Bend for Home, The Page 18

  He has been coming to the Briefne for years and so he has gained access to the inner sanctum. He runs a rambling shed down the Market yard, where he collects lead, iron and sheep’s wool. That scrap, Maisie says, has put his three children through university in Dublin, where Harry returns to his home every weekend. Harry says little. He never discusses his family. We call on tinkers and farmers and garages throughout Monaghan and fill the small lorry with batteries, sheets of tin and some wool.

  Are you not shamed to be at this work? he asked me.

  No, I said, I like it.

  27 Thur. Our Lady of Constant Help.

  The shed was heaving with wool. Harry hurled huge bales overhead with a wheeze and I moved batteries and lay lengths of iron one on top of the other. He began breaking down an engine with a mallet and I set baths into each other. We broke up iron beds, hammered lead into balls and stopped to smoke.

  Monty Montgomery, the man who has the next shed along, looked in.

  I see, he said, that you’ve an apprentice.

  That’s right, said Harry.

  After dinner we sat into the wagon and took off for Meath County where Harry says the best wool is. We pulled into a farmhouse where shearing was still going on, and sat in the kitchen drinking tea till the men were finished. Harry was called out to inspect the wool.

  Eventually the deal was struck and we loaded up the pick-up. The whole family helped us. Harry hurled the bales to me and I packed them up. It was good work.

  28 Fri.

  We drove off to see the gypsies that were parked outside Oldcastle. The McDonaghs sat on the steps of the caravan and watched Harry as he picked through the gas cookers and lead from roofs and engine parts and agricultural machinery and old ranges, all the time mumbling to himself.

  Look, Mr Ross.

  I see it.

  It’s worth five shillings be itself.

  It’s worth three.

  Ha-ha.

  Take it or leave it.

  I’ll take four and six.

  No.

  Four.

  No.

  Ah Jasus, sir.

  Three and six it is.

  I have the wife here, and the childer to feed.

  You heard me, James.

  You and me, Mr Ross, we go back.

  I know that.

  We’ve been dealing together for years, sir.

  Dermot, said Harry, get in the van, we’re going.

  We climbed into the van. The gypsy man came over to my window.

  Can you not speak to him, son, for the love of God?

  No, I can’t, I said.

  He went round to the driver’s window. Harry started up the engine.

  There are other dealers I can sell to.

  Well, do that.

  Three and ninepence, Mr Ross, God bless you, said James McDonagh. We loaded up and headed to Kells and into the back kitchen of a small restaurant in the town. Out came his egg and brown bread, with boiling bacon and cabbage for me. We had a cigarette. We unloaded in Cavan. Stiff and tired we parted ways on Main Street. He shuffled off to the Farnham Hotel. I went back and told mother of all the places we’d been.

  29 Sat. SS Peter and Paul, Apostles.

  The dentist fits in my new teeth. They seem too big for my mouth, but still and all I put my new suit on because the trousers arrived yesterday. So I head up Main Street in the shoes.

  You look lovely, said Sheila, as she passed me.

  When I was walking home that night some of the older fuckers shouted, There’s a smell of Healy the pavee. Jew lover! Are you with the pavees now, Healy? Healy for scrap! I just walked on pretending I didn’t hear them. It was all because of Harry Ross. Dreamt tonight that my teeth were full of meat and I couldn’t spit it out.

  30 Sun.

  Sheila came up to the alley to watch me play. Doc Galligan was there with Seamus Ennis the famous piper, long in the leg, famished looking, thin-shouldered and nervous, peering over the wall and making comments. I grazed my knuckles on the side wall by showing off and trying to get a ball I couldn’t reach. The piper lifted a baby Power’s to his head and said he was calling it a day. The Doc and he drove off in a blue Volks.

  The soldiers were fierce quiet. And all the stray dogs that followed the soldiers were quiet.

