The Street and other stories

by Gerry Adams

  Take last Saturday, for example. If you were walking down the Falls Road and were not too preoccupied with your own concerns, you may have noticed a small, pleasant-faced man standing at the Rock Bar. If you were really interested you may have noted that he arrived there at twelve noon. It was a fine morning, and as our friend stood on the sidewalk he was greeted in a friendly manner by most of the people who passed by. Indeed, if you passed by yourself, you too may have exchanged a few words of cheerful salutation. Such is the feeling of bonhomie exuded by our friend.

  After about half an hour he was joined by another man. If you were still watching, and provided you were not a stranger and not therefore by this time the subject, yourself, of surveillance by the local citizenry, you would have deduced from their manner of greeting one another that the two men were meeting by appointment. The first man is called Tucker McKnight; the second is Sean McCrory. Not that it matters. They could be any of us; they could even be you or me.

  You may also have deduced that they had no money. Why otherwise would they meet outside and not inside the Rock Bar? Of all the possible reasons the lack of cash seems the most likely one. It is also the correct one, as the conversation of our two friends bears out.

  “You’re late! What kept y’?”

  “I was trying to pick out a few winners and I didn’t see the time going.”

  “You didn’t get that few bob you were hoping for?”

  “Nawh, what about yourself? Did the wife come across?”

  “Nawh.”

  “Dead on.”

  “What d’ y’ say?”

  “I said, dead on.”

  “Aye.”

  At this point the first man turned his pleasant smile once again on the passers-by while his colleague fished a newspaper from his coat pocket and proceeded to study the form on the racing page. Every few minutes or so he would seek the advice of his mate and when that was cheerfully given he would return to his perusal of the day’s race-meetings. After ten or perhaps fifteen minutes of this leisurely activity a number of men came out of the pub, passed Sean and Tucker and proceeded a few paces up the road to Graham’s bookmakers. On their return a few minutes later they were questioned by our two heroes.

  “What won the first one at Epsom?”

  “Little Lady at two to one.”

  “I knew that!” Sean exclaimed.

  “What do you fancy in the one-fifteen at Newbury?” one of the men asked.

  “Nordic Flash,” Tucker suggested. “It’s a safe bet and it’s seven to one.”

  “D’ye reckon?” the man replied. “I fancied Natural Ability.”

  “No chance,” Sean scoffed. “Tucker’s right. Nordic Flash is a sure thing.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” the man mused. Thoughtfully, he retraced his steps to the bookies. Tucker smiled at his retreating back.

  “There goes our saviour,” he said.

  “I hope you’re right,” said Sean.

  “Of course I am. Did I ever put you on a bum steer? If Nordic Flash comes in like you say it will, me and you is on the pig’s back.”

  And so they were. Nordic Flash didn’t let them down. The man who sought their advice put a fiver on it and on his way back to the bar he presented Sean with the five-pound note.

  “There y’are,” he said, “that’ll get youse a drink.”

  “Good man yourself,” they saluted him.

  By now they had been joined by a third party. His name was big Mickey Nelson, or Bonaparte to his friends.

  “What about yis?”

  “Dead on. And yourself? What about you?”

  “Grand. D’yis fancy a pint?”

  “Are you breaking into your holy communion money, or what?”

  “Nawh, you got that off me at the time. I tapped the wife for a few bob out of her club money. This is her good week. So when I saw the two of youse standing here like two hoors at a hockey match I thought I’d treat youse. Now, do youse want a pint or not? I need a cure, so if youse are coming youse better come now!”

  “Well, if you put it like that we’ll not see you stuck, will we, Tucker?”

  “Indeed and we will not, Sean.”

