by Tony Black
I hate feeling like this. I feel all alone. Dr Cohn said I should try talking to Joey again, huh, what does he know? I told him Joey doesn’t talk about things and the great doctor told me I was being defeatist. Defeatist! I’m not that, not me. Defeatist is running away to the other side of the world to avoid your problems. Defeatist is diving to the bottom of a whiskey bottle to avoid your problems. Defeatist is giving up on your own life and piling all your hopes onto your only child’s shoulders. Defeatist is watching your family fall apart and saying nothing. I’m not defeatist … Christ I’m the only one left fighting. So why do I feel so bad? Why am I the one in therapy? Why does none of this mean anything to Joey?
He put his head down on the tabletop. Holy Mother of God, who was it writing this stuff? Was it the same Shauna that lay curled up crying, day in, day out? It didn’t sound like her, sure this one sounded together, a damn sight more together than the description she was giving of himself, thought Joey. What was she on about? That wasn’t him. He wasn’t the bad guy she was making out. He just wanted the best for Marti, better than he had. What was wrong with that?
He jammed the diary back in his shirt and then he drained his glass, and slipped onto the floor. There was a loud crash when he landed and then a man in a red waistcoat and black bow tie ran over and tried to raise him. “Come on, sir. I’ll take you back to your cabin.”
“Feck off,” said Joey. “I have no cabin. Get yeer hands off me.”
He let him go and when Joey fell to the ground again the man raised his hands in the air and said, “Irish.”
The ground was spinning. Joey wondered was he on some manner of roundabout, being pushed faster and faster, and then he heard a woman’s voice. “He’s okay. You can leave him with me.” It was the nurse again. “Can you get up, do you think?” she said.
The nurse and the man in the red waistcoat lifted Joey to his feet and walked him to the door of the Flamingo Lounge. “I can manage from here, Phil. Thanks a lot,” she said.
“Where are we going?” said Joey. “I have no cabin … no money, no wife, no son – he was taken by her, you know.”
“Okay, I hear you. There’s a bed in the infirmary you can have. Do you think you can make it there?”
“No problem.”
Joey walked holding onto her, occasionally lolling from side to side, sometimes keeling right over entirely, always profuse with apologies and gratitude. When they made it to the infirmary he felt the brightness of the lights burning his eyes – the room smelled so clean it made him feel faint – then he crashed on the bed.
The nurse stretched a blanket over him, tucked it in around his sides and then she sat down, staring at his face. She put a hand on Joey’s forehead, then removed it as though it felt nothing special. She brushed his hair from his eyes, and then she said, “Why do you drink like that? Why would you do it to yourself?”
18
Mam didn’t work or have a job and would wear the baggy jamas with the very long sleeves over her hands all the time. Sometimes after school when Marti came home Mam would still be in the jamas and he would know she had had a day spent in bed or curled up on the sofa with the sadness Dad called the Black Dog.
Aunt Catrin said it was a trip up the hill was needed and wouldn’t that see an end to the days spent curled up with the sour puss. She said their brother Barry had left it too late to get himself up the hill. He was beyond the beyonds by the time they took him in, and look how he ended. Aunt Catrin said she wouldn’t suffer another indignity of the like and she would see the rest of her family laid to rest in consecrated ground for sure. It would be the Cabbage Farm for Mam soon enough if the Black Dog stayed, thought Marti.
Aunt Catrin brought him a slab of porridge out of the drawer for breakfast. It was cold and hard with no taste but when Marti pushed it aside Aunt Catrin said boys who brought guards to the door had no call to pick and choose. He took the slab of porridge back and when he was finished Aunt Catrin said it was time to be making tracks to the school or it’s late he would be and wouldn’t the brothers tan his hide a darker shade of red for every minute past the morning bell he was.
Marti put on his coat and scarf and then the shoes with the crack right across the sole that let in all the water. They were very damp and made him pull a face when he put them on.
