About the Bookstore Browse Aisles Search Desk Shopping Basket Book Trade Terms Just Released! Return Policy Help Here is the full reference card for this book... If you'd rather place an order by talking to one of our cheerful order desk clerks, please call 1-888-232-4444 (USA and Canada only) or 250-383-6864. From Europe, ring our UK order desk clerk at local rate number 0845 230 9601 (UK only) or 44 (0)1865 722 113. Mary didn't have a Mam by J. D. Cotter 330 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-0248; ISBN 1-4120-2420-X; US$26.50, C$30.49, EUR22.00, £15.50 Orphanage survivor Mary O'Hanlon is catapulted onto a rollercoaster ride of hilarious adventures in Ireland of the 1970s. Will she risk everything to expose her former minders? Read more! about the book      about the author      excerpts      catalogue info About the Book Let your imagination run wild in the hilarious yet moving story of orphanage survivor Mary O'Hanlon. Just seventeen when she emerges through the gates of 'the Holies', she struggles against the odds to build herself a life in Ireland of the 1970s. Drawn to the handsome but troubled Joe Waters, she rejoices in the birth of her son, determined that his childhood will be everything that hers never was. Mary Didn't Have a Mam is a roller coaster ride of riveting adventures, packed with a host of colourful characters whose actions never fail to shock or entertain. There is a bank manager, Cecil Barlow, who dies in a botched game of Russian roulette, his demise testing the skill of Grimston & Sons, who have never been known to turn out an unhappy corpse. Brain-challenged Bok has a penchant for arson, and proves a match for the best as a member of the notorious 'Hards' gang. Old timer, Mick Waters, survives an attempt on his life, when the 'faster' and 'stop' buttons on a treadmill are switched, and collar-wearing, rogue dog Rasputin, invades St Christopher's church, challenging the authority of Fr Damian Molloy. Baby nuns, undead corpses, exploding asses and widows' balls abound in fast-moving Ballydaf. Amid robberies, acts of God, murders and excorcisms, Mary O'Hanlon is blackmailed when she threatens to expose the abuses in the orphanage. Will her gamble pay off as she risks everything to bring down her former minders? Or will she pay the ultimate price for her refusal to stay silent? About the Author J.D. Cotter is a university business graduate. He is married with four children, no dogs and hardly any cats. Mary Didn't Have a Mam is his first novel. Derry has also written a number of short stories.

Excerpts

Mary shivered as she stepped from the bath. He would be coming for her soon. Expecting her to go with him. Not just to go with him - no that would be the easy part. The problem was when they'd get there. What if she didn't know what to do? Or if she didn't live up to expectations?

It had been her suggestion in the first place. That's what annoyed her most of all. 'Do it for him' Cathryn had said. 'You'll have to do it sooner or later anyway.' Mary released the stopper wishing it could have been later. He hadn't even wanted to do it, at least not at first. That bothered her too. But he'd changed his mind before she did, saying she was right, that it was time.

Mary wrapped a towel around her and pulled open the wardrobe. She held a dress before the mirror and wrinkled up her face. Red was for danger, which was about right. It was a button short though. And a bit on the tight side too, in fact skin-tight. Putting it back, she searched again along the rail. The blue striped dress was a possibility. Or maybe the black number that Joe liked. It was still sporting that 'cat brooch' though. Stuck fast it was, after going rusty from being in the wash. Mary hated brooches, and cats too - even more than brooches. They were takers, cats were. Especially the tom who'd tried to take her eye out. Not that he hadn't warned her. Hunched his back he did, and spat too. But when he lashed out, it still took her by surprise. Caught her an inch below the eye. That close it was. With a bit of luck he'd ended up as a rug somewhere. A small bristly one that you wouldn't chance in your bare feet.

Stretching on her toes, Mary took a green dress and held it before the mirror. Yes, what about the green one? It fitted better than the red. It was warmer too, and it suited her, or so people said. It was a bit on the loud side though, maybe too loud. Replacing it on the rail, she sighed with frustration. Knowing what lay ahead, she needed something special. Hardly old-fashioned or prudish, but not something that would suggest she was 'easy'.

She glanced in the mirror and wondered. Was she worrying too much? After all, Joe said blondes get away with murder. That nobody noticed what they wear. Still, she wanted to look as nice as she could.

'Anyone there?'

