Francie Born

Once upon a time there was a great white light, a lot of clinking and clanking and harsh voices speaking urgently; then there was a soft, female voice saying something like:


“Abah Babbledy Bah!”

After that things returned to a normal state of slumber.

Little Francie was born.

It gradually emerged that I was now in Outer Space.

Just because I am a baby in a pram, you should not suppose that I am unaware of the politics that surround me.  I am quite aware of the bribery and corruption that is going on.  The Two are constantly being rewarded with substantial, if unfathomable, favours and allowed into unknown realms of joy, while I am constrained.

There are two places in the world of Outer Space, a living space and an outer place of abandonment.

Although I strive to remain in the living space, I wake up all alone and totally deserted in the Outer Place.

When I cry out, the great wall opens up, from the centre out, with the sound of thunder, and the One Who Sustains appears through the opening and reunites me to the Bosom.  (At other times, it is the minor door that opens and a less dramatic, but equally consoling reunification takes place).

It is not that reality is divided into events. It appears as a continuum.

The comings and goings around me reveal the Physical Trinity of living forms.  First there is the One, whom you might call “the One Who Sustains.”  Then there is the Two, whom I have also mentioned already, who constantly seduce the One away from me and who will only desist from this appalling behaviour if lavishly bribed (or, sometimes, horribly punished). 

There is also the Remote and Incredible Hulk who occasionally looms into Real Space, although there is often some doubt as to this being’s actual existence.  He is certainly not as constant as the One and the Two.  When I am reasonably satisfied, by reason of his sustained absence, that he does not, in fact, exist, he suddenly manifests himself, proving his sure and certain existence.  This one could, therefore, be called the One Who Manifests Himself.

When the Hulk manifests himself, it is a surprise, - in the sense that what is expected is the One (i.e. the One who Sustains).  When this happens, there is nothing that can be done but to be quiet and wait.  In time, the Hulk will eventually remove himself from space and allow the One to return.

It becomes apparent that the One Who Manifests Himself is also the One Who Makes the Laws, for you can often hear his booming voice declaiming laws from near and afar. His voice is authoritative and insistent.

One day, I am on my hands and knees at the feet of the One, when, suddenly, Raw-Raw, one of the Two, drops onto his hands and knees beside me. He says “Bow-Wow,” and starts pushing against me.

Soon the second of the Two (Yaw-Yaw) drops on his hand and knees also, and, so, the game of “Doggies” is born.

This is wonderful. It is the greatest experience in the whole of life.

Every day now, I call for the game of Doggies, and every day the Two drop on their knees and all three of us cavort around the floor barking and tussling. “Doggies” becomes part of the continuum.

All is not plain sailing, however. Mama (the One who Sustains) and Dada (the Lawmaker) both interfere. They constantly shout at Raw Raw not to be so rough.

I grab Raw-Raw’s hair and push his face to the ground. I climb up on his back and he careers around the room. Then he tosses me onto the floor and attacks me with his snout. This is very great fun, but Mama and/ or Dada intervene with their strictures. Then Raw-Raw gets up in a huff and stomps off.

He is not Raw-Raw, he is Raw-Jar. The other is not Yaw-Yaw, he is Jar-Ray, otherwise Rodge and Jerr.

The outer place, strangely called the Sitting Room, becomes the site of fun. That is where the Doggie games take place, because the Living Space is taken up by a large table and lots of wooden chairs.

There is a long couch in front of the window of the Sitting Room, and this becomes my Great Focus.

A cushion is taken down off the couch, and I can climb up on it and fall down off it. If the cushion is in front of the couch, I can climb up on it and then onto the couch. Then I can climb onto the other cushion that remains on the couch, and, from that, I reckon I can climb onto the arm of the couch. From the arm, no doubt I could climb onto the back of the couch, and from there right up onto the window-sill, and look out into the front garden.

When I go to bed at night, I contemplate the conquest of my Great Focus. In daytime, I have a go at putting my plan into action, but every time I am frustrated.

I heard mama telling Mrs Breen, one day, that I climbed right up onto the window-sill, but that was a lie. I tried and tried, but every time I failed or was stopped.

I know what a lie is, because Daddy often pronounces on the evil of lying. He says that a lie is always sinful and nothing can excuse it. This doctrine is usually directed at Rodge.

There is a magic time at the end of each day when I am put in my cot to sleep. As I wait for the sleep to come, my mind drifts over the events of the day and I plan the events of tomorrow, i.e., climbing the couch to the window-sill.

And hey, here’s an idea! When you are climbing, you raise your leg on top of something, don't you, and then you lever yourself up. Now, supposing you could put your right foot on top of your left knee, then you could push yourself up using your left knee as a base. Now, lift your left foot and put it on your right knee, and, see, you have climbed up into the air.

I can’t do it now, I’m too sleepy. I will do it tomorrow. I will find out if one can climb up into the air.

