The beginning is white

"Is there anybody there said the traveller, knocking at the moonlit
door, and the horses in their hooves champed the grasses of the forest
ferny floor." What's a traveller Miss Hennessy ? Don't be so silly.
Wer'e all travellers. Travelling through time and space and life.
Together. That's the way it's supposed to be children." This isn't my
first trip by air; I was whizzed to the West of Ireland three years ago
by plane over sea and land, just after my lovely hysterectomy, so the
original fear and magic has been slightly eclipsed. But this trip is
special, it's to see my sister who left England 12 years ago and I can
hardly stand the wait.

This morning HP sauce cuts into my throat and vinegar fills the air. My
sister is walking with her friend. She is supposed to be walking with
me. I am left alone to walk behind her. The cars are whizzing around us
and the lights are green, orange and red. I don? know which one means
go, so I run after her as they change.

Here we go looby loo, here we go looby la, here we go looby loo, all on
a Saturday night. That's what they're singing as they both skip along
arm in arm and I am not allowed to join in. I start to do hop skotch,
jumping from one square to another and never never touching the
lines.

Just my luck to buy an air ticket as war is justified by the two Bs. I
wouldn't want to be you, Saddam, not when you get their proverbial
pitchfork shoved right up your arse. Only joking, after all, they sold
the stuff and what not to you over the years.

I of course thought of cancelling, who wants to get blown up mid-air ?
But Tom says it's fine to go, and yes, I am allowing myself to be
guided by the wisdom of the child. His only concern is who will collect
the compensation if indeed we are blown up mid air and hurtled into
early and tragic deaths. If you still had a husband, he could get a lot
of money if you died, says Tom. I am sorry I am not able to create such
a window of fiscal opportunity for either one of my erased spouses.
Bless them, I think they have had enough money at my expense, one way
or another.

Tonight I have to pack, and I still have no cases. Suitcases are the
last thing single mothers worry about. List of things to buy and do.
Cases, suntan cream, yes it's wintery here, but over there in sunny
Florida, as my sister's informed me, they're basking in the glory of
the sun. Cases, cream, hair conditioner, passports. Passports. Never
had a passport before.

Here is the beautiful globe of the world children. Hermione, show the
children Africa. Let me show you Australia. I am going to live in
Sydney when I get married to Mr Scott. Here is England. England is so
tiny I can hardly believe it. Where is Ireland Miss ? Just here. Just
here. Just as big as England. And here is America.

Tom's been to more places than me : France and Cyprus, on a few strange
excursions with his strange father. Yes I know it's me who chose the
DNA donor, but so what ? I was only twenty eight then, and now I am
forty five so I can see the bark and the roots as well as the wood for
the trees. Tom is only thirteen, well not even thirteen, he doesn't
cross over into the nether region of teendom for another few months,
but all the vicious signs are there; sideways glances, muttering,
strange sighs, spots evolving quietly on forehead, from 4' 10" to 5' 8"
in six easy months. Since his older brother are 6' 4' and 5, it looks
like my boy's well on schedule.

Now we'll have our poem for the day. The owl and the pussy cat went to
sea in a beautiful pea green boat. They took some money and plenty of
honey wrapped up in a five pound note. The owl looked up to the stars
above and sang on a small guitar. Oh lovely pussy oh pussy my love what
a beautiful pussy you are you are. Oh let us be married too long we
have tarried.

I can just imagine Miss Hennessy sitting in a boat with the marvellous
Mr Scott. They are looking into each other's eyes; he is singing to her
and playing a guitar, just like the Beatles do; she is smiling,
laughing and resting her head on his shoulder. But now he stops and
stands up tall and points to the stars above. She laughs and now they
are in Venice. I saw Venice in a film at my Granny's house. Miss
Hennessy is definitely a film star. Her hair is red and her face is
freckled. She has long long hair which stops at her waist. Most of the
time she ties it up in a bun or sometimes in a long plait. I like the
way she ties the knot in the ribbon.