She was glad of the intrusion, as her flatmate, Cathryn Speckman, stuck her head around the door.

'Did you find somethin' to wear?'

'Only these, but the red one's too tight and...'

'How about this one Mary?'

Mary laughed as the sheet-swathed figure pirouetted athletically around the room. Of course Cathryn always made her laugh. Half serious, half joking, she had a way of saying things. It was a quality which had made her popular in the orphanage, though not with the nuns who had found her lacking in piety. Brushing a lock of jet black hair from her eyes, Cathryn Speckman revealed an attractive face which was not without blemish. Yet, whatever her imperfection, they disappeared with a movement of her hips or a sultry half smile.

'If I'd your looks Mary, I'd go in the nip. Ya wouldn't see Joe complainin.'

'Are ya goin' to help me or not? God, look at the time!'

'What about yer blue top? Look, here's a skirt to go with it.'

Cathryn threw herself on the bed, as Mary zipped up, tucking the ends of the blouse inside the skirt.

'What'ya think?'

'Well ya might as well be in separates when you're goin'. Sure you'll hardly come back in one piece anyway!'

'It's not funny Cathryn. I'm scared stiff. Oh God, there's the bell.'

'I'll answer it. You finish gettin' ready.'

Mary stood away from the mirror. Cathryn was right. They were a good match. The blue suited her eyes too. And the lines in the blouse gave her an extra bit of height. She looked well - in fact very well. Joe would be pleased.

Loosening a button on her blouse, Cathryn sauntered down the stairs and opened the front door.

'Hi Joe! Come in.'

'How's it goin' Cathryn?'

'Nice jeans Joe. A tight fit!'

'Where's Mary?'

'Oh, she's upstairs gettin' ready. Come on in.'

Ignoring her outstretched hand, Joe waited in the hall. Upstairs, Mary swore as she struggled with the shoes she'd borrowed from Cathryn. Forcing her left foot in, she ran from the bedroom.

'Hi Joe. You're early!'

Stretching on tiptoe, she kissed him on the cheek. Joe responded eagerly, but she slithered free before he could catch her. Reaching for her coat, she felt his hand on her bottom.

'Hey! You'll ruin me clothes.'

Sensing her unease, he stopped, aware that a wrong move now could upset his plans.

'Come on Joe, let's go. See ya later Cathryn.'

Mary put a hand in her pocket, and linked her other arm through Joe's. She felt better, at least for the moment. Of course he always had that effect. Part of it was the way he looked. Tall and handsome, he had a leather jacket, and everyone fancied him. That's what Cathryn said. But it was more than that. He drank and smoked too, and bought her presents. He was everything the nuns had warned her about. That made it even better. She was getting her own back, and they couldn't stop her now.

An unhealthy smog hung over Ballydaf as they headed north along Mahony's Road. It was always worse around Christmas time, when even the poorest houses managed an extra bag of the smoky coal. Moving briskly, they crossed the bridge over the canal, where a tramp lay huddled beneath a worn rug, playing a vaguely familiar tune on his mouth organ. Searching her pockets, Mary threw some change into a paper cup, and continued walking, as the strange lilting melody drifted after her in the wind.

They were half way along Mahony's Rd. by now, and only a few streetlights remained. Mary stumbled, almost falling on the uneven footpath. Considering the terrain, Cathryn's shoes had been a poor choice. But this was no ordinary night, and she had wanted to look her best.

'Hold it a minute Joe. These shoes are killin' me.'

'Okay, let's go over here.'

Moving towards an alleyway, he pinned her against a wall. Mary responded, arching her back as he bent her towards him. A hand lifted her skirt and his mouth pressed itself on hers.

'Stop Joe. Not here. Please.'

She adjusted her clothes, as Joe re-lit a cigarette end, and blew exaggerated smoke rings in the air. She was grateful for his patience, and she was glad they were on their way to his place. The prospect excited her but, as it was her first time, she was nervous. They continued walking, crossing an old railway track, where two or three youngsters ran from a burnt out car. Joe pretended to give chase.

'Get outa there, ya fuckin' brats.'

The broken glass of the sports model reflected in the moonlight, the shadows masking what remained of its throw away face. Further on, Joe pointed towards a row of terraced houses, the dull glow of their window lights offering a hint of their plainness.

'That's my place.'

