The Cast System

I’m spreadin’ an ould Irish Press all t’way ‘cross the kitchen table so where we eat cannit git ruined be the Brasso or Silvo.  If I don’t do a good job, Ma’ll get cranky an’ tell Da when he comes home from workin’ above in t’Gard’s barracks.  Once, I did let the table get stained, just a wee little blackish-blueish stain an’ Da got fierce mad altagether, his face gettin’ redder an’ redder an’ him sayin’ “there’s nuthin’ I hate more in this world, other than them gud fer nuthin’ politicians, except carelessness.” 

Then he gave me a batterin’.

But just a wee wan, ‘cause I done a mistake not a sin. 

Da’s always goin’ on ‘bout how useless politicians is, but every evenin’ after we say t’Angelus he gets all cranky, wavin’ his hands ta shush us so he can watch the News.  An’ sure t’News is just bombin’ n’ shootin’ above in t’North an’ borin’ politicians sayin’ confusin’ words between big-long hemmms an’ haawwws. 

The minute the News is over, an’ us already in the scullery doin’ the dishes, he picks up t’Irish Press an’ reads it so … slow…ly from wan end ta t’other, all the time shakin’ them big pages.  Why don’t they make newspapers like the small books at the front a the library with cardboard covers, an’ not have them big shaky-crinkly pages.  That way, when Da is readin’ the paper, we could hear what the Corporal in F Troop is sayin’ – he’s awful stupid, but most a the time it’s stupid-funny, not like t’News, that’s stupid-borin’.

Still, I love doin’ Brasso on a Saturday morning, an’ we couldn’t do it without them big Irish Presses.  Me first job is ta cover the whole table completely, wan hunderd per … – I don’t know what them things is, but they’re fierce important cause the man on the News uses them ta say how bad ever’thin’ is.  Ma says that ta cover the whole table is a hunderd a them.  If I don’t cover the whole table an’ it gets stained again, this time it might be a sin not a mistake.  Sins do get ya a fierce batterin’. 

See, ya don’t actually get kilt be Ma, she just tells ya that Da’s goin ta kill ya when he gets home.  She can stop ya from gettin’ kilt be Da by not tellin’ him or if he’s goin’ ta do it himself, she can tell him “ta cop on.”  But mostly she’s too busy for that, cause there’s always someone cryin’ from fallin’ or fightin’, or there’s hard homework that needs helpin’ with, or there’s laundry as hasta come in from t’line ‘cause a rain.

When I’m spreadin’ out t’Irish Presses, Davey an’ Cathy is fightin’ over who gets ta unlock the sittin’ room door.  The two a them hafta carry wan a the tubular-chairs outta the kitchen for ta climb up an’ get the key off the nail above the door.  See no wan is allowed inta the sittin’ room ‘cept if there’s someone fierce important in the house, or Granny.  Even Santy doesn’t come in that locked door; course he comes down the chimney. 

Da an’ Ma do keep “all the good stuff that ye crowd’d break ta smithereens” within in the sittin’ room. 

I don’t like the sittin’ room. 

It’s all borin’, ‘cept for the books, but I can’t read them yet, only look at the pictures in the ‘cyclopedia.

Anyways, after they get the sittin’ room door open, they have ta get Ma ta unlock the China cabinet.  See that’s way too easy ta break.  It’s made a glass an’ everythin’ in there rattles when walk apast it.  I’m too scared ta even look at it in case it’d crack an’ I’d be blamed.  

Ma has a secret key for it that she hides down in t’pocket of her apron.  In the China cabinet, behind all them locks an’ doors an’ glass is the on’iest rich things we have: A silver teapot, that’s full a money when ya lift the lid off: A silver crucifix with Jesus nailed ta it, on’y t’nails are just kinda-sorta silver thumbtacks an’ they go through His arms, not his Hands – still He looks awful sad: An’ a silver ash tray, even though no wan smokes in our house.  Uncle smokes, but he flicks his ash inta the fireplace or onta his plate, kinda-sorta ruinin’ the biscuits he hasn’t eaten.  T’ashtray says words written on it in silver.  I don’t know what the words say, they’re in that grownup’s writin’, the sort that the letters do lean up against wan another.