Twenty four hours until we set off for Heathrow. I am going to break my
life time habit of hairiness. I have been given a pep talk by my more
worldy older sons. Hair has to, apparently, be removed from all public
places. Funny, I thought my armpit was my personal space, but seems I
am wrong. In fact, my armpit belongs to the HAIR POLICE. Legs, armpits
and best throw in my upper lip too, apparently. Cheeky bastards. It
seems for the whole of their little lives the three sons have been
humiliated daily by their mother's hairiness. Well. Just for the record
lads, life's been pretty hairy for me all round. And not to split
hairs, I really would like a snip at the hair of the dogs that bit me,
your fathers, alias the runaway beard.

In the sky, the big red ball of fire is warming all the children in the
world. Isn't that wonderful children ? I am staring into the fire and
the flames are talking to me. This is the sun. It's very powerful and
when we sleep and it's dark the sun travels all around the earth to
warm the faces of little children in Africa whilst we are all tucked up
safely in our beds. She must live in another world to me.

Today I must buy cases and all associated holiday stuff: Drinks,
stamps, suncream, exchange sterling for dollars, see, sounding like a
travel afficionado already; passports must not for one moment not be
touchable, turn off water and central heating, empty bins etc. God, now
I know why people are stressed by holidays, and they have husbands too.
Colour my hair. Don't want the whole of the American continent knowing
that one insignificant woman of Irish descent bearing British passport,
has grey hair and bushy armpits.

Write down all the places you can think of beginning with the letter A
children. That won't take long. Aston. No hands. Quiet now, just think
about it. Everywhere you've ever heard of. Antarctic. I know about that
because of the polar bear project. I know I know. Miss. Miss. America.
I am hiding my list with my elbow.

The red cases are a boon, with their little wheels and their up and
down handles they trundle along nicely to the bus stop which doubles as
coach stop. Goodbye Merry England. Goodbye to the war in England and
hello to the war in America. I have been warned by my sister not to
mention the word war or nice Mr Bush or in fact nice Mr Blair. Or my
previous life as a private secretary to a member of the war cabinet.
Yes, who would believe that good old England has its very own war
cabinet. Sounds a bit like a wardrobe full of stuffy old suits, which
is about right I suppose. But I don't want to think about politics. I
am going on my first Foreign holiday whilst the coalition joins forces
to erase weapons of mass destruction.

The coach is smooth, like me, and the journey far more scenic than I
had imagined ; not much motorway at all, because the vehicle is in fact
destined to meander on a very circuitous route through the luscious
Oxfordshire countryside and then shoots off suddenly to Heathrow. I
wouldn't make a travel writer as I didn't pay heed in Miss
Worthington's geography classes, I was too busy gazing at her huge nose
and her hairy lip. So I can see now what those boys of mine are getting
at. I never did get the hang of the hemispheres, the Arctic circle just
made me think of polar bears, and I used to dig our garden in good
faith as a child to try to get to Australia. Down under.

I've never had to read a map in much detail, but now this is for real.
I am well armed with my Rough Guide to Miami and the Florida Keys.
Goodbye England. Goodbye.

Eleven thirty in the morning and all is well. One hundred miles under
our belt, just five thousand more to go. We locate the budget hotel on
the airport map, and schlepp across Heathrow on the hotel shuttle bus,
which scoops us up and delivers us to our hotel door. We are getting
excited now. In less than twenty four hours we'll be off. Twin beds,
one each, tv , kettle, tea, coffee, dried milk. I make tea and watch
the news unfolding. War and more war. I was listening to Radio 4 last
night as I de-fuzzed myself. Once I started I couldn't stop, even
removing the hair from the end of my nose and my arms. Tom's impressed
and when number one son rings to see how we are, he is well happy to
hear from Tom's also very hairy, though only yet twelve year old lips,
that mother is now smooth all over. Lovely jubbly he declares. Well
done Mum. Well done. Proud of you. Radio four says the Americans have
got two thousand journalists in with the troops. Are they mad or what ?
Do they think the enemy gives a shit that they went to a post grad
course on the use of the semi-colon. Their own colons will be on
display soon. Idiots. The British aren't much better. Don't know the
numbers but you can be sure that the land of Sir Gawain and the Green
Knight has skewed the sensibilities of a few media types. Deluded,
that's all I can say. This is a war not a circus pen top act.