Mary felt a cold sweat run through her. She shivered, partly from the cold, but mainly out of fear.

'I can't go in Joe.'

'C'mon, for fuck sake. Ya said ya would.'

Mary gasped as he dragged her down the steps towards the door, her wrist stinging from the roughness of his grip.

'Le'mme go Joe, please. You're hurtin' me.'

'C'mon, ya said we were doin' it. It's too late to change yer mind.'

Mary wished she hadn't agreed. Numb with fear, a voice in her head urged her to stay calm. Reason with him, put him off, buy more time. Yes, that's what she needed, more time.

'I'm not ready Joe. Please wait. Maybe tomorrow...'

'Tomorrow? For fuck sake. C'mon, we're doin' it now.'

Her knees buckled under her as he forced her through the door. Inside, the hallway was cold, and she trembled as he groped and fumbled in the dark. How could she get through to him? That it was different for her. Something she couldn't do unless she was certain. It was useless. His mind was made up, and there was no turning back, no way out. She bit her lip in despair, and was dazzled as the hall came alive with light. Now Joe looked nervous too, and she pleaded with him desperately.

'Let's go back Joe. Please, before...'

She froze, as a voice from the kitchen sent a shiver up her spine. Shrugging his shoulders, Joe took a deep breath.

'She's goin' to find out sooner or later Mary. C'mon.'

Madge Waters' enormous jaw dropped when they appeared in the doorway. Mary tidied her hair as Joe mumbled an introduction. She panicked as the realisation hit her. She knew! His mother knew! The hair on the back of her neck rose as Madge Waters threw her hands in the air.

'Merciful God! Sweet Divine!'

The legs of the chair creaked as she slumped into it, squashing her thighs beneath the table. On top, a plastic tablecloth stretched from end to end, cigarette burns making the already faded pattern indiscernible. Madge's head moved from side to side as she shook the box, dislodging the last cigarette.

'What are we goin' to do Mick? He's got 'er up the feckin' spout.'

In an armchair beside the fire, Joe's father sat crouched over a newspaper. Lifting his glasses on to his nose, Mick Waters raised his head, and beckoned her forward.

'Sit down here girl. Yer frozen with the cold. Get in by the fire and warm yer hands. Herself will get ya a cuppa.'

Madge ignored him, the tip of her cigarette glowing as she pulled on it hard. Blowing smoke around the room, she glared at Joe.

'Fornication is bad enough, but at least ye could 'ave... Mother o' God help us.'

Madge blessed herself, becoming even more agitated as the cigarette caught her in the eye.

'Ye'll 'ave the eye blinded outa me head, with yer feckin' carry on.'

Mary stared at the floor, wishing that Joe would stand up for himself.

'What are ya sayin' about our baby? How dare ya? Come on Mary, we know when we're not welcome.'

He didn't say it. What was he waiting for? Madge continued her assault.

'Have ye been down to Father Molloy?'

'Not yet Mam. Sure we're only after...'

'I know what ye're after alright! So what are ye waitin' for? He'll need notice ya know. Unless ya want 'er lookin' like one o' those feckin' Russian dolls that ya can't knock over.'

Mary paled at the mention of Fr Molloy and, as the tears welled up, Mick Waters seemed to notice.

'Maybe she'd prefer someone else Madge.

'Someone else? But sure, isn't it Joe that has her up the...'

'A different bloody priest, woman! Are ya thick or what?'

'Fr McCarthy, ya mean? Sure that fella couldn't convert yer attic!'

'But he's a fresher man. Knows the young people better.'

'God forgive ya, Mick Waters. Would ya have 'em married by a curate?'

'Well if that's what Mary wants. I can't see any reason why...'

'I'll tell ya why. Fr Molloy's the parish priest; that's reason enough for me. Ya don't send a boy on a man's job.

Mary warmed herself before the fire, and wondered how Mick Waters had plucked up the courage to propose to big fat Madge. Maybe she had done it for him. Maybe she did all the proposing. Lying back, closing her eyes, and thinking of herself.

'Are ya alright girl?'

She nodded as Mick Waters repeated his offer of tea.

'I'm okay thanks. We had a cup in my place before we left.'

'If ye'd stuck to havin' tea, ye wouldn't be in this fix now.'

It was the first time Madge had addressed her directly, and Mary averted her eyes, embarrassment turning to panic as Joe got up to leave.