  And with that the three of them went into the Rock, which just proves that my Aunt Maggie is right when she says that there’s them that’ll give you a pint quicker than a loaf for your table. She’s right, but that’s not really the point, I suppose. Our two friends never asked for anything. It was offered to them. That’s not to say that there aren’t those who do ask; of course, there are. And I’m not talking about the crass coat-tuggers or common-or-garden tappers, though they too have their place in the scheme of things. Some, indeed, are quite famous, as are their haunts, but we’ll make no judgement on that; such men are to be admired for their tenacity. No, I’m thinking here of the finer exponents of the art. Veterans like Tedbert or An Fear Gorm, the Blue Man, but they rarely enter bookmakers’ premises and are different therefore from Sean or Tucker who represent more fully the subject of this thesis. Our subjects are almost casual manifestations of an aspect of our social culture: Tedbert and An Fear Gorm represent something more. They are in many ways like the old professional saloon-bar gambler. A breed apart, they live for the challenge of winning against the odds. I know one such, wee Paddy Bartley, who went out one Saturday at four o’clock with only £1 in his pocket and came home stocious at midnight with a sixpack of Guinness, a half bottle of vodka for Liz, his ever-loving and patient partner, forty Park Drive, crisps for the kids, a Chinese carry-out and £5.53 cash. He never bothered declaring the money to Liz. Fair is fair, and anyway, it’s all he had left after buying the last two rounds. That man was a master of his art. That’s high-flying whiz-kiddery. Here we’re dealing with more ordinary matters.

  Back at the Rock Bar our less ambitious amigos were sipping tentatively on their pints. Napoleon was in the toilet. He found it difficult to go there or to return without somebody asking if he had met his Waterloo. It was a standing joke in the Rock, but Napoleon wasn’t amused; today was no different.

  “Friggin’ smart Alecs,” he grumbled as he elbowed his way in beside Sean and Tucker.

  “I think we’ll put a few bob on Miss Musky,” Sean suggested. “What about 50p each way and we can get a bottle of stout each and watch it on TV?”

  “No problem,” Tucker and Napoleon agreed.

  The three of them joined the little throng which was exiting hurriedly at that minute from the bar and made their way to the bookies. Sean walked up to the counter.

  “Hold on!” Tucker halted him.

  “Make it a £2 double on Miss Musky and Sweet Prince. I think this’ll be our lucky day.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “The going at Doncaster suits Sweet Prince. He’s favourite. If Miss Musky comes in that’ll be fourteen quid riding on a two-to-one favourite. It’s a safe bet. What do you say, Napoleon?”

  “No problem.”

  “Okay,” Sean agreed.

  He passed the extra money across to the clerk and placed his bet. The trio made their hopeful way back to the Rock. Inside they watched Miss Musky romp home; Sweet Prince was beaten in a photo-finish. Sean crumpled the beaten docket in his hand and cast it among its fellows on the barroom floor. There were no recriminations.

  Twenty minutes later the three of them were back outside the bar. It was a pleasant afternoon, and as they stood there they were greeted in a friendly manner by most of the people who passed by. Indeed, if you passed by yourself, you too may have exchanged a few words of cheerful salutation. Such was the aura of bonhomie exuded by them. Napoleon was enjoying the sun and engaging in occasional banter with the perpetual posse of punters who continued to trek between the pub and the bookies. Sean had fished his paper from his pocket once more and was studying the form intently. Every so often he would seek Tucker’s advice and when that was cheerfully given he would return to his perusal of the evening’s race meetings. After ten or perhaps fifteen minutes of this leisurely acti
vity, they were joined by a man who detached himself from the slipstream of the crowd to-ing and fro-ing on the pavement.

  “What do youse fancy for the big race?” he asked.

  They all looked at Sean.

  “Red Horizon,” he said.

  “I agree,” Tucker nodded.

  “Maybe you’re right,” the man mused. He retraced his steps thoughtfully. Tucker smiled widely at his retreating back.

  “There goes our saviour,” he said.

  “I hope you’re right,” said Sean.

  “Youse owe me a pint,” said Napoleon.

  “Do y’ hear him?” Tucker grinned.

  “No problem,” Sean said confidently to Napoleon. “Did we ever let you down? It’s early days yet. You’ll get your pint.”

  “I’m only slagging,” said Napoleon.

  “I know,” said Tucker.

  “It’s a sure thing,” Sean beamed. “A safe bet.”