I hafta have the table all pertected before they get back with all the silver. 

Then, I go get the Brasso and Silvo from under the sink.  I hate it under the sink, it’s so dark and smelly, an’ monsters live in there, on’y small monsters that ate mice but they’d ate yer hand too.  I can see the Silvo bottle easy from where the under-the-sink door is kinda-sorta stuck open.

I take out the Silvo an’ the Brasso’s right next ta it, an’ I brin’ them back set them up on the table the way Ma wants them: Brasso on wan side a the table, an’ Silvo on t’other.  

Ma calls this the “cast system.”

I don’t know what cast means, but it’s about good an’ bad. 

“What are ya doin’ now?” Ma askes, all cross.

She’s always cross on a Saturday morning cause there’s so many people movin’ everywhere ‘round the house doin’ their jobs.  The big girls is upstairs pullin’ sheets off the beds for ta wash them, an’ foldin’ the blankets until the sheets come back in off the line.  The sheets’ll be dry this evening if there’s wind an’ no rain. If they hafta wait ‘til the morning, Ma’ll hafta shake them ta get rid a the black insects that sleep in sheets overnight. 

The hoover is goin’ mad over an’ back across lino in our room.  Ma usenta let Gay use the hoover on the lino, but then we go a new hoover – a Nilfisk.  Ya can do ever’thing with a Nilfisk.  Ya can even dry yer hair with it, but Ma don’t allow that.  I tried it once, when Ma was downstairs, an’ it near sucked the hair outta me skin.  Everyone on Marian Row and Riverdale was so excited about our new hoover, that me sisters’ friends was comin’ in for weeks doin’ the hoverin’ for them, just ta be usin’ a Nilfisk.

“I’m gettin’ ready for Brassoin’,” I say, not sure what I’m doin’ wrong now.

“An’ what are ya goin’ ta shine them with?  Yer shirt?” she pints back at the sink.

Oh no! I have go back under the sink an’ with me eyes closed, slap ‘round with me hand ta find the shinin’ rags. 

I stare at Ma ta see if she’ll just get them cause that’s quicker than makin’ me get them, but she’s really cross taday.

“Get in under that sink an’ find them rags, I don’t want ta hear another thin’ about monsters in this house.  T’only monsters I know of are Adolf Hitler an’ Ian Paisley an’ neither a them is in under our sink!”

She gives me shove towards the kitchen.

“I don’t have time for yer ould nonsense taday.”

I try ta slide the under-the-sink-door open a bit more so I can see better.  But it won’t go.  That door hates movin’ more than Granny does, ‘cept the door can’t be askin’ me for ta get everythin’ for it.  

I kneel down, fill up with air, close me eyes an’ stretch me hand inta the darkness that probly is the backdoor ta hell. 

Me hand knocks over bottles a sumptin’. 

I squeeze me eyes shut ta help me know what I’m touchin’.

The tips a me fingers touch sumptin’ cold an’ slimy – probly Da’s comb buttered in Brylcreem.

Me hand runs on an’ on until finally it touches the cold dampness a t’shinin’ clothes.  The Brasso cloth never dries out ‘cause I pour on so much a the slippery greyish-whitish Brasso outta the bottle. 

I pull out the shinin’ cloths.  Wan a them sticks on sumptin’’ but I just get mad, like Da does, an’ pull even harder. Whatever it was is sorry, cause I can hear it bangin’ onta floor of t’under-sink cabinet.  Sure that floor is so full a holes that whatever fell is probly below the rotten wood a t’floor with the mice or even fallin’ all the way ta hell.

By when I’m back with the cloths, ever’thin’ Ma has ever’thin’ set up in the cast system.  On wan side is the brass candlesticks, the two gud wans for Holy Days an’ ta show Santy where the knee-socks are for fillin’ with jelly beans, an’ the two ould wans for power cuts.  The ould wans is all stained with wax burns cause the power goes off a lot.  Ma brin’s in the kettle, which is gud an’ bad.  Gud cause there’s lots ta shine an’ bad cause where the spout a t’kettle wuz fallin’ off, Da took it ta a man, who done sumptin’ called “weldin’” an’ now the spout is stuck ta the kettle with metal-vomit. I hate touchin’ that greenish-yellowish metal-vomit, but ya hafta ta shine the kettle proper.

