The Birthday Party

My mother, the same age as the Queen, is the last one standing out of a class of thirty-two. Often, she will look at an old class photo and ask,

'Am I really the last one?'

'You are,' I reply.

'But why me?'

'Your punishment for being the cheekiest,' I reply.

When I was a child, my mother regularly told the story of her birthday party.

'Whir ave I goat the money for a partie? It’s hard feeding all of ye withoot the hale o Mossend,' my grandmother protested.

That summer my mother stayed close to the house; washing dishes, cleaning up or hanging sheets down the yellie burn. It was on one of those busy days my grandmother gave in.

'Nae mare than eight. Don’t ye goan invite the hale class,' she insisted.

Unable to contain her excitement, my mother ran to Betty’s house. When her friend came to the door she screamed,

'Betty, I’m haen a birthday partie!'

That afternoon plans were made; when was the best time, what would they eat and, most important of all, who would they invite. At the tea table my grandmother agreed to make sausage rolls, egg sandwiches, and a “clootie dumpling”. My grandfather promised to fetch a few bottles of lemonade from Doyle’s pub.

In the playground the next day, the chosen few were gathered round.

'Mary, why can I nae come ti yer partie?' the excluded ones asked.

'My Ma telt me no tae invite too many.'

If she had invited more, the two room miners’ row would’ve had difficulty fitting them in.

On the morning of the party my mother was dizzy with excitement. Sat alone at the table wearing her Sunday best, she waited till a chap came to the door. Like a jack-in-the-box she sprung out of her seat to open it. Betty and Cathy McAulay were the first to arrive.

'C’min, c’min,' my mother squealed, her eyes glued to the gifts in hand. Soon after, another chap sounded, this time it was Margaret Boyle and Annie Easton. When all guests had arrived, the party started.

The fun began with musical chairs. Sat in the middle of the room, legs moving up and down like pistons, the girls waited for Betty to sing “o ye canny shove yer granny off the bus”. The girls pushed and shoved, frantic to grab a free chair. Margaret Boyle, the last girl left, won a bar of Five Boys chocolate.

When it was time for tea, the girls rushed to the table where the sausage rolls and egg sandwiches were waiting. With the last morsel eaten, Cathy McAulay pipes up,

'Mary did yer Ma no make a birthday cake?'

'She’s made a “clootie dumpling”, my mother replies.

'Well whir is it?' Getrude demands.

'Ma’ll bring it through later. Noo whae fancies a song?'

'Can we no play pass the parcel?' Betty pleads.

'We’ll dae that later, noo whae wants to be first up?'

'Yoooou,’ they all protest.

My mother stands up, brushes down her dress then starts to sing “A Scottish Soldier”. After the first verse she comes to an abrupt stop. She’d forgotten the words.

'Mary Gilfeather yer rotten at singing,' the girls screamed as my mother’s face turned tomato red.

'Whae’s next?' Getrude demands.

'I’ll go,' a voice from the back shouts out.

When Cathy McAulay began to sing, the sound of her voice was like chalk being dragged down a blackboard.

'Mary, whae telt Cathy she can sing? See that pin oe’r there, go git it and stick it in her,' Getrude demands.

With no thought to the consequences, my mother frees the pin from the cushion and promptly sticks it in Cathy’s bum.

'Aargh, aargh,' Cathy screams, tears rolling down her cheeks.

'I’m gonnae tell my Mam on you, Mary Gilfeather,’ Cathy cries as she grabs her coat before shooting out the front door.

'Mary, whit did ye dae that fir?' Getrude squeals.

'Ye telt me te.'

'I was only jokin.'

'Mary, yer in trouble noo. Cathy’s Ma’ll nae be happy,' a disappointed Betty said.

Breaking the blanket hush in the room, Getrude asked,

'Mary when’s yer Ma coming with the dumpling?'

In the scullery my mother shouts, 'Ma, Ma,' but there was no answer. When she opens the pantry door, there standing as proud as the Monarch of the Glen, was the dumpling. Unable to lift it, she shouts,

'Betty, can ye come ben and help me?'

‘Here it is,’ they say, placing the ashette with the dumpling on the table.

'Whits that stickin oot of it?' Matty Delaney asked.

'The favours. Ma says she’s pit sucker rings and sixpence pieces inside.'

'Ooooooh,' they all say, eyes popping out of their heads.

'Can we git a piece noo?' they scream.

'Naw, ye better wait till Ma comes back.'

'Git oaf me Maggie,' Getrude shouts.

'It’s mine,' Maggie screams as she tries to free her hand from Getrude’s grip.

In no time a rabble of girls are scampering round the few rooms. A crashing noise brought the mob to their senses.

'Ma’s vase, you’ve broken it,' my mother screams at her giggling pals.
My grandmother who’d just walked into the room, shouts,

'That’s it. Oot the lot of you. The party is over.'

With Mary Gamble the last to leave, Tony McAulay was making his way to the door.

'Mrs Gilfeather, can I hae a word?'

'Whit’s wrang Tony?'

'Oor Cathy came hame in a terrible state.'

'Why, whit happened?'

'She says Mary stuck a pin in her.'

'Is that true?'

'Getrude telt me ti dae it.'

'I’m no interested in whae telt ye ti dae it.'

When my grandmother was busy pacifying Tony McAulay, my mother made a stab at clearing the wreckage her pals left behind. With the bang of the front door, the force of my grandmother’s anger filled the house.

In the midst of the heavy atmosphere, my mother hides her smiles. She had had a great party.