We present an extract from Mouthing, the debut novel by Orla Mackey.
Welcome to Ballyrowan. This sleepy corner of rural Ireland may seem tranquil, but scratch the surface and you'll find a hotbed of gossip and intrigue - endless material for mouthing - and a town full of people only too happy to oblige in spreading the bad news.
Narrated by several generations of villagers, Mouthing traces the fortunes of one small community from the mid-20th century to the early 21st, in a series of highly confessional and darkly hilarious monologues.
Joe Muldowney, 1974
Mona was my sister. She still is. My younger sister. It's a long time since I saw her though. She’s in the village of Ballyrowan now. About seven or ten mile from here. She got a job as the priest’s house- keeper. Full of it she was, the day she came home to tell me. The day after that, I was looking at her back as she sailed down the road on her bicycle. A cloth bag with her bits and pieces in it, rolled up and fastened with twine to the carrier. She turned her head once. Mona did. She looked over her left shoulder at me and then snapped her head back to the road again. Real quick she did it. Mightn’t even have noticed if you weren’t looking careful enough.
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Listen: Orla Mackey talks to Maura Derrane
I saw her a couple of times after. She called. The way a politician might call. Or a milkman doing his rounds. Or one of the callers who used visit Mammy. The same sister who hung your underpants in front of the fire to dry. That same sister no more than a caller now. The one who you handed the hot jar to every night so the bed would be warm for her. That was my job. To fill the hot jars. And I did it faithfully. I brought turf in too. Always enough for a good fire. It was just the two of us in the house at night-time. Myself and Mona. During the day it was only herself. I stayed outside, do you see? Mostly I had stuff to be doing. Clearing a dyke. Mending gaps in the ditches. Dragging water to the trough or other business. Sometimes there was nothing. Nothing to be doing. But I wouldn’t go inside all the same. I’d prefer to be out. It was enough to go inside for the bit of dinner. Grand to get in as it got dark too. When the cold rightly stung your face. You’d be glad to let the auld feet steam in front of the fire then. Damn glad you’d be of a cold winter’s night. Once she left I didn’t feel the same grá for outside. I wasn’t in anyone’s way. Inside. When herself wasn’t there. So some days I lit the fire early. Other days I stayed looking into the ashes without moving much at all. I didn’t boil the kettle for the hot jars any more. There wasn’t the need. I hardly made it to the bed. If I slept at all, it was in the chair.
The hens Mona had looked after were killed by the fox. All gone in the one go. He must’ve had a field day that same fox. Left nothing only feathers behind him. Not a sign of a hen. I always kept a few cows myself. Just a few. But I didn’t bother with them much. After she’d gone. And then it was only the one that was left. Only one.
The one that was left grazed right up to the front door, the crayture. She looked in at me often and I’d look past the fire, out at her. Her big black nose only inches from the window. It was grand for her in the summer. There only being one of her and about three quarters of an acre to graze. The winter was rough though. That first winter after Mona left was rough. The wind would skin you, so it would. I know that much, not from being outside but from hearing it howl down the chimney and from watching the auld curtains lift with it. I wasn’t feeling much of the cold myself, mind you. I wasn’t feeling much of anything.
But I thought to bring her in all the same. What harm would it do? I thought to bring her in out of the cold and see how she’d fare inside. It wasn’t hard. To get her in. Not once I’d taken the door down. I laid out a bit of straw on the floor for her. I hadn’t done as much in a long time and it felt grand to be moving. Grand to be working again.
Mouthing is published by Hamish Hamilton
