Short Story: 'Wail in The Night'

After the accident I went to live with my grandmother, which soon became my two grandmothers.

The first was Nana Sponge, my mum’s mother. She lived in a house perched on the slope of valley, deep in the Irish countryside.

Nana Sponge was a cuddle of a woman, small and round but robust and sturdy. She wore cardigans that never quite fit her shape no matter how she tugged at them and didn’t wear neat little shoes like other grannies, she wore big old boots for stomping through mud.

She cheerfully rode around the village below on her old bike, calling out the names of everyone she’d pass like a daily roll-call, collecting her ‘messages’ and essential gossip before huffing the bike back up the hill home. She knew everyone and all their business, everyone knew her and none of her business.

She wouldn’t suffer fools and could be fiercely direct whether you asked for advice or not (usually ‘ah get a hold of yourself for God sake’) - but she didn’t have an ounce of badness in her. Nana went through life with her head up and chest open, like she was striding into a bracing wind.

Oh and I should explain - that’s not her real name. I was just ten at the time and had always called her Nana Sponge because of the sponge buns she’d make when we visited. They bulged over the paper cases. I liked picking off that slightly crusty over-hang before turning the case inside out and pushing the rest directly into my mouth. She made two batches of buns for my arrival after the funeral.

I had lived with Nana Sponge for a week before Granny Scone arrived over from England.

She was my dad’s mother and where Nana Sponge was warm and open, Granny was careful and brittle. No less full of love, probably, but cautious with it. She wasn’t sloppy with anything, certainly not emotions. She was neat and proper - and beautiful too but in an almost fragile way. She held her head upright, stiffly, as though afraid the beauty might slip right off her face. She always looked immaculate - neat cloud of hair, red lipstick, silk blouses nipped at the neck and wrists, but there was sadness rather than joy in her grandeur - like the melancholy of a once-grand hotel overlooking a fading seaside.

“Be kind to Granny,” I remember dad saying before we’d visit, “She hasn’t had it easy.”

She would watch cautiously to see if I liked the cherry scones she’d made especially. Only after I made a show of how lovely they were would she relax a moment - before disappearing back into the kitchen to wipe down the counters again.

I did like her - she was a perfectly nice woman who tried her best - but any love was mixed with a sadness, a pity almost - the type you hold for people who won’t allowed themselves be loved. She left her hands dangling in air when you hugged her and quickly tapped the back signalling “that’s enough now.”

She was someone who so wanted everything to be ‘right’ that every moment became a stiff approximation of polite enjoyment, a performance of ‘how things should be’. I sensed that whatever she was hoping for, never quite landed as she wished. And so she would retreat back to her remote careful world where counters were wiped hourly and things, clothes, and people were placed ‘just so’.

I never knew her, not really - until that night.

Granny Scone had been staying with us in the valley for three weeks at that point. She’d come over because she feared that Nana Sponge would “have her hands full” with me. I didn’t think much of it at the time but I suppose now she may have been hurt that she wasn’t named as my guardian in my parents’ will. And I don’t think it would be unfair to suggest she didn’t trust Nana Sponge entirely either. Nana could be careless, forgetful, sloppy and silly with a famously crude sense of humour - especially after a few drinks at Christmas. The pair had never seen eye to eye.

To be honest with you, Nana Sponge wasn’t delighted when she got the call that Granny Scone was coming. She told me the news while leaning on my bedroom door arms folded before adding with a sigh “and sure, we’ll try and make the best of it”. I then heard her muttering “ridiculous woman, stick up her arse” as she stuck on her boots and left for a long walk.

The week didn’t go well. I wasn’t privy to all the rows as I filled most of my days walking by the fields and up the mountains to sit alone. I hadn’t even landed on a feeling of sadness yet. I suppose I was walking to try and reach a clear emotion I could wrestle with - something I could really feel. It was still a mist. Anyway when I’d get back home the pair of them would be sitting in the acute silence of an interrupted battlefield.

From what I gathered by listening to the murmurs below on my bed - some of it was about Granny Scone ‘fussing about the place’, some of it about Nana not letting Granny help at all, and much of it about what’s to be done with me.