  Sheila and myself then went out to Killykeen Lake on our bikes and it began to rain. It rained and rained. We got drenched on the way home. It was warm rain. Again we parted on the outskirts of town. When I was passing the Ulster Arms I heard the pipes coming from the bar onto Main Street. When I looked in there was Seamus Ennis playing the uileann pipes and Garret Brown, the Guinness heir, was in a corner with Seamus White, the dancing teacher. Frank was behind the bar in his element and the Doc was dancing with a lady singer from Gowna. She danced prim with her arms by her side while he was using tiny little steps and twisting his shoes and slapping his thighs.

  When the tune stopped, the Doc bought me a beer and told a conundrum.

  Where, he asked me, did Irish music come from?

  I said I didn’t know.

  Well, this man was above in the bed dying. He was on his last breath, and he said to the son, Son, he said, bring me up a glass of rum. So the son did. He filled out a tot of dark into a glass and fed him slowly with a spoon till the glass was gone. Da, said the son. Da, said the son again. Did-the-rum-do-Da, did-the-rum-do-day! And that’s how music started.

  Do you mind, said Seamus Ennis to me, as he scrutinized my face, if I ask you something?

  No, I said.

  Did I see you somewhere before?

  JULY

  1 Mon. The Most Precious Blood.

  Coming on down the Navan road a Mercedes suddenly shot out of a by-way and Harry had to jam on the brakes. We spun across to the verge. He parked and climbed down angrily.

  Did you not see us? he shouted to the driver of the car.

  We are sorry of course, said the German.

  What do you mean sorry – you could have killed us all.

  I was not seeing you.

  Suddenly, Harry banged the roof of the car. The driver covered his head and Harry began raving aloud in another language. He circled the front of the Mercedes. He kicked its front wheel and banged on the bonnet.

  Stop please, said the driver and he began to raise his window.

  Get out of this country, roared Harry. Get out!

  The driver reversed, pulled round the back of the lorry and took off with Harry racing behind him. He stood shouting in the middle of the road in his long white coat till the Mercedes had gone from sight.

  At last he got back in beside me and cradled the driving wheel.

  Did you see that? he said.

  Yes, I said.

  I could feel his heart pounding. His sallow face was very pale. It was the last words he said that day. We drove home in silence. He gave me 5 shillings and I got washed and shaved and powdered Simon and went to a party in Doli’s. Great feed. I was asked in a quiz who my favourite male singers were, so I said Joe Brown, Ray Charles, Elvis Presley, Del Shannon, Gene Pitney and Mario Lanza. My favourite female singers were Helen Shapiro, Shirley Bassey, Connie Francis and Brenda Lee. In instrumental groups I picked The Shadows, Kenny Ball and his Jazzmen, Mr Acker Bilk, The Tornadoes and Joey Dee and the Starlights. Then went off to meet Sheila on Keadue Lane. In the morning I leave for Rannafast Gaeltacht.

  Write to me, she said.

  I will.

  I know, she said, that you’re not to be trusted.

  We said goodbye.

  Ich liebe dich, Sheila wrote into my diary and signed her name with five X’s. I went home and packed my bag for tomorrow. Felt lonely. Mammy ironed three shirts and gave me £6. I listened to Luxembourg till it closed down.

  Chapter 26

  2 Tues. The Visitation of B. V. M.

  The bus stops in Donegal town and we have a few bottles of Harp. Then when we go on through the mountains we’re dying for a piss. Tried to pee into a bottle but couldn’t an
d it got very painful. Eventually I told the bus driver there was a man sick in the back. He pulled in and six of us jumped out. We went behind a sandbank for a piss. It was some relief. But then the bus moved on a fraction and we all came into view with the lads out dribbling away. The women cheered at the sight and the driver blew the horn. And then when we arrived in Rannafast there was no house for us.

  Na labhair Bearla, a man said.

  We were sitting starving on the side of the road till ½ past 9. Then a woman arrived and said Rachamid go Teach Eamon. Na Labhair Bearla, she said. We got a boiled egg apiece and two pan slices, and that was that. Myself and Peter and Paul share a room with two Holy Boys. No one slept with the hunger.