'I'm goin' for a pint. See ya later.'

'I'll go with ya.'

'Sit down there girl. What's yer rush? Sure we're only gettin' to know ya.'

She looked at Joe, her eyes pleading to be rescued.

'I'll see ya later. You'll be okay with me mam.'

Mary felt the room close in around her, but Madge was oblivious to her distress.

'I'm parched with the thirst, girl. 'Tis that salty bacon we had for dinner. Only half cured it was.'

'Sure you're gone beyond curin', woman. If that pig had known who'd be eatin' him...'

Mick Waters leaned back in the chair, laughing at his joke. Mary forced back a smile. She was getting a taste of her own medicine, and not before time. Her eyes scanned the room, as Madge heaved herself from the table and filled the kettle. Above the sink, a dirty creamy coloured board covered a hole in the window, and was partly hidden by an even dirtier curtain. At the top of the wall, a black fungus had almost encircled the room, and was on course to meet at the centre. A smell of dampness hung in the air, and a smiling JFK was partly hidden behind the badly fitted wallpaper which was peeling off in strips.

Full of unwashed ware, only the top of the brown-stained sink was visible. The crockery which filled it consisted of odd cups and plates which had survived from the myriad of tacky sets bought over the years. The culprit, the faded yellow floor tiles, lay underneath, boasting an occasional crack, the scars of countless battles fought and won. There were trophies, medals and pictures everywhere, and through a gaudy frame, an aged Pope Paul VI stared at her solemnly. Mary stared back. Did he know about her too? How did he find out?

On the opposite wall, a wedding photograph caught her eye, the photographer's skill making Madge look almost human. Miraculously, the camera angle had left enough room for Mick Waters, and a sideways glance confirmed that, despite his age, he had wintered well. Jet black, his hair seemed transplanted from the picture and, apart from a well nurtured beer belly, his frame looked muscular and strong.

'There's feck all heat outa these rings.'

'Sure they're for cookin' woman. Not for warmin' yer arse.'

Mick Waters raised his eyes to heaven, and threw his head in the air.

'Ya could be tellin' 'er 'til the cows come home.'

Madge continued to heat herself over three jets of the gas cooker, the fourth looking damaged beyond repair.

'Feckin' gas. 'twouldn't scorch yer ass if ya sat on it.'

Mary watched as the kettle came to the boil, the steam helping the fungus to complete its journey towards the centre of the room.

'Are ya goin' to steam us out of it woman? Yer worse than the Turks, with their fuckin' baths.'

'Ah feck off. Sure the tea isn't the same unless it's boilin'. Isn't that right girl?'

Mary nodded, knowing she was almost invisible. As the mist cleared, Madge looked even fatter than before.

'Sugar girl?'

Mary raised two fingers and blushed with embarrassment when Mick Waters started to laugh. Madge was on spoon six, and still shovelling. Taking the mug, Mary sipped the tea, noticing too late that the lip bore the stains of the previous user. Struggling to conceal her revulsion, she felt her face contort as a musty smell wafted towards her nostrils. Mick Waters rose from the armchair.

'That stuff keeps me awake. I'm off for a pint. See ya later.'

It was one on one now and Madge Waters moved in for the kill.

'So what's yer surname girl?'

'O'Hanlon. My father's name is Paddy. Me mam died when I was a baby.'

'Paddy O'Hanlon? That sounds familiar. Not yer man who sells the scrap metal? A rough bloody diamond. He'd wipe yer eye if ya didn't watch 'im. I didn't even know he had a young wan.'

'I was put in the orphanage after me mam died.'

'Well, he'd better be puttin' his hand in his pocket, girl. Weddin's don't come cheap nowadays ya know.'

'We weren't plannin' a big...'

'An' Joe will be expectin' a dowry. He's entitled to that much at least.'

'I haven't really seen my father. You see...'

'I suppose you'll hardly be wearin' white, girl. Maybe somethin' the colour o' the curtains. A kind of an off-white. That'll keep 'em guessin.'

'Ah, sure I'd never be able to get material as nice as that!'

The heavy sarcasm in her voice took Mary by surprise. Madge sat at the table, her mouth open, fingering the empty cigarette packet in silence. Mary was pleased. It wasn't exactly a knockout blow; in fact, she hadn't even drawn blood. But, against the odds, she had landed her first punch.

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