‘This was during the ’57 campaign, I was banging on doors in Ballynanty when this mad-looking oul’ wan poked her head out the door. The kind who’d ate you without salt, as we say around here.’
Dom started to demonstrate his humorous command of the city’s working-class accent, a skill that had never been encouraged by his Jesuit teachers, but always got him laughs.
‘“Come here to me now youngf’llah, what crowd are you from?” says she, still nothing but the head sticking round the door. I was actually beginning to wonder had she a stitch of clothes on her, heaven forbid. “Fianna Fail,” sez I, “looking for your number one.” “Are you in the govamint?” says she and by the tone of voice I make a reasonable guess that had I been in the “govamint”’ – the others were chuckling already – ‘I would not have been popular with the lady in question. “Most certainly not,” I said. “I’m looking to kick them out, and I’m hoping you’ll help me with your vote.” “Oh yeah, and what’ll you do for the likes of me?” says she, oh cute as you like. I knew there was some aul moan coming but I didn’t know what, a leak in the roof, or a hinge off the door, or whatever you’re having yourself. “I’ll be aiming to make your life better in every way I can, Missus.” “Oh will you now, come in here so, ’til I show you what you can do for me. Come on now so. In here. Come in here after me.”’
Egged on by An Taoiseach’s obvious enjoyment of the story, after a quick gulp Dom now added physical details to his wicked vocal creation. He squinted and sunk his neck into his shoulders, which he then rocked from side to side as he walked his audience through the imaginary little house into the imaginary scullery. The accent became flatter and impossibly nasal. He added sniffs and nose-rubs.
‘“I’m sick and tired of goan down dere to de depot giving out. I might as well be talking to de wall as dose fellahs, dey do be only blackguarding me. One o’ dem, Skelly I tink his name was, treated me like dirt. Made me out to be a liart. Well, I want you to show him I’m no liart. Look dere now and you tell me if I’m a liart.” And she stuck out her finger. I looked to where she was pointing under the table in the scullery. At first all I saw was an old iron pot lying there. Then I spotted it; a tail sticking out. “Now,” sez she, “now am I a liart? I’m only just after lammin’ dat fellah before you came. I was over at de sink minding my own business and next ting didn’t I spot him out of de corner of me eye. Well, Jesus, Mary and holy St Joseph, he put the heart ’cross me, and I don’t know how I did it but next ting I had de pot in me hand and I sent it flying after’m and it stuck him to dat wall dere. He was twitching dere for a while after. And I’m telling you now, he’s not de only wan, so dere you are now, if you want my number one you’ll bring dat ting down to de depot and land it in on top of Skelly and tell dat bastard I’m no liart.”’
All eating had now stopped. Dr Pat’s Quilty lobster, O’Regan’s stroganoff, and Lemass’ sole bonne femme, the finest cuisine that Shannon airport’s famed Grill Room could offer, perhaps the best in the whole West of Ireland, had to play second fiddle to Dom’s vaudevillian recreation of a crazed oul’ wan in a corporation flat. He filled his glass again as he continued.
‘So what choice had I? If I chickened out I’d be no better than the blackguard Skelly, a decent conscientious God-fearing official, by the way, and she’d have the whole road turned agin’ me, or, alternatively, with one hmmm… small gesture I could guarantee the votes of herself, her whole family, and probably all the neighbours for life.’
Dom paused, unable to resist basking for a second or two longer in the balmy warmth of An Taoiseach’s admiring attention. Now was the time to get his message across, humorously, with a light touch, but loud and clear all the same.
‘Well, rest assured, there is nothing I will not do for the Party. I said to the good lady, “You’re a brave woman. I wish there were more like you and I will certainly see to it that your rodent problem is dealt with immediately.” I turned to one of my lads and told him to get me a bag, quick. Then I went down on my hunkers, took a hanky out of my pocket and… I picked up the rat.’
He draped his white linen napkin over a hand and held it high above the dining table, the better to allow his audience to imagine the rat, held by the tail between finger and thumb. The men groaned and laughed and An Taoiseach even applauded as he threw himself back in his chair.
‘Well, that’s the best yet. Did you deliver it to Skelly?’
