Clay

"Clay" by James Joyce is not a book itself, but one of the short stories featured in his collection named "Dubliners." The story is about Maria, a middle-aged spinster who works in a Protestant charity for fallen women. It explores themes such as routine, memory, mortality and the constraints of life. Maria's quiet, sad life and her final disappointment serve as the embodiment of the paralysis and miscommunication that Joyce perceived in turn-of-the-century Dublin.

• Children

								
The matron had given her leave to go out as soon as the women’s tea was
over and Maria looked forward to her evening out. The kitchen was spick
and span: the cook said you could see yourself in the big copper
boilers. The fire was nice and bright and on one of the side-tables
were four very big barmbracks. These barmbracks seemed uncut; but if
you went closer you would see that they had been cut into long thick
even slices and were ready to be handed round at tea. Maria had cut
them herself.

Maria was a very, very small person indeed but she had a very long nose
and a very long chin. She talked a little through her nose, always
soothingly: “Yes, my dear,” and “No, my dear.” She was always sent
for when the women quarrelled over their tubs and always succeeded in
making peace. One day the matron had said to her:

“Maria, you are a veritable peace-maker!”

And the sub-matron and two of the Board ladies had heard the
compliment. And Ginger Mooney was always saying what she wouldn’t do to
the dummy who had charge of the irons if it wasn’t for Maria. Everyone
was so fond of Maria.

The women would have their tea at six o’clock and she would be able to
get away before seven. From Ballsbridge to the Pillar, twenty minutes;
from the Pillar to Drumcondra, twenty minutes; and twenty minutes to
buy the things. She would be there before eight. She took out her purse
with the silver clasps and read again the words A Present from
Belfast. She was very fond of that purse because Joe had brought it to
her five years before when he and Alphy had gone to Belfast on a
Whit-Monday trip. In the purse were two half-crowns and some coppers.
She would have five shillings clear after paying tram fare. What a nice
evening they would have, all the children singing! Only she hoped that
Joe wouldn’t come in drunk. He was so different when he took any drink.

Often he had wanted her to go and live with them; but she would have
felt herself in the way (though Joe’s wife was ever so nice with her)
and she had become accustomed to the life of the laundry. Joe was a
good fellow. She had nursed him and Alphy too; and Joe used often say:

“Mamma is mamma but Maria is my proper mother.”

After the break-up at home the boys had got her that position in the
Dublin by Lamplight laundry, and she liked it. She used to have such
a bad opinion of Protestants but now she thought they were very nice
people, a little quiet and serious, but still very nice people to live
with. Then she had her plants in the conservatory and she liked looking
after them. She had lovely ferns and wax-plants and, whenever anyone
came to visit her, she always gave the visitor one or two slips from
her conservatory. There was one thing she didn’t like and that was the
tracts on the walks; but the matron was such a nice person to deal
with, so genteel.

When the cook told her everything was ready she went into the women’s
room and began to pull the big bell. In a few minutes the women began
to come in by twos and threes, wiping their steaming hands in their
petticoats and pulling down the sleeves of their blouses over their red
steaming arms. They settled down before their huge mugs which the cook
and the dummy filled up with hot tea, already mixed with milk and sugar
in huge tin cans. Maria superintended the distribution of the barmbrack
and saw that every woman got her four slices. There was a great deal of
laughing and joking during the meal. Lizzie Fleming said Maria was sure
to get the ring and, though Fleming had said that for so many Hallow
Eves, Maria had to laugh and say she didn’t want any ring or man
either; and when she laughed her grey-green eyes sparkled with
disappointed shyness and the tip of her nose nearly met the tip of her
chin. Then Ginger Mooney lifted up her mug of tea and proposed Maria’s
health while all the other women clattered with their mugs on the
table, and said she was sorry she hadn’t a sup of porter to drink it
in. And Maria laughed again till the tip of her nose nearly met the tip
of her chin and till her minute body nearly shook itself asunder
because she knew that Mooney meant well though, of course, she had the
notions of a common woman.

But wasn’t Maria glad when the women had finished their tea and the
cook and the dummy had begun to clear away the tea-things! She went
into her little bedroom and, remembering that the next morning was a
mass morning, changed the hand of the alarm from seven to six. Then she
took off her working skirt and her house-boots and laid her best skirt
out on the bed and her tiny dress-boots beside the foot of the bed. She
changed her blouse too and, as she stood before the mirror, she thought
of how she used to dress for mass on Sunday morning when she was a
young girl; and she looked with quaint affection at the diminutive body
which she had so often adorned. In spite of its years she found it a
nice tidy little body.

When she got outside the streets were shining with rain and she was
glad of her old brown waterproof. The tram was full and she had to sit
on the little stool at the end of the car, facing all the people, with
her toes barely touching the floor. She arranged in her mind all she
was going to do and thought how much better it was to be independent
and to have your own money in your pocket. She hoped they would have a
nice evening. She was sure they would but she could not help thinking
what a pity it was Alphy and Joe were not speaking. They were always
falling out now but when they were boys together they used to be the
best of friends: but such was life.

She got out of her tram at the Pillar and ferreted her way quickly
among the crowds. She went into Downes’s cake-shop but the shop was so
full of people that it was a long time before she could get herself
attended to. She bought a dozen of mixed penny cakes, and at last came
out of the shop laden with a big bag. Then she thought what else would
she buy: she wanted to buy something really nice. They would be sure to
have plenty of apples and nuts. It was hard to know what to buy and all
she could think of was cake. She decided to buy some plumcake but
Downes’s plumcake had not enough almond icing on top of it so she went
over to a shop in Henry Street. Here she was a long time in suiting
herself and the stylish young lady behind the counter, who was
evidently a little annoyed by her, asked her was it wedding-cake she
wanted to buy. That made Maria blush and smile at the young lady; but
the young lady took it all very seriously and finally cut a thick slice
of plumcake, parcelled it up and said:

“Two-and-four, please.”

She thought she would have to stand in the Drumcondra tram because none
of the young men seemed to notice her but an elderly gentleman made
room for her. He was a stout gentleman and he wore a brown hard hat; he
had a square red face and a greyish moustache. Maria thought he was a
colonel-looking gentleman and she reflected how much more polite he was
than the young men who simply stared straight before them. The

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