There was some lightish relief the day Granny Scone got chased home by Farmer Walsh’s dog. She was shaken and sure the farmer set the dog on her deliberately. Nana said “you need to give the aul brute a good firm kick up the arse - and I don’t mean the dog”. Granny took a moment to process this, “oh I see - yes”, smiled a slight moment then excused herself to put on the kettle.

“Are you alright in there now? Sure, throw some whiskey in the pot if you need it,” said Nana, giving me a heavy wink -

Granny’s face appeared at the door again, “Thank you but really I don’t think that is the answer.”

“Ah no doubt you’re right,” said Nana with a chuckle as she shovelled more coal onto the fire, “Sure don’t you know best.”

***

It was the Sunday night around eight of clock when the electricity went. Nana Sponge was dozing by the fire, Granny Scone was re-ordering the cabinets, I had been drawing on my pad when we were flung into a close blackness.

“Sacred heart of Jesus!” cried out Nana Sponge.

My eyes adjusted to as light from the fire picked out outlines, shapes - then faces. Granny Scone stood with a nervous hand on the back of Nana’s chair -

“Oh dear, I expect it will flick back on in a minute - “ she said with a quiver.

“Ah no, sure you’re not in the city anymore - when it goes down out here, it’s down for days - which is why - I got myself a back-up generator,” Nana tapped her finger against her temple. “It’ll kick in any moment now…”

We waited.

“And when did you last use this generator?” asked Granny.

“Ah it’d be maybe ten - twenty - no thinking about it now, thirty years since.”

“I see,” said Granny sinking to the sofa.

“It’ll work,” said Nana defiantly, “I’ll go give it a kick now to wake it up.”

Nana fished out a torch and left out the back door.

Granny reached out and timidly tapped my hand - “Don’t be scared,” she said

“I’m not scared. Are you scared Granny?” I asked.

“Oh no, I’m fine,” she straightened and looked into the fire, “I’m fine.”

“No luck! Sure the things bust. What did I tell you? Useless!” Nana Sponge bounded back in, “Right now folks if we’re in it for the night I’m having a drop of whiskey - what are you having Margot?”

“I’m fine - no, a G&T if you have one,” said Granny. I saw her hand twiddling nervously in her lap.

“And yourself will have a bag of crisps and a can of coke, am I right?” said Nana.

“That’s right,” I said.

“Sure you’re Nana’s always right.”

Time drifted by as firelight danced on the ceiling and we played a game of ‘Beg My Neighbour’ while Granny Scone looked on. Then it came.

Low a first, like wind rising - then an angry rasp that bloomed into a full-throated howl of despair.

Nana froze.

It died on the wind.

“What on earth?” said Granny.

“Margot, I’ll see you in the kitchen,” said Nana Scone coldly. I had never heard her like that before - stripped of all colour. Hard and cold as stone.

I watched the closed kitchen door and approached slowly to make out the shape of what they were saying - Granny laughed - a nervously laugh that caught on her throat

“- surely you don’t believe? Oh no please.”

“Don’t laugh at what you don’t understand,” said Nana firmly.

“Oh no, it’s just a silly Irish superstition - I didn’t think people believed in such things. For goodness sake - ”

“We’re not daft, of course we don’t believe it, in the light of day - but at the same time, we do, absolutely.”

“Stuff of nonsense - “

Granny opened the door and jolted at the sight of me.

I insisted I be told what was going on. Nana said it wasn’t for me to be worrying about but I (rather shamefully) pulled the trump card of saying my parents never kept things from me. They did of course, I’m sure they did all the time - but it did the trick as the grannies eyed each other.

“Sit down,” said Nana.

Granny Scone shook her head while sipping her drink as Nana spoke -

“When you hear the wail of the banshee, somebody in the house will die that night - “

I jumped - Granny calmed me with a hand on my arm - “It’s just fairytales,” she insisted - but the way Nana Sponge stared into that fire with wide fearful eyes fixed the feeling of doom in me - it pierced and twisted in my stomach.

“I don’t want anyone else to die - “ I murmured.