The silver stuff is fierce fancy altagethter.  Sure, the silver tea pot on’y ever got used the once ever.  Not even Granny gets tea outta that.  The on’iest time I seen it was when Archdeacon Nohilly come ta t’door wan day ta talk ta Da about the Travellers stealin’ from the Child a Prague’s collection box in t’church.  I like the Child a Prague, he smiles all the time, an’ like me he does seem a wee bit sad.

Da said t’Archdeacon cum down ta our house cause he didn’t want ta be seen goin’ inta the Gards Station.

“Altogether too much gossipin’ in this town,” Da said t’Archdeacon told him.

When I brung them a plate a Custard Creams, the on’iest thing I heard t’Archdeacon say was:

“You’re right Joe.”

He was agreein’ with Da who had said, “sure that crowd’ll be with us forever.  Didn’t our Lord say as much once upon a time.”

Ma was pushin’ in behind me with the fancy tray with the silver teapot, the gud milk jug an’ wan cup an’ a saucer from the China cabinet.  The whole lot on the tray wuz shakin’ like they were as scared as me.

Archdeacon Nohilly’s fierce cross, I wouldn’t want him ta ever know I made a sin.  Ta steal from him, the Travellers must be fierce brave.

T’on’y other silver things we have is the knocker an’ the little dooreen the letters come in through the front door.  But ya hafta go out ta them ta shine them up.  If it’s rainin’, which is nearly always, then ya don’t get ta shine them.

I know ever’thin’ about the silver, but I never allowed ta shine silver.  On’y the brass I can do, cause I’m too little. Davey an’ Cathy shine the silver ‘cause they’re bigger.  I could do the silver, sure it’s the same as t’brass on’y it costs more an’ if ya dropped a silver thing, then Da’d kill ya stone dead.

Netty doesn’t really do nuthin’ cause she’s on’y two.  I mean Ma gives her an ould brass thing that Granny brung back from Lourdes that shows Mary kinda-sorta smilin’ an’ her flyin’ above some roofs, with her hands held out, so it has ta be a miracle. 

I don’t think she’s actually smilin’, I think she’s cryin’ but I wouldn’t say that out loud.  What if Archdeacon Nohilly heard I was sayin’ bad thin’s about Mary Mother of God?  

That’d be worse than breakin’ silver!

Anyways, Ma gives Netty the brass Lourdes thin’ an’ a clean rag, ‘cause she’s on’y two so most things ends up within in her mouth.

Then I do all the brass. 

If the rule is that wee lads do brass, then I’m the oniest wan that can shine brass. 

I mean if Davey an’ Cathy are big an’ can do silver, then they can’t do brass as well.  Wan fierce rainy Saturday they tried but there was an awful fight, us wallopin’ wan another, hair pullin’, face scratchin’.   Ma stopped us be wallopin’ all a us with the wooden spoon till there was red lines across the back a our legs. 

I cried for hours that day, above in the bed, cryin’ inta the pillow, no dinner, stuff broken below in the kitchen, sumptin’ even went inta the fireplace, I don’t know what, but I heard it hittin’ the fire-screen leavin’ a big donk in the screen’s sorta metal net.  When I turned lookin’ at that noise is when I got the worst scratch on me face.

Ya couldn’t ask Ma about what happened that day. 

We never talk it at-all-at-all-at-all. 

I stayed in bed until teatime, just me an’ Noddy an’ Big Ears an’ Mister Plod.  Course Noddy was always havin’ gud thins ta eat all the time, an’ me starvin’ ta death within in bed, but I wouldn’t let anyone know.  Noddy’s always gettin’ inta kinda-sorta trouble, like Mister Plod is always sayin’ mean things ta him an’ he even locked him in prison once.  But it’s not real trouble, not like waitin’ for Da ta come home ta batter ya. 

