. . . on doing your bit
I WAS FORGOTTEN ABOUT last Mother’s Day. He forgot and I forgot and the children are too young to remember without prompting, so they also forgot. The next day I felt robbed of something I couldn’t put my finger on. My friend consoled me afterwards and suggested ways this sorry situation might be avoided in the future. She said you have to make it happen yourself. She usually starts talking about Mother’s Day a week before, suggesting the hotel she’d like to be sent to alone for one night, or the gift she has her eye on. It’s one way, I suppose. But for me the point is not having to remind anyone about anything. It’s about being independently thought of and acknowledged, in the small and surprising ways. And not just on Mother’s Day either.
Perhaps it’s unrealistic. But I’m not talking love notes hidden in your lunchbox here, although that would be interesting. What seems to happen to some of us as the years go by, children come or they don’t come, but either way the years are often not kind when it comes to the small, surprising gestures which can get disappointingly thin on the ground.
You have to work at this part of a relationship too. And even though planning surprises is more pleasurable than all the other work you have to do to maintain a relationship, this part can still get sidelined. And when it gets sidelined it’s sad.
I think that’s why when I read the story Bill gave me, a story handwritten in capital letters for his weekly writing group, any mistakes meticulously corrected with Tippex, it filled me with hope for the years ahead, hope that it doesn’t have to be that way. Bill is 79. He’s been married for 53 years. He still hasn’t started sidelining the surprising gestures. Small or big.
His wife, Agnes, is a keen reader of a community magazine in the Pearse Street area of Dublin called the Link. In the Easter edition of the Link this year, there was an article on the life of Margaret Skinnider, a Scottish-born woman of Irish parents who had been involved in the Easter Rising. She was variously a messenger or a dispatch rider but she got closer than perhaps any other woman to the action. At one point she made her way up to a garret on the roof of the College of Surgeons and opened sniper fire on the British at the Shelbourne Hotel. She was the only woman wounded in action, a crack shot with a rifle, a feminist and a brave revolutionary.
Agnes read about her and her memoir, Doing My Bit For Ireland, in Glenn Reilly’s article in the Link and she shouted excitedly to Bill: “I know that woman, Margaret Skinnider, she was one of our teachers in Kings Inn Street School.”
Skinnider had evaded capture, gone to New York, written her memoir and eventually returned to Ireland, where she had a long teaching career. She was president of the Irish National Teachers’ Organisation and died while still teaching in 1971. Agnes was fascinated by this glimpse into her old teacher’s other life and wanted to know if Bill could source the book in the library for her.
Bill first went to the Central Library in the Ilac Centre but was told it was only available in the reference section of Pearse Street Library, “so no joy there for Agnes”. It was difficult explaining the bad news. He could see she was disappointed. So he decided he would do his best to track down the book. His grandson Nathan is good with stuff online but he was away for Easter. Then Bill remembered Cathach Books off Grafton Street, which he knew was a treasure trove of rare books and first editions.
Off he went and was amazed when the assistant, after listening to Bill’s story, told him, “yes sir, we have that on file”. The only problem, she said, was finding it, as the shop was reorganising its catalogue system. As Bill’s blood pressure rose she searched the shelves and, to his relief, she found Skinnider’s Doing My Bit For Ireland. “It’s a first edition and expensive, Sir,” she told Bill, quoting the price.
He hesitated but then assured her he was interested. Rushing off to the bank he called back, “don’t sell it”, and the woman promised to hold it for him. He realised, on his way to get the money, that the book would make an excellent surprise Easter gift instead of the egg he usually gave Agnes, and this made him very happy. When he returned to the shop the deal was done with a slight discount because it was a gift. The assistant put it into “a real fancy bag” and told Bill “that will set it off nicely, sir”.
Bill strutted home “like a rooster”, presenting the fancy bag to a bewildered Agnes. “What?” she said.
“Look inside if you want to find out,” said Bill. He found it difficult to accurately describe her reaction but mentions the “gasp and grin” and the “great hug” that followed. “I had truly made her day.”
The kicker, he said, was the cost. The princely sum of €270. He was broke now, but doing his bit for Agnes had been worth it. Bill knows you can’t put a price on these things.
In other news . . .
Earlier this week a new charity called Pomegranate was launched to help people suffering from infertility. Treatment for infertility is not available on the public health service so for those who cannot afford go private, a diagnosis is often the end of the line. Pomegranate aims to help such people take a step further towards becoming parents. Find out more on pomegranate.ie