Don’t look under the bed!
I was never frightened of the bogeyman under the bed. Until one evening in Cavan, I saw it with my own eyes. My sister Maria and I were visiting our town granny. Granny was in a great mood because Mam (her daughter), and Dad, were arriving the following day to stay.
Upstairs of Town Granny’s house was a hallowed space where only the special were granted access. We were honoured when she said, “Come up to see the room I’ve done for your Mammy and Daddy.”
We climbed the steep and narrow staircase shrouded in dim light, and arrived on a small landing with three closed doors. When granny’s hand reached for the left-hand door handle, Maria clasped mine and squeezed it, reassuringly. You see, this bedroom was infamous. For in it, Maria and our cousin Catherine, had once seen a ghost in this room.
Granny opened the door and led us into the room. Stepping into the space was a sensory overload for me, and as usual, my words fell without thinking, “What’s that smell?”
Granny looked concerned, “Do you find a bad smell?” she asked. I shook my head, trying to make sense of the strange scent, “No, it’s a kind of nice smell,” I said. Granny looked around the room, and suddenly I saw recognition in her face, “Ah, them’s the mothballs in the wardrobe. I know how fussy your mammy is with her clothes, I wouldn’t want the moths eating them.” I was intrigued and horrified in equal measure. I didn’t know moths munched on clothes and asked, “How do the balls stop them eating clothes?” Granny opened the wardrobe door and the smell increased in intensity. “They don’t like the smell,” she explained. When she closed the doors, the scent lingered; there was something strangely comforting about it. To me, they weren’t mothballs – they were ‘Mam’s clothes protectors.’
I became aware of Maria and Granny in conversation, but I wasn’t listening because I was drinking in the room. The size struck me; it was larger than I expected, given the smallness of the house. Then the elegance, the décor and placement of the furniture gave the room a grandeur that beguiled me. A large double bed sat in the centre of the back wall, beautifully
made and topped with a delicately coloured patchwork blanket. In the corner was an open fire, already set and framed by an intricately ornate surround. On the right-hand wall was a small table on which sat a large bowl and jug, a tier of fluffy towels nestled beside them. Bright white nets hung from the front window, accompanied by curtains with a modern brown and orange design. And in front of them sat a beautiful mahogany dressing table with a large circular mirror and matching stool. I stared at this furniture and imagined Mam sitting at it, applying her pan-stick and lipstick. The whole room had a glamour that appealed to my aesthetic tastes.
I let my eyes wander around the room again, taking in all the beautiful details. But I noticed something. It was under the bed. I stopped, then backed away. Dread enveloped me. I edged closer and peered into the darkness beneath the bed. I leapt back – it wasn’t even hiding! The obscenity lay there, staring up at me, goading me with its disgusting intent.
As always, Maria noticed me, “Gerard, what’s up?” I had to protect them both from this abomination and abruptly said, “Nothing!” Maria smiled, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Granny chipped in, “Ghosts are no harm.” Then I changed my mind. I had to draw their attention to this thing. So I pointed to the horror. Granny asked, “What are you pointing at?” I gulped, then said it – “There’s a POTTY under the bed!”
Granny looked from me to the offending piece of porcelain. And to my complete confusion her face lit up as she beamed, “Isn’t it a beautiful piss-pot.” I looked at Maria who beamed even brighter, “It’s gorgeous Granny, is it willow-pattern?”
You must understand that at this juncture in my life, the dreaded potty-training wasn’t quite in my distant past. I still carried trauma from my days sitting on the plastic-throne. The thought that a portable porcelain-throne may be required in adulthood horrified me.
As Maria and Granny continued to wax lyrical about the willow-patterned potty, I turned away, not wanting to look at the poopy-pot under the bed. I didn’t know it then, but I would come to treasure everything about that room: the mothball smell, the patchwork blanket, Mam’s dressing table, Granny’s voice, and even the dreaded potty under the bed. It was all part of the little world waiting for Mam and Dad – HOME.