Miss Hennessy says sometimes it's the tortoise who gets there first and
sometimes it's the mouse who's strongest, not the lion. Brute force
didn't fix anything she says. That's strange because the playground is
a war zone. The boys in Class 7 are running around with their arms
outstretched, bomber bomber they shout, as they run in circles like
birds arched and winged in a deep blue sky.

Five hours on a plane is a daunting thought. We are therefore in our
little Goldilock type beds, resting, though it is the middle of the
English afternoon. I have heard all about jetlag though the reality is
yet to be experienced. Seems it's all about pressure. Look, I have had
more pressure than cups of tea.

Once upon a time there were three bears and mummy bear and daddy bear
left their youngest bear alone and went off for a long stroll. Whilst
they were away, doing God knows what, the child had a dreadful ordeal
with Goldilocks the monster girl with the blue and white check dress,
big red shoes and yellow hair. I always make her hair yellow. That's
not golden. I know this but still the teacher persists. I can't make
gold and I can't keep digging that hole to Australia.

My sister rings to say people in America have been stockpiling food and
water. What's new about that ? But the ostrich English have as usual,
been hanging around, waiting for buses, reading their papers, having
their pints, getting to bed early, having their shepherd pies and their
Weetabix, relaxing into their sofas and devouring Coronation Street and
ignoring it all. Good for them. They do not believe this is their
war.

I know I'm going on a bit, but really, in this sophisticated age, can't
human beings stop to think before they heap more anguish pain torture
turmoil and death on each other. These politicians are the very same
folk that complain about bullying in schools. So the Government bullies
headteachers, who bully the staff, who bully the kids, who bully each
other; later, at home these bullied kids go home to bully back their
siblings, their neighbours and their parents. That's why some bright
spark set up something called Parentline. That's neat. Then lots of
local councils spend lots of time writing anti-bullying policies which
have to be agreed by the governors and the headteachers. Hilarious.
Then the Government sends in the inspectors with weapons of mass
destruction, to bully the head, the teachers and the governors, which
the kids and the parents all really enjoy. Smashing stuff.

British Airways planes are wending their way across the runway; travel
is certainly broadening my horizons. My sister has just very kindly
explained that it's a ten hour flight, with time differences, not five.
Oh my God. Deep vein thrombosis hovers on the horizon. Woman dies on
first long haul flight to America. DVT is thought to be the culprit.
DVT is suspected. Sounds a little more professional. But where were her
elasticated support stockings, I wonder ? I wondered lonely as a cloud
over the Atlantic Ocean, in the blue bright, cloud strewn March
sky.

We are awake at five thirty which gives us ample time to shower, dress,
fumble and lose passports. Find passports, await shuttle, and we are
left with fifteen minutes to board plane to Miami departing at nine
forty am British time. Ring parents and sister to say goodbye. Ring big
boys to say Goodbye. Goodbye. Board plane, find place in pew. Stuff
hand luggage above head. Watch seasoned teenage travel companion settle
down for ten hours of in-flight entertainment. Cushion, blanket, our
own tv screens, a map of the journey is plotted out for us to track our
progress across the Atlantic. We first cross Ireland. Goodbye Ireland,
home of my parents and ancestral seat of half of America.

Everything is smooth, the takeoff, the captain's cockpit, my legs, my
armpits, and my upper lip. Oh so smooth. Tom touches my hand for just
one moment.

Red violet and green are at one end of the table, blue indigo and brown
are at the other. I am yellow. Tomorrow I am going to be purple.

