenny place when he sees this,” guffawed one of the pair.
“Do you think I’m bringing this up to Dublin with all those crowds?” Pat said, starting up the engine. “Although he might be interested in the sun roof!”
With a parp of the horn, the family pulled away and made their way out the road to their house in Inishaven.
“What time does the bus leave on Saturday?” Pat asked his wife.
“We have to be outside the church at six, so you’ll be in bed early, mister, on Friday night”. Mary gave a motherly look to Tommy as she fixed her make up in the mirror of her sun visor. “Oh look! It has lights on the sides too, Pat. They think of everything these days don’t they?”
Pat smiled proudly.
“Why aren’t you coming to see the Pope, Dad?”
“Someone has to mind Tex, sure you can’t bring him with you.”
“Aw Dad, I will keep him on the lead…”
“Don’t be silly Tommy!” Mary interjected. “Your first time to Dublin, and you going to see His Holiness and you want to bring that little mutt!”
She turned to her husband.
“Now you needn’t be making any plans either, I have plenty of things for you to be doing on Saturday. We need…”
“But Mam, Tex is good…”
“Tommy, don’t interrupt me again. I told you earlier. Pat, you need to start doing a bit more exercise too. If you keep driving around everywhere like Lord Muck, you will end up like Rosie’s husband. Fat and fifty!”
Pat pursed his lips. He already had plans for Saturday. Half the village was going to Dublin to see the pope but he was off to Lough Cregagh to do some fishing in peace, now that there would be a mass exodus. This was the only exercise he had in mind.
They arrived back to the house and had only entered into the kitchen when Mary started to issue instructions to Pat as to how the new washing machine operated.
“So you put everything in, not too much now. Then you put this dial to ‘H’…’J’ if it’s only cottons, and ‘I’ if you are doing the quick cycle.”
“Jaysus Mary, it’s very new-fangled.” Pat argued, scratching his ear. “Could you not do it on Friday?”
“No, Pat, I need to do all these sheets when we are all out of the house, we’ll get more done. I haven’t even shown you where to put the washing powder yet. Now you push this button for the energy saving and then…”
“Mam, will I be able to bring Tex back something from Dublin?”
“Not now, Tommy, I’m talking.”
Pat rubbed Tommy’s hair. He gave his son a knowing wink: don’t worry, Tex will be fine.
Tommy smiled as he tickled his pet under the chin, and laughed as the puppy licked his master’s cheeks.
“Pat, are you listening?” Mary stood with her hands on her hips, an incredulous look on her face.
“I’ll work it out, love. Sure if all else fails I can go up to the drapery and buy more sheets.” He took his paper and made his way to the sitting room laughing quietly to himself.
Mary was up early on Saturday morning. She needed to make sandwiches and tea for the bus, and she had promised to do a flan for the guild for when they got to the Phoenix Park. How she was going to carry it for the next six hours was beyond her, but she hadn’t time to worry about that now, as she sprinkled chocolate flake over the peaches and cream decorating the flan base.
She looked at the basket of washing on the floor. Reluctantly, she gave in, sighing to herself. Careful not to crease her woollen grey skirt she had bought in McElhinnys sale (Rosie always shopped there), she loaded the sheets into the washing machine. She put the washing powder into the drawer, set all of the buttons and left the door ajar. She would leave Pat a note. All he would have to do would be to shut the door and hit button “A”.
When she had finished in the kitchen, she stepped up the hallway, careful not to wake her sleeping husband. She entered Tommy’s room and carried him back down the hall to the kitchen where she had neatly left out his Sunday clothes. As he woke groggily, she smiled and kissed his forehead.
“We will have a great day, today, love. And we can have a grand chat on the bus.”
“What about Tex? I’ll miss Tex.”
“Don’t be silly, we’ll be home tonight, you can see him then.” She patted his bum and handed him his shirt. “Now, you put this on and I will get you some porridge. We have a long day ahead of us.”
Within the hour, they were standing outside the church along with forty others. Tommy held the flan in front of him, petrified in case his freezing fingers would drop it.
Mary was livid. Even in the darkness of the early morning, she could see Rosie walking up and down, greeting everyone in her new grey woollen skirt. Straight out of the McElhinneys sale. Mary knew Rosie had seen it on her at mass on Sunday and was sure she did it to spite her.
“My hands are cold, Mam.”
“Not now, Tommy, not now love.”
Tommy winced, but smiled to himself when he thought of Tex and how Pat would do that thing that Mary didn’t know about.
