Cousin Maggie

Joyce Ito

1948

Oh Jimmy, yer mammy never wanted ye to know. I stared at my husband. He pushed thick lenses up his nose, a delay tactic to give himself time to think. They make thin lenses with special plastic these days, but still he wears the milk bottle lenses of his childhood. I am working on it, but he says his nose has developed to accommodate them. Its a funny idea, a nose growing into a pair of glasses, but it is true. Two deep and permanent grooves sit where the glasses rest, skin and cartilage shifted out of natural line to accommodate the heavy glass.

Oh Jimmy, Jimmy she cries. Will ye come and see me? Theres something I have to tell you, Oh Jimmy, Jimmy.

Mummy, who is it? My girls stare up at me through thin plastic lenses. They want to laugh, but they are not sure because the old lady is crying real tears. She cannot possibly know daddy, of this they are certain. There is some mistake, some case of mistaken identity. Except daddy does not look like anyone else, and is cleaning his glasses in a furious manner and the old lady is still crying.

His faither wis a lovely man, a lovely man, hen. We are all captivated now.

Oor Jimmy was the apple of his faithers eye, so he was. The old lady wears doc marten boots and a large grubby brown coat. Her hair is frizzy and orange. She is now trying to cuddle my husband, who looks as if he may soon run away. People are staring as they fill their cars with the weeks shopping. I push my brimming Safeway trolley to the side and stretch out my hand to greet her.

Hi there, Im Joyce, nice to meet you. And you are?

Im Jimmys cousin Maggie I used to look after oor Jimmy when his daddy was ill oh what a terrible death that was, and such a lovely, lovely man and naebdy liked him either, what a time it was, it wisny his fault what the Japs did was it, what was it tae dae with him? Hed no been there since he was a baby, but it was the times, the times, him dying in his bed an bricks comin through the windaes. Oh yer weans are lovely son, they dont look nothing like you. Will you come and see me son? Ive got something I need to tell you, Ive carried it with me all they years, your mammy never wanted you to know. Jimmy submits to be cuddled. She leans over to me and whispers in a whiff of jumble sales and lavender Make sure he comes, hen. Make sure he comes and ambles away.

We drive home bombarding Jimmy with questions, but he is dismissive and irritated. He wants to talk about his new camera, his boss at work, the traffic, what were having for dinner. When I change the subject back for the fifth time, he turns on me.

Maggie is mad, has always been mad. My mother fell out with her when I was a kid, I havent seen her since. There isnt any big secret, just a mad old lady.

But you will go and see her wont you? I say, knowing as the words come out that they are a mistake.

No-I-wont. Have you not been listening! Shes a mad old bag, why would I go and see her? When we get home he disappears into the darkroom, and refuses to speak for the rest of the night.

Theres a photograph of Jimmys father in our living room. It sits amid the photographs of the kids, seems unconnected to the blazing colours of their childhood. We found it when were clearing out after the funeral, hidden under her corsets like a guilty secret. It was discoloured, cracked and a bit torn at one end. Jimmy spent days in the darkroom with lenses and flashlights and enlargers, spoke to fellow photographers on the phone, consulted a dozen of his textbooks, disappeared to the darkroom again and emerged with a perfectly clear black and white photograph. The man in the picture is aged forty or so, wears a giant white chefs hat, a white apron and checked trousers. In his right hand is a large knife. He has a tiny Hitler moustache. I wonder about that moustache. Perhaps they were simply the fashion of the day, maybe everyone had them. Or was it an act of defiance against the country which nurtured him from babyhood, then turned on him for his oriental chromosomes?

NOTE - Some time later cousin Maggie told us that my husband had a sister who was adopted as a baby the year before he was born. His parents had never told him about her. Maggie says they simply couldnt manage a baby as a Japanese man wasnt welcome anywhere in 1948, even though hed lived in Britain since he was a small boy. He was an experienced chef but was asked to leave his job in the Beresford hotel because he was bad for business. Jimmys parents remained together for the rest of their lives. We were able to confirm Maggies story. The baby was called Jean Reid, though her new parents will have given her another name. We were unable to trace her.