Through The Glass Mountain

Martina Evans

Description

Using the unique narrative form of her dramatic poem, 'Petrol', Martina Evans compresses her original novel, 'The Glass Mountain' into a new book of cinematic prose poetry. It is the early 1980s in Cork City and women are on the streets protesting against the contraceptives ban. The eighteen-year old narrator, Maeve, has just left the convent and it is not going well. She is failing science and trying to be a punk while Daddy Hitler keeps telling her that she is on the Highway to Nowhere. Before Maeve can figure what road she should be travelling, she finds herself making a life or death decision. "She shows an impressive command of what feels like the ideal narrative medium: individual moments and drive of narrative in perfect coordination, language alive and kicking." - Christopher Reid

Informations

• Publié par: eBook Versions
• Date de parution: 06 juin 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781843962717
• Langue: English

Extrait

Martina Evans



THROUGH
THE GLASS
MOUNTAIN




BLOOM BOOKS
Published in 2013 in the
United Kingdom by Bloom Books
[e-mail]

Author’s website
www.martinaevans.com

Copyright © 1997, 2013 Martina Evans.

Martina Evans has asserted her right
under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
1988 to be identified as the author of
this work.

ISBN 978-1-84396-272-4

A CIP catalogue record
for this ebook is available
from the British Library

Cover design by
L ad in Evans and Joanna Bryniarska

ePub editions production
www.ebookversions.com

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or
introduced into a retrieval system
or transmitted in any form
or by any means electronic,
photomechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise without
the prior written permission
of the publisher. Any person who
does any unauthorised act in
relation to this publication may be
liable to criminal prosecution.
Contents


Title Page
Copyright Credits

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
1


Ger said shewould go straight to England if she ever got in trouble. She was the youngestof ten and a mistake and when the priest visited her family, he used to be bentover with the laughing, pointing at her, saying, look at the mistake! Hasn tshe grown into a fine big girl? There wasn t enough love to go around, shesaid and only a fool would expect it. She studied Philosophy as well as Englishand she was a Utilitarian. There had to be population control like for cats.People couldn t go on reproducing themselves like they were brilliant orsomething and they were never objective about their own offspring. They eitherthought their own children were completely brilliant - the likes of which hadnever been seen or heard before - what s the first thing a traveller willsay to a married woman when she sits down in the caravan to have herfortune told? Your daughter will rise to the top of whatever it is. And Isaid, but I wouldn t be taken in by that! And Ger said, sure, howwould you know when you d be blinded by mother pride? Unless, of course youwere like the other kind. The other kind of parents thought their childrenwere demons like Damian sent to torment them. Ger said she was the Damian type.I thought I was a Damian child too and Ger said we were lucky. However bad itwas to be demons, it would be a fright to God to be brought up thinking youwere the best ever and the world would have to bow down before you. Imaginethe rude awakening for the completely brilliant offspring, she said to me and I agreed, little thinking it was ourselves that would be getting therude awakening before the year was out.
2


But why did itseem to me that the world parted like the Red Sea before the completelybrilliant offspring? Oh God, but isn t it awful to think there mightbe no justice? Ger said. And I worried along with her. Would the firstshall be last and so on? We didn t know. We didn t know anything. Just don tadd to population in the Name of God, Ger said and I said I hadn t anintention of it. My father was Daddy Hitler. I called him that after anincident with Jimmy Barry Murray, the toughest punk in Cork City. Daddy Hitlerwouldn t let me do Art. I had to do Science and after that it was supposed tobe Computer Science because that was the coming thing. But he really hewould prefer I did nursing, which was the steadiest job of all and hehadn t a notion of supporting me . I had inherited a bit of money from abachelor uncle but that wasn t going to last long. I was thinking of a bankloan only I was sure I was on wrong course. I tried saying that to Daddy Hitlerbut he cut me off before I even started. Anybody who comes along, choppingand changing has no character, no backbone. She is on the Highway to Nowhere. Mymother told me to go easy because she thought the studying was bad formy nerves. I had my head in the sand with a bottle of Benylin because of thedesperate cough I got when I hit the Gitanes cigarettes after leaving theconvent. That was why I had to then hit the Benylin for the tickly cough. DaddyHitler thought he was the only man in the Ireland with a pain or an ache and hewas always rolling up the leg of his trousers to show me the fat branches ofhis varicose veins, snaking around his hairy leg. I was sure that I must be theonly girl in Ireland who was subjected to that kind of display by her father.Ger thought she must be the only girl in Ireland to be tormented about being amistake by a priest, so in a way we were thinking we were extraordinary, too.That s youth for you. It doesn t last long.
3


I thought I wasa punk until the night The Beat and the Specials came to the Arc. Even hippiesand people like Ger came that night, no one wanted to miss it. The sky was thecolour of petrol, everyone was on Pondies and cider and screaming and gobbing(which was spitting green phlegm) on the pavement on MacCurtain Street. Likedevils. Three-feet high letters glowing red above our heads - ArcadiaBallroom. Like Hell.  One minute, we were dancing to Clash records - thenext thing, The Beat were on. I couldn t believe that it really was them. InCork. It was hard to credit. Ger was jumping around to Hands Off, She sMine. It could have been Van Morrison for all she cared. She didn t knowone song from another, she lived for books. She would only read PenguinClassics and she thought John Lydon looked like a mad weasel. Ah no, he s socute in his little furry torn jumper with the safety pins, I said and Carltold us to pull ourselves together. That night in the Arc, Carl s shaved redhead glistened like crystallized ginger and his face was in a sheet of sweat. I never fancied him so much, breathless from pogoing, gasping at us, shutup, ye two edjits. Sure, John Lydon invented gobbing. Furry little jumpers!What kind of poxy language is that to be using about him? I was sweatingtoo and I had to take off the pure wool real sailor s jacket I d bought in thearmy supplies shop down the Coal Quay even though I thought I looked nicer withit on and I thought I was a punk, as I said, but secretly, I always thoughtgobbing was pure disgusting.
4


When theSpecials came on, the whole of Cork was thumping on the boards, ska dancing,mouths going, you ve done too much