“Here’s the coach!” someone cried as the bright lights on the front of the bus lit up the main street and a buzz of excitement whittled through the assembled crowd. People chatted and whispered, all respectful of anyone who might still be in bed in the nearby houses of the village. Although as far as Mary was concerned, Pat was the only one left.
“Now Tommy, leave that with me, young man,” said Father O’ Malley, as he took the cake from Tommy and left it high on one of the shelves behind his seat.
Mary thanked him and sat down at a window seat. Tommy slipped into the seat behind her with a boy from his class, leaving the aisle seat beside Mary free.
It was inevitable, she supposed, that Rosie came and sat beside her.
“Mary! How are you? It’s great you’re looking. Isn’t it all very exciting?”
Mary tried not to look at the skirt on Rosie but her expression gave her away.
“Look at us, Mary,” said Rosie, rubbing Mary’s thigh. “Wouldn’t you think there was only one type of skirt in the country?” She howled with laughter, much to Mary’s annoyance. and Mary reflected on how it would be a very long day indeed.
* * *
“Come on Tex. Time for your run.” Pat laughed to himself as he tucked into a rasher sandwich. “You’ll be the fittest dog in the town, and sure we don’t even have to leave the house!” Pat got up from the table and went to the washing machine.
“Ah sorry soldier…not today. Look what’s she’s done.”
* * *
“But Mary, you couldn’t live without the hostess trolley. It’s absolutely amazing for parties; they are all the rage in England”.
Mary was being outdone and bored to tears as Rosie laboured on about her latest appliance. Mary had foolishly mentioned the new washing machine and was now living to regret it.
“Sure I might even have John Paul and the bishop back later for dinner!” Rosie laughed.
The bus stopped after two hours driving and when everyone re-boarded after a toilet break, Mary motioned for Tommy to sit beside her. Anything to rid her of the boredom of Rosie.
“So do you like the bus?” she asked her son as she looked in the mirror of her compact to apply lipstick.
“It’s not as nice as the one we had for our school tour. That one had music.”
“You couldn’t have music today, Tom. It’s too holy a day for that.”
“I hope Tex is ok.”
Mary threw her eyes to heaven.
“He’ll be fine, your dad will look after him,” she said as she inspected a blemish on her nose. “He better get my washing done.”
Tommy was sniggering.
Mary looked at him and back into her mirror, to see was the blemish that noticeable.
She looked back at Tommy. “What’s so funny?”
“Sometimes when you are out, Dad does something funny with Tex.”
Mary looked bemused. “What does he do?”
Tommy sniggered again.
“Tommy?”
“It’s to do with the washing machine.”
With the mention of her beloved new appliance, Mary sat sideways in her seat facing her son.
“What do you mean, Tommy? My washing machine.”
Tommy looked nervous now and was starting to regret what he had started.
“Tommy?”
Tommy shuffled in his seat.
“Well you know the way you keep going on about Dad going for a walk with the dog and exercising?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Dad lets Tex into that drum thing and Tex runs around it like a hamster. It’s really funny.”
Mary wasn’t laughing.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” It was loud enough for Rosie to hear from the seat behind.
“No Mary, I don’t think they’ll be here today…it’s just the pope I believe.” She fell back into her place in kinks of laughter.
Mary was in shock. Her new washing machine. What the hell was he thinking? However, the nightmare was only beginning as Tommy finished his tale.
“What Dad doesn’t know though is this.” Tommy continued, inspired now with his story telling. “Tex gets tired and when you leave the clothes in the drum, Tex jumps in and falls asleep. He looks so cosy!”
“Tex, Tex…Where the hell is he?” Pat was in a hurry to get out. He picked up the note from the table. Holding the page at arm’s length, with his fishing rod in one hand, he read the note Mary had left.
“Sufferin’ Jesus! Stop the bus!”
Father O’Malley jumped up in disgust. “Mary please! Today of all days!”
“Stop the Jaysus bus!”
* * *
Pat crumpled the note and threw it in the bin.
“Where is that stupid dog? Ah to hell with him!” He shook his head, picked up his fishing basket and before leaving, he slammed shut the door of the washing machine and pushed button ‘A’.
Just as Mary had instructed him to do.
Conor Lynch is an Irish writer living in Dublin. He has been published in the Irish Independent, Woman’s Way and Irelands Own. He has also self-published five novels. However, his love for the short story will always win through. www.conorlynch.weebly.com
