Ma Wee Sodjers by Jess Smith
The kitchen door shook on its hinges as my babies pushed past each other and shouted in unison, 'Ma, guess what?' I was swept into Johnnie's arms while Stevie filled the kettle.
'Coffee Ma, real blend or decapitated?' He juggled two jars above my head, saying 'You'll need the strong stuff.' In seconds, cup clasped in my hand I was ushered into the sitting room.
'Cushion her up Johnnie,' Stevie said.
'Coffee, cushions, buttering, these two are on the scrounge,' I thought, 'but boy are they in for a diddler!'
'Well Ma?'
I was waving a hand in the air, eyes closed and shouting, Don't ask me for money!'
'Aye you'd think that wouldn't you, well wrong,' Johnnie stared at his brother and said, 'tell her.'
For a few moments there was an uneasy silence, then they both breathed deeply and said, ‘Army Ma!'
'What?'
'We joined up. A recruitment sergeant in Perth telt us all about the life, it sounds brill!'
I jumped up spilling coffee all over trembling knees and shouted, 'No way!'
I rushed from the room screaming about troubled Ireland and unrest in far flung places where British soldiers seemed to be sent, pushed on the washing machine button, grabbed a dish towel and began drying an unwashed cup.
I changed the conversation. This was my house, they were my sons. No army-end of story. 'Look at this letter which came today from council. Those twits in council offices are asking everyone to buy. How the hell can ordinary folk pay a mortgage-what the hell is going on inside they bam pots heeds and don't speak to me anymore about army!'
My babies looked at me and I knew that stare-I'd seen it so many times before - it was 'honest Ma this is a truth stare.'
Inside my stomach, iron winged butterflies were fluttering heavily against my ribs. Fear - tons of it was rushing from hair to heel. I knew my sons, this was no p*** taking, ba heed stuff, they were deadly serious. We stood silently in the kitchen, washing machine whirring on its final spin. Innocent babies what did they know of Irish troubles, or anywhere else, so to speak, just wee laddies.
Dave came home, plainly seeing that an atmosphere gripped his dinner time. 'What the hell is the matter in here,' he asked darting his questioning gaze to and fro from our faces.
Johnnie was first to break ice, 'Da, me and Stevie have joined the army.'
'Great,' he answered, 'Army life will make men of you.' Is Ma no too happy? Don't worry about her, she's a control freak as far as her laddies are concerned, aye hen?'
I could easily have swung for my man but searing, flaming words seemed snared in my throat.
All I said was, 'Dave what about the dangers?'
He looked at me and I knew what thoughts he harboured.
After dinner they took Jip the dog for a jaunt down the river. I went upstairs to tidy.
It was then as I walked into the mess of cluttered tops, t-shirts, trainers, rock tapes and James Bond movie babe - Rachel Welch posters, plus everything else that spells testosterone injected youth, that most mums face an undeniable truth; not just me, it was normal.
Holding Scrum a torn teddy, relic from the past, now used to swat Daddy long-legs from off Rachel’s boobs, they spoke out - they being every single mother who cut that invisible umbilical cord and let her babies go or in my case - 'free them'!
The menfolk sauntered home from their walk as I was pushing my final memory into its little mind box - they would go and I would grieve and yes, they would always remain my babies.
Now I'd spend time organising parties for when my young 'men' came home on leave. I'd allow life to do the controlling thing from then on - hard though.
