Mother Hen
by Brendan Gisby
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: It’s 1936 in rural Ireland. With her mother too ill to cope, a little girl from a poverty-stricken family takes care of her siblings.
Swearwords: None.
Description: It’s 1936 in rural Ireland. With her mother too ill to cope, a little girl from a poverty-stricken family takes care of her siblings.
Helena Mary Bella Lane was a grand name for such a little girl, barely twelve years old, from a little house on the edge of a little village in County Leitrim in the heart of God’s green island of Ireland. Of course, no-one, not even the nuns from the school down the road in Carrigallen, ever called her by that grand name. Mary and Bella were extra names she received at Holy Baptism, the former added by her mother and the latter by their parish priest, Canon O’Brian. According to her mother, Bella meant beautiful in Latin and had been added to reflect the fact she was a beautiful baby. But her father, who had little regard for the clergy, said it was a typical priest’s trick to include another saint’s name, a shortened form of Saint Isabella of France.
Whichever was the case, she was never called Bella. Nor Mary. And, like Saint Isabella, her first name was shortened. So she was known more plainly as Lena Lane. Not that Lena was a plain little girl; not by any manner of means. Bella she truly was. It was said that her mother’s side of the family were of the Black Irish, descendants of Spanish immigrants to Ireland in the sixteenth century. There was no question that Lena had inherited her mother’s dark Spanish looks – the hazel eyes, the sharp nose, the high cheekbones and the proud chin, but particularly the blue-black hair that cascaded in ringlets halfway down her back.
“You’re Ireland’s answer to Shirley Temple,” her father often told her. He also often promised to take her to see a Shirley Temple film at the picture house over in Cavan Town. Until then, if such a treat was ever to materialise, she had no idea what Shirley Temple looked like. Nor did she know that the Hollywood starlet’s ringlets were the product of a pair of hot curling tongs, unlike her own mass of natural, shiny, bouncing curls.
And it certainly wasn’t the tune of On the Good Ship Lollipop that Lena was recalling this morning. As she stood on the milking stool at the big earthenware kitchen sink and washed the breakfast dishes, it was a far more sombre air she was unconsciously humming to herself.
Twas down by the glenside, I met an old woman
A-plucking young nettles, she ne’er saw me coming.
I listened a while to the song she was humming:
Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men.
Down by the Glenside was one of the many haunting rebel songs her mother used to sing to the children when they were all gathered round the peat fire at night. But that was before she fell ill and kept to her bed for most of the time.
From the kitchen window, Lena caught sight of two of her brothers. John, who was a year older than her and the eldest child, was pretending to fire their father’s rifle. Michael, who was three years her junior, was looking on in admiration.
“Father’ll take a switch to your back if he catches you with his gun, John,” she shouted out the open window. That gun had gone with her father through the five long years of the Black and Tan War and the Civil War that followed – or so he claimed. She knew it wasn’t loaded, because a long time ago she had taken the bullets and hidden them away, more from her drunken father than her brothers. But plenty of unspent bullets could still be found all over the County. All it would take was one eejit to bring some of them to school and give them to John, and then there would be trouble.
“Put the gun back,” Lena added. “And the two of yous get in here and help your wee brothers. Joseph and Brendan aren’t ready for school yet, and we’re running out of time.”
Turning to face the window, John stood to attention, sloped the rifle across his left shoulder and gave Lena a mock salute with his right hand.
“Yes, sir, mother hen,” he barked.
John had already decided he would be a soldier when he was old enough. He wouldn’t be serving in the legitimate Irish Army, though. Instead, he would join the glory boys of the outlawed Irish Republican Army, like his father had done when he was a boy. There was no war to fight in these days, of course, but it had been fourteen years since Ireland had become a Free State, and the promised Republic was still nowhere in sight. With the British Government reneging again, the bold IRA needed to be on standby in the wings – or so his father kept saying.
Finished at the sink and still laughing at John’s antics, Lena hopped down from the stool. While eleven-year-old Bridget and ten-year-old Margaret respectively dried and put away the dishes, she went off to check on her mother.
In addition to the combined kitchen and front room, there were two bedrooms at the rear of the tiny, single-storey house. One was used by Lena’s mother and father; the other was shared by the four boys. Lena and her sisters slept in the front room, which was by far the better choice during the winter, when the peats burned through the night.
“Is there anything you need before we go, mother?” Lena asked as she entered her parents’ bedroom.
Kate, her mother, was sitting up in bed as usual, her face pale and drawn, and her former raven hair now hanging grey and lank. The poor woman was still in her early thirties, but she looked twice that age. Her illness, a constant fatigue, had come on shortly after baby Elizabeth was born two years ago and seemed to grow worse week by week.