“Nobody is going to die,” said Granny Scone softly, “You see what you’ve done - “

“You should go to bed,” said Nana - “No wait,” she turned this over in her head, “You stay up with us. We’re all staying up until dawn.”

“Oh well you’ll have to excuse me if I drift off,” said Granny in as sunny a voice as she could muster.

Nana turned to her, “You drop off if you want to.”

“You’d like that,” Granny straightened.

“Oh for God s-“

“No, no don’t try to hide it, you’d be much happier if I was out of the way. You’ve always made that clear.”

“Whist woman. Sure I wouldn’t waste the energy of thinking about you.” said Nana.

“Well, I don’t suppose you ever did think about me or my feelings. And my son’s family - asking them to spend every summer and Christmas here with you. Do you know how it feels - “

“I never asked them to come here and sure what has it to do with me if they preferred my company?” said Nana, “I can’t blame them.”

This landed into dead silence. Granny shifted and cleared her throat, placing her glass down carefully.

“I think I should go to bed, you’ve said enough,” said Granny with that tender wobble of hurt in her voice.

“Ah stop it and sit down for God sake,” said Nana firmly, “It’s not going to be you anyway. I know it’s me the banshee was wailing for.”

Silence.

“What do you mean Nana?” I whispered.

“Ah well, the jig is up I suppose,” she said with a slight chuckle, her eyes turning back to the fire, “It’s me old heart’s on the way out. It’s been at me now for years, I knew it was banjaxed but - well, I thought I’d have a few more rounds in me.“

“What did the doctor say?” asked Granny sinking back to her seat.

“Ah I’m not bothered with them for God sake, they only ever tell you what you already know.”

“But you don’t know a thing!” cried an exasperated Granny.

Nana whipped around in her chair. “I know plenty - I know I heard a banshee. And I know you don’t believe in such things but any soul in Ireland can tell ye tales of people who built on fairy-rings and lived to regret it - curses that struck down families - and followed football teams for generations. Now there’s some things that don’t make sense - not least to a fine English lady like yourself, but they’re things we quietly respect. Now I’m dying because the banshee says so and I won’t hear another word about it.”

Nana rapped these words on arm of her chair and turned back to the fire in a sulk.

“Well if you insist - “ said Granny lightly.

“I do!” cried Nana, “and don’t you go around being too happy about it either.”

Granny shifted and swallowed a gulp of her G&T. “I wouldn’t be happy about it. Not at all. In fact I’d rather regret it…”

“Hmff!” Nana tossed back some whiskey.

“… I’ve longed admired you actually. I do think you’re rather colourful and - well, unconventional. But I always wished I could be more like that - a free-spirit I suppose. That was never me… no I did it all by the book… “

Nana looked over with a skeptical eye - “Don’t you go feeling sorry for yourself. I’m the one who’s dying here.”

“Well, we don’t know? It could easily be me,” Granny shrugged.

“Or me?” I said.

“No. Don’t say that.” Nana fixed me dead in the eye, finger held aloft, “Don’t you dare even think it.”

“Your Nana’s right, don’t think that way,” said Granny.

“Oh well - did you hear that? I am right for once!” said Nana Sponge with a chuckle. She poured another nip of whiskey. Granny sighed but I saw her smile slightly.

I had a thought, “Does it have to be someone who was in the house when it was heard - what if someone else came in?”

“Ah now stop it,” said Nana, “You can’t go fooling these things. It’ll be someone in the house before morning.”

“But it could be someone else - ?” Granny’s words crept carefully.

Nana looked in the fire, chin raised a moment as her eyes searched - “Ah who knows. Now no more talk about it. Let me try to think of nicer things…I’ll be reunited with my daughter I suppose - and himself - but there’s so much too miss… ”

She looked at me with a smile - wet eyes glistening in the golden eyes. We drifted back into silence.

“I wonder,” said Granny Scone, “I wonder if someone from the village could come and look at that generator?”

“- And maybe stay for a cup of tea after?” I added.

“They could stay and rest a while, a long while. It’s the neighbourly thing to do,” added Granny tapping my hand proudly.

Nana didn’t stir.

“We may as well try!” implored Granny - “… get the generator going I mean.”