Outside the house, in the garden, there is a wonderful City of Sticks – a magic land of adventure – full of climbable objects (actually a felled and chopped tree, bought for firewood, it being the war years and coal scarce).  I am forcefully pulled back from entry to this magic space, and the Hulk is heard exploding in anger at Rodge for allowing me to approach it.  “Didn’t I tell you to keep Francie out of the Sticks?  Didn’t I tell you to keep him away from the sticks?”

So, my existence is one of restraint and denial; liberty is only attainable through struggle and subterfuge. There is also an element of guilt, since I am aware Rodge is punished for my misdemeanor of going into the sticks.

In my bedtime reveries, strange images come to me. I imagine myself crawling through long grass. Crawling into muddy water. Pushing back the rushes, as I swim-crawl through the water. Reaching the clear, open water, I dash across to the rushes on the other side. Why do I dash across the water? To escape from the monster! What monster? The monster that might be watching for little creatures in the open water. 

I push in through the rushes. It would be awkward if I had to use my hands, because, each time I pushed the reeds back with my hands, I would have to bring my arms forward to the front again. Fortunately, I have two small flipper things jutting up from my shoulders one on each side of my face. I can push the reeds back by flipping these, and, meanwhile use my arms and legs for crawling and swimming along.

Other times, I think I have little wings on my shoulder blades. If I could exercise these a bit more, I could get a bit of power into them, and I could fly. Then again, I have more powerful wings attached to my arms and all down my back as well as my shoulder blades. These are the bees' knees. I must exercise these and get flying up into the air, but now I just want to drift off to sleep; too sleepy to fly now; I must do it tomorrow.

Maybe the strange images come from the comics. There are two regular comics, the Beano and the Dandy. The Killeens get the Beano and the Breens get the Dandy. Then they swap. There are other comics, also, that the Killeens borrow from Shauny across the road. While the Beano and the Dandy contain simple cartoon drawings, shaded in pale colours, Shauny’s comics often come from America and sometimes contain full-colour pictures.

One morning, when we were having breakfast, Jerry said, “Pass the Mickel, please.”

Mammy responded: “Say ‘Milk,’” but Jerry said, “I can’t say ‘Milk,’ I can only say ‘Mickel.’” This was very funny and everybody laughed.

Daddy liked reading the paper to the family at tea-time. He thought the paper had important messages. It was full of a babble of words.

I liked words.

Some words that were often repeated in the newspapers daddy read were the names Hitler, Stalin and Churchill.

One day, daddy said that we Killeens were related to Winston Churchill; that when one of the Churchills came sailing up the Shannon a long time ago, he decided to come to live in Lusmagh and changed his name to Killeen, because he wanted to sound Irish.

On Mondays, after hanging out the clothes, Mammy told Mrs Breen about the words I was speaking. This was embarrassing.

The game of Doggies continued, but Rodge was getting fed up with it. In time, Rodge got totally tired of playing Doggies, but Jer always obliged when requested.

Rodge was better fun, because he was rougher. He doesn’t mind knocking you over and pushing you round the place. Jerry is obedient to the parents and does it gently, which is less fun. Doggies is supposed to be a rough game. Gentle is boring.

Roger’s Doggie Name was Brownie, so, when he wasn’t playing, I would say to Jer, “Where’s Brownie.” Jer would answer, “Brownie can’t play; he’s sick.” Jer was an intermediary and peace-maker. Soon, as my ability with words improved, I wanted more information. I would ask, “What’s he sick of,” and Jer would answer, “Brownie has the mange.” I thought this was a wonderful expression, so I would often say, “Brownie has the mange.” When Rodge heard this, he went off his head in a total temper. It was fun, but dangerous.

But, now, “Doggies” has transformed into a new dimension. We are not allowed to play in the Sitting Room. We are not allowed into the Sitting Room at all, except on special occasions. The Sitting Room must be kept tidy, with everything in its place.

Now, Daddy sits in his chair to the right of the fireplace, in the Living Space, which, by the way, is called the “Dining Room.” He puts his feet up on the table. His legs form a bridge, for there is a space beneath his legs, between the chair and the table. The other chairs are pushed back to the wall, and the three Doggies career around the table on their hands and knees. As they pass under the Bridge, the Hulk tries to wallop them with his rolled-up newspaper. The Doggies learn to accelerate as they approach the Bridge, in an attempt to avoid the blow of the paper, and then slow down after they have emerged again.

What fun!

The table is also a tent, and the three boys sit under it pretending they are camping. It is, also, at different times, a boat, a stage-coach, a bank and a school.

One day, I was sitting under the table, reading the Beano, when the Breens called at the door. Roger came in and grabbed the Beano off me.

“Hey! Give that back!” I said, “I haven’t finished reading it.”

“You can’t read,” Roger snapped.

“Yes, I can,” I said; “I can read the pictures.”

Unreasonable constraints are continued against me, notwithstanding my expanding ability to mobilise myself.  The two are constantly being allowed, - even encouraged, - to displace themselves to the Outside Universe, while I am held back in the house and garden.


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