Exhausted or not, Kate could always muster a smile for Lena, her little saviour, on whom she relied more and more each day and without whom the family couldn’t survive.
“Elizabeth and me are just fine, dear,” she answered Lena. “Now yous get yourselves off to school. Don’t be going in late and getting your knuckles rapped again by those bully nuns.”
“Don’t you worry, mother,” Lena murmured, bending over at the top of the bed and kissing Kate lightly on the cheek.
As she straightened up, she took a peek at baby Elizabeth, who was slumbering peacefully in a cot beside the bed.
“Still no sign of your father, I suppose?” Kate asked.
Lena shook her head. “Nothing.”
Kate gave out a long sigh.
“I did a washing and hung it out earlier on. It should be dry by the time we get back,” Lena added and then left.
“You’re such a good daughter to me,” Kate sighed again in her wake.
Lena returned to the front room, expecting her siblings to be assembled there to await her inspection before they all left for school. But there was no-one to be seen. When she went outside, she understood why. The children were standing in silence, gaping up at the spectacle of Canon O’Brian astride that big dapple grey mare of his. It was as if he were a giant and they were the little people.
Like her father, Lena had little regard for priests and none at all for their accomplices, the nuns. Nor had she any time for giants on horses. She strode to the front of the line of children and stood there, arms folded.
“How are your mother and the baby?” enquired O’Brian.
“They’re doing very well, Father,” Lena lied defiantly. “They’re both resting at the moment.”
O’Brian snorted impatiently. “Look, I’ve no time for a visit this morning, so I’ll tell you why I rode up here. Some of the parishioners – some good people of Carrigallen – are concerned that you children and your mother have been left destitute once more, what with your father, God mend his wayward soul, off on the drink again. So they petitioned me to provide you with something from the parish funds to tide you over for a bit.”
He fished in a pocket, brought out a silver coin and tossed it at Lena’s feet. “Take this and spend it wisely,” he half-grunted.
Lena quickly picked up the coin and secreted it in her smock. “Thank you, Father,” she said.
“Now listen here, Lena,” O’Brian continued. “This sort of thing can’t be going on for much longer. Your father drinking and not working, and your mother sick and unable to care for her children. Mark my words, girl.”
Lena looked him in the eye and stayed silent. With another snort, O’Brian wheeled the mare round and trotted away.
Lena would have dearly loved to throw the coin back at Canon O’Brian, straight between the eyes of his big, fat red face. But half-a-crown was half-a-crown and would buy a lot of food. She wouldn’t spend a farthing of it, though, not until after she spoke to her mother. And right now, there was school to get to.
She looked at her brothers and sisters. Of them all, little Joseph, only six years old, was the most sensitive, the one who needed her most. She took him by the hand and set off on the two-mile trek to the village school. The others followed her. Down the hill they all trooped, mother hen and her assorted chicks.
Whichever was the case, she was never called Bella. Nor Mary. And, like Saint Isabella, her first name was shortened. So she was known more plainly as Lena Lane. Not that Lena was a plain little girl; not by any manner of means. Bella she truly was. It was said that her mother’s side of the family were of the Black Irish, descendants of Spanish immigrants to Ireland in the sixteenth century. There was no question that Lena had inherited her mother’s dark Spanish looks – the hazel eyes, the sharp nose, the high cheekbones and the proud chin, but particularly the blue-black hair that cascaded in ringlets halfway down her back.
“You’re Ireland’s answer to Shirley Temple,” her father often told her. He also often promised to take her to see a Shirley Temple film at the picture house over in Cavan Town. Until then, if such a treat was ever to materialise, she had no idea what Shirley Temple looked like. Nor did she know that the Hollywood starlet’s ringlets were the product of a pair of hot curling tongs, unlike her own mass of natural, shiny, bouncing curls.
And it certainly wasn’t the tune of On the Good Ship Lollipop that Lena was recalling this morning. As she stood on the milking stool at the big earthenware kitchen sink and washed the breakfast dishes, it was a far more sombre air she was unconsciously humming to herself.
Twas down by the glenside, I met an old woman
A-plucking young nettles, she ne’er saw me coming.
I listened a while to the song she was humming:
Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men.
Down by the Glenside was one of the many haunting rebel songs her mother used to sing to the children when they were all gathered round the peat fire at night. But that was before she fell ill and kept to her bed for most of the time.
From the kitchen window, Lena caught sight of two of her brothers. John, who was a year older than her and the eldest child, was pretending to fire their father’s rifle. Michael, who was three years her junior, was looking on in admiration.
“Father’ll take a switch to your back if he catches you with his gun, John,” she shouted out the open window. That gun had gone with her father through the five long years of the Black and Tan War and the Civil War that followed – or so he claimed. She knew it wasn’t loaded, because a long time ago she had taken the bullets and hidden them away, more from her drunken father than her brothers. But plenty of unspent bullets could still be found all over the County. All it would take was one eejit to bring some of them to school and give them to John, and then there would be trouble.