  3 Wed.

  Reading of the Rules today. Na labhair Bearla. Do not speak English. Labahir as Gaelige. Speak in Irish.

  Then we were brought to the hall where we inspected the women, and were given a free afternoon. The food is terrible in the house. There’s blue mould in the bin. The plastic potatoes are piped onto the plate. And the gravy would turn your stomach. Then tonight we went to a ceili. A local band played and a man barked out the jigs as Gaelige. No remarkable women. I’d say, said Pete, that they’re all mad to go. The Holy Boys stood by the wall and danced with their heads down and their eyes on their feet. Pete and me had another bad night in the bed with the hunger. Then the fear-an-ti (the man of the house) started to snore through the thin wall so we lay there and looked at the ceiling and whispered.

  4 Thur.

  An bhful einne anseo as Cabhan? the storyteller asked. Is there anyone here from Cavan?

  Myself and Pete put up our hands.

  He studied us and winked and laughed.

  Dia dhuit, he said. It won’t be long now.

  Won’t be long till what? asked Pete.

  The storyteller tapped his nose and told us a tale in Irish.

  There was this man, a man from Gweedore who wore women’s clothes till he was ten. When he was five the father said to the mother that lad should be in trousers, it’s not right to see him going about the country in a dress.

  Wait till he earns it, she said, and she put the frock back on her son.

  When the son was seven the father said, Now Bridie, he said, now Bridie, he said, let him into his trousers.

  Not yet, she said, not till he’s earned it, and she put him back in his dress.

  When he was nine and had his muscles the father said, Now Bridie, now he’s ripe for the trousers.

  Not yet, said the mother, and she combed out her son’s long curls that fell like snow to his waist.

  So the father feeling low went to the priest. But the priest wasn’t at home. Oh no. He went to the schoolmaster but he was on holidays. Oh yes. At last he went to the doctor. Good day, Doctor Timothy Brown, he said, a thousand blessings. Good day to you, Michael Joe, said the doctor. My wife, he told Doctor Tim, thinks her son is a girl. Is that so, said Doctor Tim. It is, the father said. It has me máinte. Feeble-minded.

  And he went on. When the rest are kicking football he’s by the fire mending socks and a puss on him.

  Ho-ho, said Doctor Tim.

  She has him, said Michael Joe, in a dress each hour of the living day.

  Since when?

  Since the cratur I’m sad to say was a bairn.

  He has his equipment, I take it? asked Doctor Tim.

  He has indeed, said the father. And the father looked astray. So what’s to be done?

  What you’ll do is this – and here the storyteller suddenly stopped. We’ll hear the rest of it tomorrow, he said, and he put his cap on his head.

  5 Fri. First Friday.

  Where was I? the storyteller asked in Irish.

  What you’ll do is this, said Pete.

  That’s right, he said. It’s good you remembered or I could have gone off on another tack. He took off his cap and beat his knee a blow and began.

  What you’ll do is this, said Doctor Tim. Take the nail varnish of the toes of a woman who is over sixty, crack it up in your fist and tip the scales and the leavings into the bellybutton of your good wife while she’s sleeping.

  Can I do that? asked Michael.

  Of course you can, said Doctor Tim.

  I can, I suppose, said Michael Joe.

  Next get a glass brimful of spring water from Tobar Brid and have her wash her fangs in it when she wakes. You have that?

  I have.

  Next admonish her to prayer. Let the prayer be of your own choosing. Then put the lad in Wellingtons and walk north.

  North, your honour? asked the puzzled father.

  North, said Doctor Tim.

  Right, said the father.

  Do this, said Doctor Tim, then come back to me.

  So the father set off round the parish of Gweedore looking for a woman over sixty with varnish on her toes. He inspected the feet of the women at Sunday Mass. He went on his hunkers in the shop. He stood like a thrush in the post office. But no woman over sixty with varnish on her toes could he find. A year went by. He was giving up. Then the visitors came. And one day a strange white-haired woman pulled up in a smart car at the hotel and as she went up the steps in her sandals Michael Joe caught the hint of red varnish. Well the woman sat down in the lounge for a cup of tea and a chicken sandwich and the father came over on his tippytoes.