  That’s the way it is in the afternoons of most days, and particularly on Saturdays, in most towns in most parts of Ireland. Sean and Tucker, and Napoleon, too, of course, though they may deny it, are part of a great tradition. Like many traditions it and they may die out, though I doubt it. They are life’s great optimists. They have a vision far beyond their present status which sustains them through all life’s difficulties. They could be overtaken by modern trends; these things happen despite all our protestations. Women may even come to join the mobile mob, and in this regard my support for their involvement is now a matter of public record, and worth in the fullness of time a drink or two from the generous sex.

  At any rate I have recorded the tradition as it now exists and before it is overtaken or replaced or amended. I do so for posterity. I trust that you, if you are not already numbered among the followers or exponents of this tradition, will now look with kinder eyes at the processions of punters you see making their hurried way back and forth between public house and bookmaker’s shop. Cast a tolerant eye on them. For if they vanish we will never see the like of them again.

  How Paddy McGlade Entered Into a State of Grace

  Paddy McGlade was as good and kind and as thoughtful a soul as you would ever care to meet. He was a quiet, shy little man. That’s when he was sober. He hadn’t been sober in a good while. Well, that’s not strictly true. He was frequently sober, but not for any significant period of time. Every few weeks he would be sober for a few days, and once after he fell down the stairs to the lounge in St John’s Gaelic Athletic Club, his few days lasted a full fortnight in hospital.

  That was before he was saved. Now he doesn’t drink at all. He is back home living with his mother, and the two of them are as happy as can be. Well, Paddy is as happy as can be; his mother is just a lot happier than she used to be, and she won’t be completely happy until Paddy is married. She is offering the big novena in Clonard that Paddy will meet a decent girl now that he is settled down and off the drink. Paddy’s mother has great faith in the big novena in Clonard. She swears by it. If you ask her she will tell you that that’s what got Paddy off the drink, and maybe she’s right.

  Every June thousands of people crowd into the grounds of Clonard Monastery, and the neighbouring streets are jammed tight with cars from early morning till late at night. And the singing: you would hear it miles away up the Shankill or down the Falls, while the streets around the monastery are bedecked with blue-and-white bunting in honour of the Holy Mother. Local stewards also wear blue-and-white armbands, to distinguish them from impostors.

  One year the Clonard novena almost caused an international incident when a British army patrol intercepted a bunch of Clonard stewards directing traffic on the Springfield Road. It was during the Falklands war. Blue and white are Argentina’s national colours, and the squaddies thought they had stumbled across an Argentinean roadblock. The stewards didn’t believe them. It took the intervention of the Clonard rector and a very senior British officer to sort things out, and eventually it was all resolved fairly amicably, though only just.

  During the big novena at Clonard thousands and thousands of petitions are offered to Our Lady. The Redemptorist preachers read a sample of the petitions out at every novena: petitions for success in exams, for the safe return of a son, for a recovery from illness, for peace in Ireland, for a cure for alcoholism, for a baby, for the prisoners, for help with debt problems, for a decent house. Paddy McGlade’s mother’s petition was read out one day. The preacher, Fr Browne, made special mention of it. “That my son may return to a state of grace, and for the happy repose of his father and for all the holy souls in purgatory: from a mother.”

  When Paddy’s mother heard Fr Browne reading that her heart leapt. She was sure that everyone knew that it was her petition, but of course they didn’t. Still and all, between the shock of hearing her words read aloud and the wave of emotion which swept over her as the huge congregation prayed for her son to return to a state of grace, Paddy’s mother knew that Our Lady was going to grant her petition.

  That evening Paddy arrived at the Felons’ Club slightly inebriated after a good day at the bookies. His first mistake was to complain noisily when the barman didn’t serve him as quickly as Paddy thought he should. When the doorman arrived at the barman’s request to escort him off the premises, Paddy threw a punch at him. That was his second mistake. The Felons’ is a very select establishment which prides itself on its quiet ambience and pleasant staff. Paddy’s exit was swift and undignified. The manner of his going attracted a small crowd of passers-by.