“Put the gun back,” Lena added. “And the two of yous get in here and help your wee brothers. Joseph and Brendan aren’t ready for school yet, and we’re running out of time.”
Turning to face the window, John stood to attention, sloped the rifle across his left shoulder and gave Lena a mock salute with his right hand.
“Yes, sir, mother hen,” he barked.
John had already decided he would be a soldier when he was old enough. He wouldn’t be serving in the legitimate Irish Army, though. Instead, he would join the glory boys of the outlawed Irish Republican Army, like his father had done when he was a boy. There was no war to fight in these days, of course, but it had been fourteen years since Ireland had become a Free State, and the promised Republic was still nowhere in sight. With the British Government reneging again, the bold IRA needed to be on standby in the wings – or so his father kept saying.
Finished at the sink and still laughing at John’s antics, Lena hopped down from the stool. While eleven-year-old Bridget and ten-year-old Margaret respectively dried and put away the dishes, she went off to check on her mother.
In addition to the combined kitchen and front room, there were two bedrooms at the rear of the tiny, single-storey house. One was used by Lena’s mother and father; the other was shared by the four boys. Lena and her sisters slept in the front room, which was by far the better choice during the winter, when the peats burned through the night.
“Is there anything you need before we go, mother?” Lena asked as she entered her parents’ bedroom.
Kate, her mother, was sitting up in bed as usual, her face pale and drawn, and her former raven hair now hanging grey and lank. The poor woman was still in her early thirties, but she looked twice that age. Her illness, a constant fatigue, had come on shortly after baby Elizabeth was born two years ago and seemed to grow worse week by week.
Exhausted or not, Kate could always muster a smile for Lena, her little saviour, on whom she relied more and more each day and without whom the family couldn’t survive.
“Elizabeth and me are just fine, dear,” she answered Lena. “Now yous get yourselves off to school. Don’t be going in late and getting your knuckles rapped again by those bully nuns.”
“Don’t you worry, mother,” Lena murmured, bending over at the top of the bed and kissing Kate lightly on the cheek.
As she straightened up, she took a peek at baby Elizabeth, who was slumbering peacefully in a cot beside the bed.
“Still no sign of your father, I suppose?” Kate asked.
Lena shook her head. “Nothing.”
Kate gave out a long sigh.
“I did a washing and hung it out earlier on. It should be dry by the time we get back,” Lena added and then left.
“You’re such a good daughter to me,” Kate sighed again in her wake.
Lena returned to the front room, expecting her siblings to be assembled there to await her inspection before they all left for school. But there was no-one to be seen. When she went outside, she understood why. The children were standing in silence, gaping up at the spectacle of Canon O’Brian astride that big dapple grey mare of his. It was as if he were a giant and they were the little people.
Like her father, Lena had little regard for priests and none at all for their accomplices, the nuns. Nor had she any time for giants on horses. She strode to the front of the line of children and stood there, arms folded.
“How are your mother and the baby?” enquired O’Brian.
“They’re doing very well, Father,” Lena lied defiantly. “They’re both resting at the moment.”
O’Brian snorted impatiently. “Look, I’ve no time for a visit this morning, so I’ll tell you why I rode up here. Some of the parishioners – some good people of Carrigallen – are concerned that you children and your mother have been left destitute once more, what with your father, God mend his wayward soul, off on the drink again. So they petitioned me to provide you with something from the parish funds to tide you over for a bit.”
He fished in a pocket, brought out a silver coin and tossed it at Lena’s feet. “Take this and spend it wisely,” he half-grunted.
Lena quickly picked up the coin and secreted it in her smock. “Thank you, Father,” she said.
“Now listen here, Lena,” O’Brian continued. “This sort of thing can’t be going on for much longer. Your father drinking and not working, and your mother sick and unable to care for her children. Mark my words, girl.”
Lena looked him in the eye and stayed silent. With another snort, O’Brian wheeled the mare round and trotted away.
Lena would have dearly loved to throw the coin back at Canon O’Brian, straight between the eyes of his big, fat red face. But half-a-crown was half-a-crown and would buy a lot of food. She wouldn’t spend a farthing of it, though, not until after she spoke to her mother. And right now, there was school to get to.
She looked at her brothers and sisters. Of them all, little Joseph, only six years old, was the most sensitive, the one who needed her most. She took him by the hand and set off on the two-mile trek to the village school. The others followed her. Down the hill they all trooped, mother hen and her assorted chicks.
About the Author
Brendan Gisby is McStoryteller-in-Residence. He's the author of four novels, three biographies and several short story collections.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar. And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar. And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.