Me plan was ta starve ta death before Da could send me down the back ta break off a sally rod from the tree for him ta use wallopin’ me across the legs.  But then there was boxty for tea an’ I could smell it an’ hear the rashers spittin’ within in the pan.  I could nearly taste all that luvly food in me mouth. 

Anyways, Ma never told Da, so no on got kilt.

After that day, Ma calls it “unmentionable Saturday,” I never use Silvo, an’ on’y me uses Brasso.

The other two is done with the Silvo at the table fierce fast, then they fight about who’s goin’ ta do the front door.  See, if ye’re outside doin’ a job an’ a friend comes along, ya can talk ta them; at least long enough ta complain about the job ye’re bein’ made do.  They think even talkin’ for a few minutes is better than doin’ a job. 

Maybe there’s sumptin’ broken within in me, but I like doin’ jobs.  Sometimes it’s even better than goin’ out playin’, specially when the lads are all fightin’ with each other over who’s the boss. 

Then I cum in an’ ask Ma for a job.

“Go on out ta play, an’ let me have a bit a peace,” she says, sippin’ her tea.  

Ma an’ Da an’ Auntie an’ Granny an’ Uncle are always talkin’ about peace. 

Peace, peace, peace! 

Please God there’ll be peace this year, peace next year. 

Maybe someone’ll come along an’ make peace.

Peace is just borin’! 

It’s just Ma sittin’ be the fire drinkin’ tea, with the telly off, an’ her starin’ up at the cracks in the kitchen ceiling.

I know Ma on’y needs a few minutes a peace an’ then she’ll be back ta her jobs again.  She’s always doin’ jobs, never stops. 

So, I stay, leanin’ backwards but holdin’ meself up by just pushin’ the skin a me hands completely flat against the table.

Then wan hand slips all of a shot, an’ I go backwards onta the floor.

Me head hurts bad, but I can’t cry ‘cause ya can’t cry durin’ Ma’s peace – she’d kill ya!

I stand up an’ walk inta the scullery so she can’t see I’m about ta cry.  There’s silvery-black circles movin’ ‘round the ceilin’ an’ the top a the wall, where the black-dampness lives. 

When the silvery-black circles go away, I have an idea.

“Can I wash the damp off the walls in the scullery?” I ask, me hands together like I’m prayin’.

That’s how ya say ya really want sumptin’.  It’s like as if ye’re askin’ Ma an’ God fer the same thing.  Whenever I see Archdeacon Nohilly bossin’ people inta seats at mass, I do put me hands up like that so he’ll know I’m holy.

I really want ta clean the scullery walls ‘cause it’s so much fun.  Ya get ta climb all over everythin’, even the cooker.  Course ya have ta be careful that ya don’t step on a ring an’ get kilt be t’electric or be Da.  But the climbin’ an’ cleanin’s so much fun.

“No!” Ma says that day.

She’s all cross now that her peace isn’t peaceful.  She drinks all the tea that’s left in her mug, an’ there’s that much I can see her throat gettin’ fat as it goes down.

“Grab the brush there an’ sweep the kitchen an’ the front hall, I’ve ta get yer tea goin’, an’ all that laundry still wet on the line, not a sign of a few windy hours without that cursed rain.”

Cause she’s always doin’ washin’, Ma an’ rain are awful enemies.

I sweep, liftin’ the chairs so the draggin’ sound doesn’t make Ma crankier.  With me down on me knees an’ the brush all the way under table, I pray for the rain ta stop an’ the wind ta blow so Ma’s laundry can get dry enough ta be put in on t’immersion.  Then she could get a bit a peace for the evening.

Sweepin’s borin’, specially compared ta the scullery walls, but me next favourite job is doin’ the Brasso. 

First, I rub lots an’ lots a Brasso onta the kettle.  That’s the biggest shiny thing, an’ I hafta be careful not ta touch the metal-vomit.

Then the Holy candlesticks.  They’re borin’ but easy ‘cause they’re so perfect an’, as soon as they’re done, Ma puts them back in t’sittin’ room. 

