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I pulled the car into the street, gazed expectantly at the front door. The house was the third in a long row of dull uninspired council houses. We thought we’d hit the jackpot when we were allocated one in the early sixties.
In recent times when location made them desirable, the houses gained new importance. Held their heads high, became attractive to those who had shunned them for fear of mixing with the wrong people. Naming the estate Castlevue had failed to bring the intended sophistication then but better days might lie ahead.
In an estate of sixty six houses, sixty tenants were Protestant and six were Catholic. This situation went unchanged for decades till a new points system came in for the allocation of houses. As Catholics then in a Protestant village, our prospects were poor. Mammy was determined to move away from the hardship of the country. We lived in an old house in the Red Hills with a great view but no running water or electricity. She was scundered tramping up the hills to get home.
It was widely rumoured that if you bought your beef in the local councillor’s shop the chances of getting a house were greatly increased. Mammy dithered for a day or two for everybody knew the best beef was to be got in Dromore. But when she thought of the carrying of the water and the paraffin oil for the Tilly lamp there was no choice.
Shopping in Moira was a whole new experience. Mammy exchanged her money for a mysterious parcel wrapped up in brown paper and string. The butcher turned away when he parcelled the beef, he kept out the back so she never saw it till she got home.
Even when we had the house the occasional parcel still came home for mammy felt guilty about dropping the butcher who had done her the good turn.

My mother spent many happy times in the house and in latter years the whole street rallied round to protect Gretta. They’ cared her like an egg’ as she would have put it herself. Gretta in turn supported their every venture whether it was to kit out the local flute band or decorate the church hall. She did draw the line however when two young fellows asked her for money to paint the footpath red, white and blue. Without giving offence she told them that her pension wouldn’t stretch that far. They’d better ask somebody that was working. She was delighted they didn’t see her any different, weren’t afraid to ask her. She took it all in good heart when the flag went up on the lamp post outside her front door. She said good people must be scarce when a south Armagh woman had the important job of minding it.
I don’t know how long I watched the house before reality kicked in. Even if I sat for days the blind would never twitch again when the car pulled up nor would the door be flung open in a great welcoming gesture.

Gretta loved people. She was at her happiest when her house was jam packed and everybody had a cup in their hand. Unfortunately for her our Alicia and me were quiet and shy like my father. We weren’t much use to her if she was looking a bit of news.
Once at a fun day in Moira Gretta met a clown. Her grandchildren were impressed. They knew granny was very popular and made it her business to know everybody. Even they never expected a clown on her list.
I hesitated now with the key convinced I could hear footsteps in the hall as she started her routine. In forty five years I’m sure she never once answered the door without closing the bathroom one as she passed.
After the novelty of the new house wore off she had barged a bucketful about the stupidity of building a house with the toilet facing the front door. She never insisted though that we close the door when we left the bathroom. For years it had the black wallpaper with the white swans and pink lily pads that was considered very stylish at the time. Maybe she didn’t mind regular callers getting a glimpse for it would have been a shame to keep it all to ourselves.
I wouldn’t dare invade her privacy by using my key if she was at home. Even when she became frail I still felt compelled to ring the bell. Gretta as head of her family was a strong dignified woman. She commanded respect without ever asking for it. When there was a mishap, ‘what will granny say ’were first words on all our lips. She expected us to do our very best and we strived to please her. She mellowed though in old age. When I complained about school reports she went on the defensive, ‘wouldn’t it be far worse if they couldn’t do better,’
It certainly was not her attitude in my school days but I didn’t remind her. Uneducated herself as a mother and grandmother it was everything to her. She over ruled my father and sent us to Lisburn Convent. It 'was aisy carried' she’d say. Daddy had had little time for schooling and definitely not for women.
In my teens and twenties when I was struggling for independence I developed a terrible resentment to her. I’d only be sat down in the doctor’s when I’d hear her greeting the receptionist as she bustled in and sat beside me. I’d just sneaked out of the house without her. I realize now that the severe pain in my back could have been something sinister like T. B. or cancer. I thought I was invincible, she was controlling.
When we went to Menary’s she’d point up at me and say ‘I want a coat for her.’ Even though I was painfully shy I still felt anger and resentment at the way she took over. I was shocked years later when I found myself asking for a coat for her.

Eventually I turned the key and pushed open the door. I reprimanded myself for my stupid notion that mammy had been about to open the door. I hadn’t even rung the bell but she could have spotted the car, I argued.
I waded in over the mountain of junk mail, wiping a tear with the back of my hand as her name jumped out at me from one or two of the items.

We were both Margaret but I was Rita and she was Gretta. At one stage when we lived on the hills we worked in a linen factory in Maralin. The owner called us Gretta Garbo and Rita Hayworth when we rushed in on the last minutes every morning. We looked anything but glamorous after the bicycle ride.
I shivered at the echoing emptiness, the awful coldness of the place. No wall of heat bounced off my face today. No gentle aroma of lily of the valley combined with the strong whiff of stewed tea. Lately air fresheners and disinfectants were added as she didn’t leave open a door or window for fear of being robbed and assaulted. The media loved to get their teeth into a good story about a pensioner being beaten, leaving out none of the gory details. I knew this frightened the life out of her.
I still worried about her though for she loved company that much. Despite the danger she seldom turned anybody from her door. Mammy’s had been a different way of life altogether.
Thank God she’s free of all that I thought but not really believing it. I was still straining to hear her key in the lock as she returned from visiting a neighbour. The fact that there wasn‘t a stick of furniture seemed to count for nothing
All that was left in the front room was the gold flock wallpaper she‘d bought last year. It was very expensive and wasn’t my taste. Who could stop an eighty nine year old splashing out with her own money. She was flattered when the shopkeeper picked up on her taste and suggested adding a little dash of gold to the ceiling paint.

I‘m sure the new owners will neither know nor care but Gretta would have been contented that despite the sudden call she’d left everything in great order.
She would have been so proud of the estate agents favourable comments as he assessed the house. He was local so I inquired about his connections. It meant nothing to me but Gretta might have been listening. She would know which one he was.
She knew the house would be sold on her death but expressed no regret. She just kept note of the selling price of each house. Felt smug as her nest egg grew. A nationalist all her life I was shocked when Gretta even went as far as praising the Thatcher government. She’d have been delighted with the boost she gave her neighbours when the house sold way over the asking price. Not bad she’d say for a poor south Armagh woman, a council house and a few pounds of questionable sausages.