The Quilted Dressing Gown

Francis Murphy was my best pal. He lived across the road from me, in a four-in-a-block exactly like ours, a mirror image of our own home. When I was young I thought the biggest difference between us was the number of people who lived in our houses – there was me, my mammy and daddy, and my big brother, John, in our house. In his house there was him, his mammy and daddy, and his eight siblings. This reflected a bigger difference between us, a thing that sometimes felt like nothing and other times was everything; Francis and his family were Catholic, and me and my family were not. On Sundays they went to the village chapel, with the statues of Mary and Jesus on the walls and the incense burning and the pageantry of the priest and the altar-boys. We went to the little church at the top of the hill that had been built by the hands of my grandfather and his brothers. I would sit in that plain little room, wooden panels on the walls and threadbare carpets under my feet, trying not to fall asleep. I would think about Francis in his chapel, intrigued by the mystery and the rituals I wasn’t allowed to see for myself.

One evening I went into the living room and asked my mammy if I could go with Francis to the chapel one Sunday.

‘No,’ she said, not even looking up from mending one of John’s socks. ‘We’ve got our own church to go to.’

‘But I just wanty see what it’s like,’ I said, in a tone I hoped would convince her. My daddy was sitting by the fireplace, eating an orange and throwing the peels into the fire. The room was warm with the smell of citrus. My mammy shook her head.

‘No.’

I went in a huff at being told no and didn’t speak to anyone until the next morning. When we were eating our porridge, I tried one more time.

‘Please mammy, please let me go to the chapel.’ She turned from the sink and looked at me, her eyes burning.

‘I’ll not tell ye again. You’re not going.’

That day I took my time walking home from school. It was late June, warm but with a cloudy sky; I wandered around until I found myself outside the chapel. I looked at the statue of Mary at the front of the building, all white marble and gentle eyes and hands pressed together in supplication. I didn’t understand what was so bad about making statues. When I looked at Francis and myself, I couldn’t see any difference other than the fact that his fingernails were a bit dirtier than mine. I sat in front of Mary for a while, wondering if she’d somehow give me the answers, but nothing happened. I got up and went home when I stopped being able to feel my hands.

When I got in my mammy was waiting for me in the living room.

‘C’mon in,’ she said. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’

I went in and sat down beside her on the couch. The fire was on; I had seen the pit bus dropping the miners off on my walk back and knew my daddy was due home any minute.

‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘what it was you wanted again for your birthday.’ My birthday was two weeks away. I smiled even thinking about it, the one thing I had asked for, the only thing I wanted.

‘A quilted dressing gown.’ She nodded, and there was sadness in her eyes. She reached into the pocket of her pinny and brought out a neat little bundle of notes.

‘Now I think you’ve been a really good lassie this year, and you deserve to get what you want for your birthday. But Mrs Murphy came to see me; she was awfy upset. She told me that Mr Murphy’s been ill and hasn’t been able to go to work. They’re short on money this month and she’s running out of food for the weans.’ She paused and looked at me. I knew she was studying my face for a reaction.

‘Aye, she does have a lot of mouths to feed.’ She nodded.

‘Well, she asked me for some money to help her feed them. And I had a look in the money box, but all I had was this money I had set aside for your birthday present. I told Mrs Murphy that I would need to speak to you before I gave her the money, because if I give her the money…’ she put her hand on my leg, squeezing it gently, 'it means I won’t be able to afford to get you a quilted dressing gown for your birthday.’

Looking back on it now, I know my mammy knew exactly what she was doing. She knew I would never choose a present for myself over my friend and his family having food to eat. And she knew exactly what I would do.

‘Well mammy, obviously I wouldn’t want Mrs Murphy to not be able to feed her weans. I think you should give her the money.’ She smiled and put her arm around me, pulling me towards her. I let her hug me, breathing in her smell as a few tears escaped from my eyes.

‘It’s alright to be sad, hen, but you did the right thing.’

All that day I felt down about not getting my quilted dressing gown. But then I thought about my mammy and her kindness – the way she wanted to help Mrs Murphy, how she’d asked me before she did it even though she knew I’d never say no, the fact that it didn’t matter to her that she and Mrs Murphy went to different churches. When it came down to it, it was a neighbour helping a neighbour. I knew that must be something that got taught in all churches.