Then the power-cut candlesticks.  They’re all wobbly an’ have wax burn marks  an’ cuts from where they ben dropped durin’ the power cuts, near burnin’ the house down.  I do take good care a them ‘cause they’re so old an’ damaged. 

If it’s a week for vases, then I do them, but they’re borin’.  See, they don’t hardly ever get used.  Even the ouldest wan on’y gets a few flowers pushed inta it an’ then put on our doorstep for May Day.  Ma has roses in the front garden but they don’t go inta no vases.  If ya on’y kicked a ball inta the roses, an’ Ma sees it, ya get kilt.

When all the things is whiteish with Brasso, ya get that luvly Brasso smell.  Nuthin else smells like that.  Nuthin’ in the house or even in Mammy Handley’s classroom.  Ya have ta leave the whiteishness ta dry for two cups a tea an’, if Ma’s not too cranky, two slices a batch bread with butter n’ marmalade.  If you’re fierce lucky altagether, then there’d be Roses Lime Marmalade, but it’s on’y at Christmas we ever have Roses.  That’s the bestest marmalade, better even than jam.

After usin’ yer fingers ta clean the last a the sugar from the bottom a yer second cup a tea, then the Brasso is ready for rubbin’ off.  Ya use a different cloth for rubbin’ off than for rubbin’ on.  If the rubbin’ off cloth is new, like new old, it’s always someone’s old shirt that the cloths come from, then ya get the shiniest shine.

Probly someday I’ll be big enough ta do silver.  Even though sometimes I pretend I want ta do the silver, I don’t tell Ma or anyone that I don’t even want ta get that big.  In Mammy Handley’s class if ya raise yer hand an’ ask nicely, then ya can get outta yer desk ta get stuff, like crayons an’ paint or ta sharpen yer pencil.  No wan, ‘cept Marty the Traveller, ever gets slapped, an’ mostly he gets slapped for jumpin’ outta he’s desk an’ walkin’ ‘round without askin’.  When he won’t sit down an’ raise his hand ta ask nicely, then Mammy Handley opens the drawer awful fast an’ pulls out her wooden spoon.  

In Missus Foy’s High Infant class, there’s hardly no paint or crayons an’ Davey does be doin’ hard stuff, learnin’ letters ya never heard a, an’ how numbers do work in sums.  Every day after school he has ta finish awful hard sums that Missus Foy makes him write down in his copybook for homework.  An’ if ya don’t do the homework, Brother David comes ta the classroom ta give ya slaps with a big ruler.  If ya cry when he slaps ya, then the lads do laugh at ya durin’ playtime for cryin’. 

I’m not goin’ ta Missus Foy’s class.  I’m stayin’ in Mammy Handley’s class next year an’ I’ll do jobs for Ma all the time if the lads won’t play with me cause I stayed in Baby Room.

See jobs can be borin’ but if ya know ya hafta do them an’ ya don’t think about missin’ playin’ then the time goes faster.  Still if I on’y had jobs an’ no playin’ I’d hafta like the jobs or else they’d get so borin’.

Maybe it’s worth a few slaps if I can’t do the homework, so I can still play with the lads.  But what if Brother David slaps me so hard that I cry an’ then the lads are all laughin’ at me in the yard, pintin’ an’ yellin’: “Crybaby!”

Marty doesn’t cry when he gets slapped, not even when Brother David comes in an’ wallops his hand hard with Mammy Handley’s wooden spoon.

“Tish on’y me hand that hurts,” Marty says.  “T’rest a me don’t hurt atalltalltall.”

But after Brother David’s done shakin’ his head an’ goes out the door without makin’ no noise, Marty’s eyes do be all watery.

I don’t want homework, an’ I don’t want slaps. 

Maybe when ya get bigger, big enough ta do the silver, then slaps don’t hurt?

But I don’t even want ta do the silver, cause I love the brass.  Ma says the brass “is at the low end a class the cast system,” like that’s bad, but the brass an’ me don’t care. 

See if ya get a new ould rag, shine fierce hard altagether on the Brasso, squeezin’ yer eyes a wee bit closed, then the Holy candlesticks do look like they’re made a gold.