Nana took a deep breath, readying to step across the hearth of an idea - “But who could we get - to fix it I mean?”

“Old Johnny from the post-office?” I asked.

“No, not Johnny - sure he’s a good man,” said Nana - “Hatcher Jones might be an option… but then no it wouldn’t be right. He’s got the new grandchild coming. Brenda Frogert? She cut in front of me the other day at Daly’s, her nose in the air - but, no. No we’ll just wait in the darkness…”

“The farmer Walsh,” said Granny firmly, “I’m sure a fine man like the farmer Walsh could see to it.”

Nana’s eyes turns to Granny as a smile crept - “Well, aren’t you you a bit of a divil?”

Granny’s hands were clasped in her lap, she gave a slight shrug, a smile.

I fetched Nana’s mobile phone, tucked away in the top drawer of her bedside cabinet. It had a sliver of battery left and a whisper of coverage. After thumping the phone on the arm of the chair a few times to make it ‘work better’, she got through -

“We’re in desperate need up here now…. no need to take that tone with me now … yes, I’ll pay you if that what it takes … well, bless your heart aren’t you terrible good to me… bye.”

She hung up. “Awful man.”

“Well,” said Granny breezily, “He’s just right for the job.”

Twenty minutes later, a fist pounded the front door, rattling the house -

“Have you ever heard of anyone as rude - “ said Nana as she got up to let him in. I peaked out to see his big frame filling the doorway -

“Right then where is the bloody thing?” he started.

“Oh thank you for coming,” said Nana sweetly, “You’re awful good to us - “

“And have you no family to look after you instead of waking me in the - “

“We are her family!” called out Granny defiantly.

I looked up at her, her face resolute in the candlelight. I nuzzled to her side, she slipped her arm around me.

The Farmer hesitated a moment. “And you’re no good to her at all. Come on woman where is it - I haven’t got all night - “

“Oh of course, it’s around the back by the old chicken shed,” Nana’s wavering finger indicated the way. As he huffed off, Granny hurried out the door after him, grabbing Nana by the elbow on the way. I followed.

They found him by torchlight jabbing at the old generator in a shed - mumbling and spitting curses about old women and pleading that God would rid him of them.

“You will stay for something to eat I hope?” called Granny, “I have some scones - homemade!”

“Ah no you don’t want that, I have sponge cake and buns that’ll do you nicely,” Nana quickly added.

“I’m not staying,” Farmer Walsh muttering twisting a spanner.

“But you must…” said Granny faintly.

With a heavy clunk something shifted - “That’ll be it sorted now,” he said standing back, “It’s a rusty aul bucket of a thing.”

With a low metallic groan the generator stirred into life - chug - chug - chug - it stirred roughly to wake - and then a full throated wail.

The wail.

We froze.

“My God,” said Granny, “There’s your banshee! It was the generator all along. I told you it was nonsense.”

Nana shuffled on the ground, pulled the cardigan tighter around her, “Well, now…” the words got away from her.

“What banshee?” said the Farmer.

“Why, she thought someone was sure to die tonight because of a banshee’s wail!”

“Ah what a load of - “

The generator cracked - cranked - a shrill scream - and BOOM.

A blinding metallic white. Hot angry metal flying.

Granny Scone shielded us as the air rushed past our feet. Shards whizzed overhead.

I turned to see a black cavern spitting with flames where the generator had been.

Farmer Walsh was spread across the garden in several pieces.

“Well now, one person dead,” said Nana rocking back on her heels, fixing her cardigan and smugly crossing her arms “Who was right?”

***

There is a slight post-script to the story of that night. Nana Sponge did go to the doctor. She hadn’t been imagining things - her heart was on its last legs - but Granny Scone insisted on staying and helping her through it - until somehow those last legs, found footing and became sturdy as ever.

The pair of them still live together today and to be honest are a bad influence on each other. It turns out Granny Scone has quite a mischievous streak - and if Nana Sponge’s gossip is to be believed, is a bit of a flirt in the village.

They haven’t heard the banshee, or the generator, again since. Long may it be before they do again.

****

I’m on Twitter @TheRoryJohn