Well the cabin crew certainly earn their keep.
I wouldn't be so smiley if I was getting all those irritating requests,
from airborne idiots. I am really pleased to be served lots of drinks
of water and juice and breakfast arrives within half an hour of take
off. Take off my head why don't you Captain Scarlett ? God it was bumpy
scarey shakey. I might be imagining it, but I guess the lure of cheap
flights to Miami whilst war is a hovering risk, is enough of a
temptation to all these bods; in the interests of a suntan they are
putting sanity aside.

I had no idea my twelve year old son was such a sophisticat: Food
swiftly devoured, blanket across legs, cushion behind head, headphones
on head, tuning in to the mid air movies, smile on his little face. All
that foreign travel has done his confidence good; I suppose the
misappropriation of my maintenance by his father, to pay for holidays
abroad has paid off somewhere along the line. At least he managed to
take the boys out of the country whilst I only managed to collect a
selection of reduced groceries. We have our food shopping down to a
fine art, these days. I remember now, as we sail through the clouds,
son number one crying out in agony, at the sight of yet one more dented
tin of own brand Somerfield beans. Really, the histrionics of that
child, and they don't change, even now that he is a huge twenty six
year old. This is what happens when we birth our children whilst only
nineteen. We are suddenly surrounded in our thirties by heaving hairy
males with deep voices and miscellanous male accoutrements. Honestly,
and they complain about a couple of stray whiskers on their mother's
chin. The cheek of it.

My life, in all its glorious panoramic technicolour, is flashing before
me. Feel quite queasy just thinking about it all. There is a vile child
behind me. Now I am the last to judge children and their unfortunate
mothers badly, but there are times when a swift nasty look to someone
else's brat does the trick, so I promise myself this swift release at
any moment now. I turn to stare at number 666 aged three or four. A
pretty little girl with huge dummy, a drink and a doll. This picture of
sweetness has been kicking my British Airways buffered backside into
oblivion for the past ten minutes and the mother knows this. I look
first at the mother with a quizzically raised eyebrow. She looks away.
That's fine. This sign of disinterest gives me just the excuse I need
to show this brat that she is not just living in a bubble of love. She
is in fact a part of the wider human race who won't tolerate her
vicious little sandal covered abuse of British Airways velour covered
seats, and my behind. I turn back. Timing is everything if you are
about to pick on someone else's brat. I wait for let's say, five
minutes. Turning slowly I say STOP THAT, NOW. All is quiet for a couple
of minutes until I receive an even harder boot in the backside. I undo
my seat belt, stand up and look straight at the child. Don't do that
again I say. The mother stares ahead. I don't get this. The child
starts to cry. Crocodile tears I say. Any more of that and I'll get you
moved.

I have tried to ignore the little sweetheart, but I know that the
mother is really to blame. Crazy wench. It all stops and now we are
able to relax, finally, as we float in the clouds from a to b from
England to America from the British Isles to the United States. I am
sorry to sound na?ve, but it's great to feel the thrill of the unknown,
even at the advanced age of forty five and I recommend it to all single
mums struggling to save a few pence here and there on dented tins of
beans, It really is good for the soul.

Tom has now seen James Bond, the Simpsons, Mr Bean, and sucked on a
hundred sweets. I am keen for him to keep his fluids up, but he thinks
this is just maternal obsession with electrolytes and refuses all
liquid advances. Swine. Although he is my child, I have to admit to
being amazed at his proficiency in life. I was an innocent little girl
at twelve, living in a complete bubble of school, home and church, with
occasional glimpses of television and snippets of sing something simple
playing on the radio on Sunday nights as we nibbled at our fruit
salads, ice cream and jelly.

Anyway, enough of this musing. When I think of America I have to admit
to knowing nothing much about it really. America is big, has fifty
states, a very complex political system. President Kennedy was shot by
God knows who. He had a huge Irish American family and a beautiful wife
called Jacquie Kennedy who married the richest Greek in the world Mr
Aristole Onassis and he died before her too. She was a clothes horse
and a twice widowed beauty. This information has been gleaned
incidentally from television of course. She was a very attractive woman
and many women modelled themselves on her style. She could hardly fail
to be attractive with all that money in the coffers and the coffins
could she ?