  “You’ve shit in the nest now, me oul’ son,” one of them consoled Paddy, who was roaring his disapproval at the departing back of the doorman.

  “You’d be better taking yourself off,” another advised him.

  “I suppose so,” Paddy mumbled thickly. “They can stick their club!”

  He crossed the road to Curley’s supermarket, where his transaction at the off-licence was more patient and successful. As he wandered back down the road again, he had a bottle of Jameson’s tucked snugly in a plastic bag in his coat pocket and a plan for the evening slowly fermenting in his head. He headed for the Sloan’s Club and he resolved to cut across the Falls Park and up through the cemetery; it was shorter that way. By now it was also dark, but this did not concern Paddy; not in the least. He leaned against a tree in the park and gazed down over the lights of Belfast. As he swigged at his bottle of whiskey his annoyance at the Felons’ debacle was replaced with a feeling of quiet contentment. The enveloping dusk cloaked him in anonymity, soothing him as he made his way in the direction of the cemetery.

  Others also make their way towards the cemetery. Indeed, much to the incomprehension and outrage of most respectable citizens, the city cemetery was habitually frequented by a host of nocturnal socialites. Most of them were harmless creatures, young people who couldn’t afford to go to a bar or who wouldn’t be served if they did. They gathered after dark to drink carry-outs of cheap lager or cider and play ghetto-blasters loudly. The cemetery was occasionally subjected to the destructive actions of an unrepresentative minority of vandals, but the majority of cemetery users took no part in such actions. They drank their drink, annoyed or enjoyed each other and then left as they had entered, over the cemetery wall.

  They weren’t all teenagers. Joe Cooke, who went to the cemetery for an hour or so every night, was at least thirty. He and his dog, Fred, enjoyed the walk, and if the night was fine they would sit and look down over the lights of the city and listen wistfully to its nighttime noises. The night that Paddy was making his way over the cemetery towards the Sloan’s, as fate or Our Lady would have it, Joe Cooke and Fred were having one of their walks. Joe was drunk but Fred was sober.

  Paddy sat down for a rest at the grave known as the Angel’s grave. He didn’t know that that was what it’s called and he probably still doesn’t. He just knew that he wanted to sit down and reflect on the state of the nation. Whiskey gets you like that. The first swig explores you inside and prepares the foundation fo
r the second one. It warms the heart and belly and loosens the tongue. The second swig is meditative and relaxing. It encourages the third and permits a heady flow of witty repartee. After the fourth or fifth come songs of love and patriotism. Now, almost halfway down the bottle, comes the gift for wise and knowledgeable conversation on even the most difficult and intricate issues. That’s the stage that Paddy was at as he seated himself at the Angel’s grave.

  The stages after that are always difficult to gauge. Some sing a song that everyone knows and joins in on. Others become sad or melancholy. Some cry. Others become romantic and believe themselves to be irresistibly sexy or funny; or both at the same time. And others fight. In short, then, anything can happen.

  Paddy seated himself at the edge of the grave. He held the whiskey bottle at arm’s length in brief and silent contemplation before taking a long, greedy swig which propelled him beyond the state of uncertainty. He had been drinking since morning. It had been, he reflected, a long day. He was moved to look upwards at the stars, and as he did so he keeled over backwards and fell, mouth towards the heavens. Here he lay snoring gently as Joe Cooke, unaware even of Paddy’s existence, made his slow, happy way towards his regular spot at the Angel’s grave.

  Joe was a big man, not so much in height as in bulk. Sometimes he didn’t shave for a while, and this seemed to add to his size. He had not one care in the whole world. He didn’t even have a mother to worry him about her worrying about him. Sometimes this lack of a mother or any other relative willing to associate with him was a source of sorrow to Joe. Most times he was happy enough with Fred, but tonight was one of those times. He seated himself slowly at his usual spot with his back to the tombstone. He had a full bottle of original fine-quality cream sherry inside him and another half-bottle uncorked in his pocket. He started to sing.