  Grand day, said Michael Joe.

  The woman nodded and he went down on his knees.

  What are you doing? said the scandalized woman – and the storyteller stopped and put on his cap and went out through the door. Then he looked back.

  How are the Cavan men today? he asked.

  Taimid go mait, I said. We are fine.

  Not for long, he said and he winked. Wait till Sunday week, he said.

  Then I wrote a letter home to Mammy. There’s a storyteller here, I wrote, that’s off his head.

  6 Sat.

  I dropped the letter in at Sharkey’s post office and walked to school with a girl called Phyllis. She said one of the girls in her house had been proposed to by a fellow from ours. The master kept looking out the window and glancing at his watch. Speak among yourselves, he said, as Gaelige. We saw the storyteller come up the path looking very sorrowful. The master indicated with his finger that Peadar Rua should come on in, but Peadar put a hand on the gate, stopped to spit, looked pale then turned away.

  We’ll soon see about that, said the master.

  He went outside.

  Peadar, he shouted, Peadar Rua, come back here! But the storyteller said, I have the gawks and continued down the road and never looked back, and the master stood around a while not knowing what to do and that’s how we went swimming in Poll an tSnamh. Phyllis from Ardee, who was an inch taller than me, put her towel down beside us. She had a big sweeping navy dress on, a buckle on her waist and black hair kicked out on her shoulders. I had on a pair of jeans, a check shirt and a sweater knotted at the waist. She had thin flat pointed shoes and I had a pair of gutees laced to the shin.

  We went together to the ceili that night. The local men home from Scotland ambled by in a group and stood in blue suits with whiskey in their glasses at the lemonade bar. They’d shout as Gaelige when one of them would set off to dance the older girls. They pelted the floor. You were not let sit down. You had to dance. I left Phyllis home. They were tall kisses. I made up names for the stars. She took off her shoes on the strand. We passed a pub and the storyteller came out the door and started shouting back in English – Anytime, anyday, whenever you like – and someone came out and put an arm round his shoulder.

  It’s all right Peadar, never mind them, he said, and they went off down the road.

  The Holy Boys were listening to a wireless in the room. We shared a chicken, Cidona and biscuits and listened to the Top Twenty. The bean-an-ti (woman of the house) bangs on the wall and shouts Ciunas! Ciunas! (Quiet!)

  The fear-an-ti wakes from his snoring.

  What’s wrong now? he shouts.

  We opened the window and
had a smoke and listened to the seabirds.

  7 Sun. 5th after Pentecost.

  Stood under a rock on Tra Mor with Phyllis as a storm blew over. Then we stepped into the sea and walked out at low tide to the island. Collected a few crabs. Got fierce wet. That night threw the crabs among the women at the ceili. Great laugh. Well fixed with Phyllis.

  11 Thur. B. Oliver Plunkett.

  Where was I? asked the storyteller.

  What are you doing? said the scandalized woman, Pete told him.

  That’s right, What are you doing, said the scandalized woman, get up out of that this very instant, and have manners.

  I’d be grateful, said Michael Joe, if you’d part with some of your varnish.

  Oh, said the astounded woman, and she looked at her toes. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?

  I don’t know.

  Well, I don’t mind, she said.

  So Michael Joe peeled a few chippings of varnish off her toes with a small penknife, tossed them carefully into a handkerchief and thanked her most profusely.

  Anytime, said the woman.

  He went the road for home a happy man at last. The gorse was burning and the mother was putting the lad to bed in his petticoat.

  That’s a terrible night, Michael Joe said.

  Do you think so?

  I do. We should go to bed.

  Not yet, said the mother.

  She put her feet up by the fire. He turned on the radio, then turned it off. He ate a slice of bread and marge.

  Will we go now? he asked.

  Hold your horses, she said, not yet. It’s too early.

  He went out to check the ass. He kicked a sod across the street. He emptied his pockets onto the draining board.

  How about now? he asked.