“Why with the face?” said Aunt Catrin.
“No face.”
“You’ve a face on you as long as today and tomorra. Is it them shoes?”
“No, the shoes are fine,” said Marti, and he forced his feet into the dampness. One of the shoes seemed bigger and colder than usual and when he looked down there was a little puddle on the floor, along with an entire shoe sole.
“Oh Jaypers, ye have burst the shoe,” said Aunt Catrin. Marti looked at the shoe dangling over his foot and thought it was quite funny and started to laugh, but Aunt Catrin said it was no laughing matter. “What are ye going to wear now?”
“I could stay home,” said Marti, “till they’re mended.”
“That will be right. You’ll go to school barefoot before I’ll have them brothers knocking on my door like the guards.”
Marti didn’t want to go to school barefoot like the knackers who begged for chips at lunchtime and would follow you around if you had an apple saying, “Please the core, mister. Please the core, mister.” The barefoot boys were always being teased and bullied and nobody ever had a knacker for a friend, apart from Colm Casey who was soft in the head and would cry if the ball hit him on the leg or if he didn’t get to pee down the hole at the end of the toilet row in the boys’ jacks.
“I could wear my runners,” said Marti.
“Ye can’t wear plimsolls. It will have to be something else.”
Aunt Catrin said her friend from the bingo, Dora Foley, had brought round some shoes that were never worn because now she had the gout and couldn’t get them on. Aunt Catrin said they were grand shoes for a boy and nobody would know they were ladies shoes because weren’t they lace-ups and black like every other pair of boys’ shoes in the entire school.
“I’ll be teased,” said Marti when Aunt Catrin brought out the shoes from the hall press.
“Try them on,” she said.
He put his feet into the shoes and said they were too big, but Aunt Catrin kneeled down and pressed the front of them to find his toe. “Won’t ye grow into them.”
“But they’re ladies’ shoes and they don’t even fit.” Marti started to curl up his lip and breathe hard down through his nose when he thought about having to wear the shoes to school.
“Let’s see ye walk up and down there,” said Aunt Catrin, and Marti did as he was told. He walked up and down with the heels of the shoes flapping down onto the carpet and making a noise like there was a big old sniffing dog about the place. “Pick up them feet,” said Aunt Catrin.
“I am. They’re too big. I told you they were too big.”
“Now stop the bellyaching, sure sacrifices have to be made.” Aunt Catrin told Marti to collect an old newspaper from the kitchen press and bring it through and when he brought it she started to tear up strips of newspaper and poke them into the toes of the shoes. “There now, aren’t they a grand fit,” she said.
“I don’t like them,” said Marti.
“Well, I didn’t ask if ye liked them. Do they fit or don’t they?”
Marti walked up and down and the heels of the shoes weren’t flapping onto the carpet or making a noise anymore.
“My toes are in the middle and the shoes are all curling up, look,” he said.
“Ah sure that’s a minor sacrifice now.”
“But look, look, they’re curling up.”
“Ah, sure now, a man running for a bus would never notice that.”
“I don’t like them.”
“Won’t they just have to do. They will be a sight warmer than the last lot with the gaping big hole in them. Won’t they do ye grand for the school. Now get a jig on and get off to the school or it’s more
complainers I’ll have at my door.”
Marti walked out on the street in the ladies’ shoes all curled up at the toes and had the red face from the shame that was in it. When he walked past the post office shop on the corner he tried to see what the shoes looked like in the window’s reflection, but the window was too high up to see his feet. He tried to jump up to see the reflection but he could only catch a glimpse and decided he would have to stand up on his tippy-toes and look that way. When he stood up on his tippy-toes the shoes started to slide off his feet and fold over in the middle, and when he put his feet flat on the ground again they were even more curled up than ever.
Marti hated the shoes and wanted to take them off and throw them in the rubbish bins, but he just stood there staring at them until a man in a dirty cap came out of the post office shop and lifted the dirty cap off to scratch his head.