I know she had lots of kids. Catholic stuff of course which I know all
about having watched my mother have lots of children. Now my mother is
the real style queen. My mother at seventeen strolling arm in arm with
my father on Salthill beach was stunning. Even more so because she
saved for months for every item of clothing and looked every inch as
good as Jacquie Kennedy. Better in fact. Just as slim, that's hunger of
course which the Irish know a little too much about, and taller of
course. That's real beauty. Not beauty that you buy. But natural beauty
that you possess and carry off with perfect style. I had no time for
her views on style as a teenager of course. But there is no doubt she
had and still has it. She knows how to dress and taught her five
daughters the same decorum and subtlety she possessed herself. Though
she claims we are all sex maniacs and alcoholics at heart and she
doesn't know how that came to be. That's not true anyway. We're
neither. It's just a crafty way of her acknowledging that she knows
we're all big girls now.

The bed is small and my heart is jumping. I can hear them laughing and
eating bacon sandwiches and picking up forks, knives, cups and the
radio is playing a little and now the door is shut, open and now just a
little open and they are quiet for a moment as their children lie
asleep. But we're not. Tonight Yvonne is trying to pull out one of my
teeth with a curtain. The curtain is too thick to grip so she is
pulling my hair so that I sit still for the operation, as she calls it.
They don't do this at the dentists I cry and so she does it again. Now
I wait for her to return to the spot in my mouth that the tooth is
aching to leave, yet I don't want to lose it. Of course she doesn't
care. She's set her mind to the task in hand and so my wishes mean
nothing. She is older than me and so I am told I have to do exactly
what she says or there will be trouble. This is what she says. She was
the first person to tell me this. This is a world of wars and words and
wickedness. I am going to hit her if she comes anywhere near my mouth
again with that curtain. I am planning this, as my parents dash about
with their crumbs and their pot of tea and their humming music below, I
wait for the big moment above. Now she's back. Her pyjamas are a bit
too big for her, mine are a bit too small and that is how it's got to
be. I get them next and so they have to last not just her growth spurt,
but mine too, simultaneously. Germs I say. Germs. I don't want your
germs. There's germs all over those curtains, they used to be Granny's.
What ? Don't be stupid. I am getting that tooth out so shut your face.
No. I don't want germs. Germs stink and they kill you and they creep
all over your face and eat it when you're asleep. I don't want germs. I
am crying now and she is angry. She doesn't care about germs or me.
She's on a roll and so I look straight into her beady eye and grab at
her neck so that she falls onto the floor. This is against the law of
the jungle. Now, in the midst of this violent struggle for the right to
keep my tooth,

My sister has banged her head on the floor and I have swallowed my
tooth. No questions asked, I am to blame, because she is lying on the
floor like a crumpled doll. What about me ? That tooth is travelling
down into my stomach but my father is slapping my bottom through my
pyjamas. I am shocked at the seering pain that I feel. Why me ? I was
just trying to save my mouth from germ warfare.

Late in the afternoon, a whole day later, they are still ruminating
about my cruelty. No-one believes that I have swallowed the tooth.
Tooth fairy's had that.

There were trees rustling in the wind and a good deal of kick kick
kicking from my sister last night. But now with her Sunday best clothes
she looks like an angel. I am in peril.

The map of America first fell into my hands at at the age of eight in
Mrs Twamley's class. It wasn't exactly a map, it was in fact a huge
book entitled the History of America. It was massive and heavy and
children used to feud to have a turn with it. Hear that Mr Blair, kids
fighting to read America's unblemished history. Now those really were
the days, don't you think ? Keen to read and the American theme as
popular today as it was back in the sixties when I was a mere wee
bairn. I dunno, where did it all go wrong eh, Tony ?