Rita Ann Higgins

As a teenager she was like any other, boys, the craic, smoking down the backs. Later there was talk she broke things, furniture and glass, her mother’s heart. ‘Mad at the world,’ the old women nod, round each other’s faces. But it was more than that and for less she was punished. That weekend she didn’t leave a cup alone every chair hit the wall, Philomena’s revenge. Soon after she was shifted and given the shocks. Round each other’s faces the old women nod ‘Treatment, treatment they’ve given her the treatment.’ These days she gets on with the furniture, wears someone else’s walk, sees visions in glass. She’s good too for getting the messages; small things, bread and milk sometimes the paper, and closing the gate after her father drives out, she waits for his signal he always shouts twice, ‘Get the gate Philo, get the gate, girl.’

For Christ’s sake, learn to type and have something to fall back on. Be someone, make something of yourself, look at Gertrudo Ganley. Always draw the curtains when the lights are on. Have nothing to do with the Shantalla gang, get yourself a right man with a Humber Sceptre. For Christ’s sake wash your neck before going into God’s house. Learn to speak properly, always pronounce your ings. Never smoke on the street, don’t be caught dead in them shameful tight slacks, spare the butter, economise, and for Christ’s sake at all times, watch your language.