“My, that’s a fine pair of shoes ye have there, sonny. It’ll be off picking winkles ye are.” The man started laughing, and Marti wanted to kick him right in the shins with the pointy end of the shoes but he just walked away and left the man laughing in the street behind him.
He knew all the boys at school would be at the laughing when they saw the shoes and he didn’t want to go at all.
When he got to Pat’s house his brother Brendan said he didn’t know the circus was in town and won’t the clowns be wanting their shoes back. Pat didn’t laugh when Brendan said about the shoes, but his brother Kenny said them shoes were screamers by Christ and got a puck from Pat’s mam for taking the Lord’s name in vain and a clout from Pat for messing.
“Come on, Marti, sure aren’t they only jealous,” said Pat.
“Feck off,” said Kenny, and then Pat’s mam gave him another puck, for the cursing this time, which she would have none of in her house, which wasn’t known for its dirty talk and never would be while she could still draw breath.
At school the boys on the gate laughed at Marti and pointed at the ladies’ shoes all curled up at the toes, saying it was like Ali Baba he was and could we have a go of yeer magic carpet? Pat said don’t mind them, Marti, because weren’t they all eejits. Some of them didn’t even know who Ali Baba was anyway and were only making the joke to get in with the crowd. It’s like sheep they are, said Pat, but Marti was mad at the boys and shouted and pushed them away when they came running over to point and jeer. Pat said that was making them worse and then the boys who were banging out the brothers’ dusters on the school wall came running over to see why there was a big crowd all of a sudden.
“Is there a fight?” said one of the boys who was after banging out the dusters and had chalk dust through his hair and on his clothes.
“There’s no fight,” said Pat. “Now feck off.” The crowd kept coming and coming and soon there were so many boys around Marti and Pat that no one could even see the shoes. The crowd moved about very slowly and nobody knew what was happening at all until there was a big gap made all the way through the middle right up to Marti and Pat, and it was Dylan Gillon.
“Now then lookit who we’ve here, lads,” said Dylan, and he grabbed Marti by the collar. “I’ve been meaning to have a word with ye, Skippy.”
Dylan had a very tight grip of Marti’s collar and he could feel his face getting very hot and then his whole head and he wondered if he was going to be able to breathe soon. Dylan was very big and fat, thought Marti, and when he grabbed him by the collar he felt all the fat up against him and saw the lots of little holes on his face. When Marti looked at the holes on Dylan’s face he remembered Pat said they were the chicken pox scars but didn’t they make his face look just like a dartboard, and Marti started to laugh and splutter. Pat and Marti always called him Dylan the Dartboard after that, but they never told anybody else because they knew Dylan would be mad if he heard it.
“What the feck are ye laughing at, Skippy? I don’t think there’s anything to laugh about, do you?” said Dylan, but Marti couldn’t stop the laughter coming.
He tried to speak but Dylan’s grip was too tight and then Pat spoke for him, shouting in a very loud voice, “Dartboard … your face is like a dartboard, Dylan.” There was laughing and jeering and all the boys pointed at Dylan and shouted, “Dartboard. Dartboard. Dartboard.”
“You’re feckin dead, Kelly,” said Dylan, and he pushed Marti onto the ground. There were too many boys in the crowd and Pat had nowhere to go when Dylan grabbed him and started the punching and Pat was knocked over.
“You’re dead, Kelly. I’ll kill ye for that, so I will,” said Dylan.
The crowd pushed each other round and round to try and see Dylan punching at Pat. When Marti got up he had to fight his way through the crowd to get to his friend. When he saw Dylan sitting on top of Pat and the punching he was very mad and ran over, screaming and wailing with no words at all. When Dylan turned round to see who was at the racket, Marti swung back his foot and brought it down with a kick. The ladies’ shoes made no noise at all when they landed in Dylan’s very fat belly, but Dylan let out a cry and Marti kept at him, kicking and kicking until Dylan got up and tried to run away into the crowd. Dylan was at the crying when he ran away and all the boys of Saint Joseph’s shouted, “Dartboard. Dartboard. Dartboard,” after him.
