Irish Mammy: The 8 December Pilgrimage To Dublin

The story so far: Mammy has found out that her prospective son-in-law, Declan, has been lying to her daughter, Jennifer, about who’s paying for their upcoming wedding, or Wedding Summit, as he has styled it. Mammy doesn’t know what to do with this information. But that is for another time. The date was 8 December and that meant only one thing:

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“Hello, excuse us, ladies but actually I think these are our seats.”

I looked up. There were a couple of Indian lads in suits standing in the aisle of the train. Businessmen, I’d say. I glared at Mam. I knew we shouldn’t have sat down there. What was it she said? “Oh, don’t mind them names, Ann. Who’s going to kick an old woman out of the seat?”

These fellas weren’t in much mood for giving in. Of course, Freya, my niece, who came with us, knew about booking seats on the train. She was sitting a bit further up. She’s from a generation who’d be used to booking seats and all that but because Mam is old she thinks everyone makes allowances. And as usual, I’m stuck in the middle.

“You’re too soft, Ann,” Mam said to me. “’twasn’t too long ago we had Trocaire boxes for that crowd.”

As if they couldn’t hear her. I had to apologise again for her. We had to move off down the train like criminals. I have enough on my plate now without being embarrassed by my mother. I declare to God, when you’re a woman of my age, you’re getting it in the neck from different generations all arranged around you.

We arrived into Heuston and then we had to get the Luas. That quietened Mam anyway. You could see her itching to talk about “all the foreigners” but she’d be too nervous of “all the druggies”. Actually it was as good as full of all the country people up for 8 December. A holy day of obligation, not that many of them looked too obliged. With Mam with us, there was only one place we were headed. We made straight for mass up at the Carmelites. I even got Freya to come.

“I don’t believe in all the religion aspect of it Auntie Ann,” she said to me, “but I think it can be a good place for mindfulness ... somewhere to get away from all the consumerism of Christmas.”

“Keep your voice down Freya, will you,” I said to her. “Your nana is still sore about the census. And she’s sure to think mindfulness is some other sort of pagan thing.”

“That was fierce quick,” said Mam after mass. “He didn’t waste his time about the sermon anyway, only looking for money. There’d be no one there only for the old people and the foreigners.”

It seems Mam thinks foreigners are handy for some things after all – like filling up churches. Mam wanted to go to the Carmelites because she wanted to see the shrine of St Valentine.

“St Anthony would be my man, as you know Ann, but they’ve the relics and I was reading about it in the Messenger how this woman had her corns healed after going to him. It’d be cheaper than the chiropodist – she’s after putting up her prices again.”

We were up at the shrine and Freya takes out her phone.

“I want to snap this. I’m trying to document the old ways.”

“I’ll snap now in a minute. Put that away,” I said.

“I asked St Valentine not to let ye put me in a home,” said Mam, at the top of her voice. The whole queue heard.

I’m going back now to ask him for a few favours myself.