I remember you and me being told to be nice to the nuns from the convent
There are several matters that need to be considered.
The first, my London sister tells me, is that my mother is to be kept out of all the organising. To this end, we create a Siblings WhatsApp group.
Or, to put it another way, my London sister creates it — for it is the habit of siblings to occupy the role they have always occupied and the habit of families, naturally then, to keep operating in the way they have always operated.
“This WhatsApp idea is great,” I message back. I also send a picture of me stripping wallpaper in the house we have just bought.
“There are a lot of things to sort out,” my Devon sister WhatsApps back, “I mean the logistics alone are complicated.
"First thing we need to do is find accommodation for the six of us plus 19 grandchildren. It’s mid-term in England, Cornwall will be heaving.”
No one mentions my wallpaper photo. However, my sister Gessy from Sligo does WhatsApp a photograph of a jam-pot lid with chintzy cover and ribbon, underneath which is the caption, “JAM-MAKING SEASON. CALL GESSY FOR HOT LIDS AND MORE…”
Maybe she thinks that now is as good a time as any, too. I am very sad to be missing jam season in Sligo. It is the best fun. I call Gessy.
“Can’t talk,” Gessy pants, “it’s jam boot-camp here. Haven’t left the kitchen for six hours. Peeling marrows. Lola’s helping.
Marrows fucking everywhere and the jam won’t set. But my jam-lids are ACE.” She hangs up. I check my phone.
My London sister WhatsApps, “We’re aiming for a party Mum will enjoy rather than endure. So small numbers, I think.”
Gessy sends another photograph of a jam-pot lid with the caption, “Aiming for 150 jars. XXX Hot lids.” “Let me know what I can do,” I message my London sister.
“We’ll each do our bit, like we always do,” she WhatsApps back. Hot Lids calls me on the phone.
“I’m wondering what my bit will be,” she says. “I’m wondering what my bit will be too,” I say.
“What job do you think we’ll be given?” she says. “We’ll have to wait and see,” I say.
There are 16 messages in my WhatsApp inbox; my London and Devon sisters have organised the venue, guest-list, champagne, caterers, and birthday cake.
My Geneva brother has done extensive research on fridges; my mother’s fridge is making a funny noise, he says, so we are buying her a new one. It’s what Mum wants.
He’s also made arrangements to upgrade her phone, he says, at which point I decide against telling them I’ve made Mum something for her birthday for fear of sounding like I’m still in Senior Infants.
There are 14 Sibling WhatsApp messages on my phone. The party is to take place in the afternoon. Four hours, they’ve decided, is quite enough for Mum. Any longer might be overwhelming. My eldest brother is giving the speech. Hot Lids calls me.
“I reckon they’re probably just going to give us a pretend job,” she says, “like they did with Dad’s funeral, remember.”
“Which was what?” I say, “I remember you and me being told to be nice to the nuns from the convent, where Dad used to go to mass because they were so upset but I can’t remember any specific job.”
“That was it,” Gessy says. “That was what?” I say.
“Our job,” she says, “being nice to the nuns. I’d say tomorrow, they’ll quickly make up a job, after they’ve done all the real jobs themselves.”
“It’s alright for you,” I say, “you’re the youngest. It’s acceptable that they think you’re….” “Think I’m what?” she says.
“My point is,” I say, “is that you have an excuse, being the baby. I mean it’s normal that they consider you a bit…” “Chaotic,” she says, “like they consider you, you mean?”
“Exactly,” I say, “but I’m the second oldest. There’s no excuse for me.”
Hot Lids and I have been put on decorating tables. I call Hot Lids.
“This is a proper job,” she says, “decorating the tables. I can’t wait!” “I know!” I say, “but best not think of it as a defining challenge.”
“Best not,” she agrees.
I check my phone. One message: Hot Lids and I have been given strict instructions: “Nothing too Mexican and no hippie shit.”
"Hot Lids messages back, “CHANGING NAME OF MUM’S VENUE TO LA CANTINA!” “ARRIBA, ARRIBA!” I respond.
"Hot Lids and I have been told to await further instruction.
Hot Lids and I fear our job may have been downgraded.
It has: we are “just doing balloons”.
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