“Marti, them shoes are mighty,” said Pat.
“Do you reckon?”
“I do so. Yeer the best fighter in the entire school with them shoes on. There’ll be nobody messing with the likes of you now.”
There was cheering and shouting and the noise of Dylan’s crying, and Marti thought he was a great hero to every one of the boys. Pat had a big old smile on his face and pointed with all the others and there was whistling and clapping, and then there were boys running off in all directions and Brother Aloysius and the prefects appeared.
“Driscol,” said the brother, “and Kelly. Well I might have known, isn’t it a fine pair ye make together.”
Brother Aloysius grabbed Marti and Pat by the ears, one in each of his hands, and led them back to the very big building, all painted white, with a big white cross on the front.
19
The nurse was called Helen and on their first meeting she had talked about her father into the night, which made Joey embarrassed. She would say something about how grand her old fella was and then she’d look over at Joey as if he was supposed to say something similar about his father. It was never going to happen, though, come hail, rain or high water. He had nothing good to say about Emmet Driscol, that was for sure and certain.
The weeks had flown by with him staying in the infirmary’s spare bed and only venturing out to eat a couple of times a day. With so many happy people about, he didn’t want to put his miserable features on display for any longer than he had to.
Helen became Joey’s one source of proper contact for the remaining weeks of the voyage. He felt like a prisoner in a cell, counting off the days until he could see his son again. The nurse became more like a priest then, listening to all his tales of woe and nodding away with that sympathetic smile of hers. She wasn’t one to pry, she was too well mannered and too nice for that, but she would hint. It was like she sensed there was some mighty tension between Joey and Emmet, something she thought was wrong and should be fixed. She said that Joey should speak to his father, for his own sake. But she didn’t know him, she was mixing him up with her own old fella, who sounded all right. With a father like hers, thought Joey, he mightn’t be in this fix; with a father like hers, with a wife with no Black Dog, with no memory of … well, sure there were a lot of ifs, were there not.
“Do you not miss him? He’s your father after all,” she said.
Joey knew this old song. He had heard it sung to him many times before, but the tune of it coming from the nurse’s mouth still caught him off guard.
“God, I far from miss him …” The idea rattled him. Hadn’t he more important things to be thinking of – his own son for starters, who he did care about.
Helen folded her arms and wore a seriously concerned
look. “Don’t you think you should try patching things up? This could be your ideal chance.”
“No way.” Joey simply wasn’t having it. “That man can rot in Hell for all I care.”
“Why have you so much hostility towards him? He’s your father.”
“It might come as a shock to you, but the entire population of the world isn’t blessed with the best of fathers like your own self.”
“My father’s dead,” she said. Her voice cut into Joey.
“I didn’t mean anything … I’m sorry. Look, I’m only jealous, sure I wish mine was dead too.” It was a bad attempt at mending his mistake, the wrong place for humour entirely.
“That’s not even funny.”
“Sorry.” He knew it was the stress he was under – joking was his way of dealing with it – but he would have to keep it together a bit better than this. She was only trying to help, wasn’t she grieving as well and trying to help herself, sure. He knew he should try to give her a little sympathy. “I have what you might call some issues with my old fella … It goes way back, there’s nothing you could do about it and it’s beyond me turning up at his door with a pouch of his favourite baccy and a glad hand.”
“What issues?” Her voice was low and attentive. Her eyes never moved. She was doing the old bedside manner bit. It was effective, thought Joey. She did it well, he’d give her that.
“It’s not something I think we should be dredging up now.”
“No, tell me. These sorts of things are best out in the open. You can’t lock away your scars, forget they exist. They have to be resolved or they haunt you forever – whether you admit it or not – it’s the truth.”
