I was walking back from the local shop when I saw an elderly lady outside her front door. She was holding a large watering can, which I could tell was full and heavy because her hand was shaking. She was trying to water the colourful selection of plant pots dotted around her paved porch. I noticed her leg swinging as she struggled to get down the high step.
“Do you need help?” I asked.
“Yes please,” she replied. “I can’t get down this step. Could you water these plants for me?”
Her Irish accent flew joy to my heart. My much-missed mother-in-law, Bridget, was Irish too, and for her I had both the highest regard and the softest spot.
“Of course!”
I put my shopping down and rushed to take the can from her. I was suddenly keen to do the best job possible, as she put me so much in mind of Bridget, who would have been around the same age, had she lived longer.
“My daughter usually does it for me but she couldn’t come,” lady said.
“That’s okay,” I replied as I watered lots of pots. Then the can ran out.
“Just go inside,” she said. “You see that tap down there in the kitchen? Fill it up there.”
She had such authority I did everything but bow as I passed her. An elderly Irish matriarch is a boss I want to please. I turned on the tap in her ‘80s-decor, brown-tiled kitchen and re-filled the can.
“You’re a good girl,” she said, out of the blue, which crushed me. “You’ve done your good deed for the day, ha ha!”
She laughed at the end of her sentence, just like Bridget used to, because when you’re Irish, there isn’t a better joke than your own.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“I’m Eileen,” she said. “What’s yours?”
“I’m Julie.”
“What’s that?”
“JULIE.”
“Ah, right then Julie. Make sure you finish off out the front. Do you live round here? What street do you live on?”
I told her my street, to which she replied,
“Do you know Pat O’Rourke? He lives on your street.”
“I don’t I’m afraid. I don’t really know my neighbours. You know what London’s like.”
“Oh, I do. I’ve lived in this house since 1981. All the Irish have moved away now. I don’t know who’s on one side of me or who’s on the other.’
I asked her if she knew Bridget, who lived a few streets away in the other direction. I told her she was Irish too.
“Where in Ireland was she from?”
“Athea,” I said.
“No. I’m from the north. I wouldn’t have known or talked to her. Anyway, it was nice to meet you, Julie, and thank you for doing that for me. I’m going to have a lie down in that little room now. I don’t do much.”
“It’s a pleasure,” I said. Then, I thought she might be lonely. Maybe I should offer to water her pots, make her a cup of tea, say hello from time to time. So I bravely added my afterthought on the way out.
“Eileen, I walk around here all the time. How would you like me to stop and ring the bell and water the plants for you?”
“No,” she said bluntly. “Only if you see me out the front you can stop. Don’t come to the door. But if you see me out the front you can come and give me a hand. You can go now, you’ve done your good deed for the day, ha ha. You have a good day now, Julie!”
Ushered out, I had to laugh. Fifty-two and a good girl – until I got overly neighbourly.
I like Eileen. She hates do-gooders.
Julie Hamill is a novelist, a radio presenter and more. Follow her on X/Twitter. Support OnLondon.co.uk and its writers for just £5 a month or £50 a year and get things for your money too. Details HERE.