I wonder what kind of spit mine will be. Long and globulus. Like a stalagmite melting out of deep sleep. Or phlegmy and bronchial and green. Like the sputum of a tubercular warthog.
Frances is over-qualified and under-enthused. She works the in the obituaries section of a national newspaper and writes letters back to recently bereaved families. Suffice to say, Frances and her editor do not always see eye to eye.
When word reaches the newspaper that one Sister Ina Marsh of Ballymun, Dublin, has died of old age, Frances decides it is high time that she hops on a plane and goes to spit on her grave. It’s an act of revenge long overdue. Sister Ina Marsh, after all, is the woman who left Frances’ then 18 year-old grandmother high, dry and without so much as a friend in Jesus. Sister Ina Marsh, after all, is almost the reason Frances is here on the planet in the first place.
This darkly humorous piece tracks the span of one woman’s saliva-fuelled odyssey to rectify the wrongs of history. It is a work which deals with family, journeys, the impossibility of altering the past and whether doing ‘the right thing’ is ever as right as is intended.