‘I did not. That bag was flung over the nearest hedge as soon as we escaped. But the next day two corporation lads were around with rat poison to sort her out.’
An Taoiseach gave him a slow approving nodding wink. ‘Good man.’
Dom glowed, lifted his glass, and drank deep. That look from Lemass made the whole day worthwhile.
‘I love that story no matter how often I hear it. You’re a gas man.’
Something in the way Dr Pat chuckled on, long after was necessary, nettled Dom. What did he mean by that? A gas man? Good for a laugh, but with no substance, was that what he was saying? Dom poured one more time.
‘Go on, tell us another one. He has no end of stories, Seán.’
What did that bollocks think he was, a performing monkey? And this ‘Seán’ business, touching Lemass’ sleeve like he had special access. Suddenly Dom preferred to drink than speak.
That was the moment he felt sick of the sound of his own voice. Instead, he heard a different one, Father Coveney’s, in Clongowes, his words snapping in time with the crack of the ferula on either hand: ‘Always has to be the funny fellah. Silence is never golden where our Dom is concerned is it?’ Would this pathetic desire to entertain wreck his chances? Lemass might enjoy these stories but would he trust him with significant responsibility? Dom emptied his glass in one long gulp, shook his head, gestured at the food, and deliberately made his tone measured: ‘No, no. No more stories, the dinner will be cold. And there are more important things for us to hear about.’
He turned his eyes to O’Regan. Now shut up, he pleaded to himself. Just shut up, and listen.
*
Until the screaming began, Ann had had such a relaxing day. The Men’s Strand at Ballybunion was just gorgeous. It seemed to stretch for miles and felt so soft and luxurious under her feet. It was worth any amount of scrimping and saving to enjoy this one week in the year. Having missed out last year, after she had Francis, it was especially welcome. This morning Ann and her sister Mona were on the strand by eleven o’clock, with Marian, Eva and little Francis. Fonsie had taken the older boys off for the day to give Ann a bit of a break. She and her sister spread out two old Foxford blankets, wedding presents that Mona didn’t use much any more. They placed their bags at the corners to hold them down. The girls were dying to go in the water right away so Ann threw them their towels and togs. Mona barked at her Eva. ‘Cover yourself properly now, do you hear me?’
‘Yes, Mammy.’
Ann, who thought Eva was a lovely laughing well-behaved little girl, couldn’t understand why Mona never let her be. If the wind lifted her towel for as much as a second the poor thing would get a slap. Honest to God, who’d be looking at a four-year-old in the few seconds it took for her to undress and put her togs on? Did her sister want to go back to the days when the Men’s Strand really was for men only and women had to go to the Nun’s Strand, which wasn’t half as nice? It was too small and hemmed in by the cliffs. That whole idea of separating men and women was like something out of the Ark as far as Ann was concerned. They weren’t really two different beaches anyway, just divided by a bit of headland sticking out, Castle Green, but when the tide was out anyone could stroll along the beach from one side to the other so what was the point? Mrs Brosnahan, up at the boarding-house, had told her how, when she was a young girl, the parish priest of the time, Monsignor O’Súileabheán, used to plant himself up on Castle Green near the old ruined watchtower with a pair of binoculars.
‘I mean, had the man nothing else to be doing with himself? He’d know, to the minute
, the exact time the tide would be out, do you understand me now Mrs Strong, and there he’d be, up above where everyone could see him and he could see them. Observing. I tell you, there was little enough in the way of comings and goings as long as he was on guard.’
Ridiculous, that’s what it was. Eva had managed to wriggle into her togs without scandalising her mother. Ann volunteered to take her and Marian down to the water. Warning the girls not to splash her, she trod in to slightly above her ankles. As usual in Bally B, it was freezing. Marian, already in up to her waist, held Eva’s hand and urged her mam in further. Ann stepped forward slowly, grimacing as her knees were splashed, then her thighs and, finally, as always happened, a surprise big wave wet her bathing-suit. Then she gave in, crouched down and splashed her face and upper arms. To cheers from the girls she finally lurched forward, lifted her legs and swam a few nervous yards, holding her face high away from the water until, again, one of those nasty sneaky waves crashed over her and she staggered up, spluttering. She trotted back to Mona and Francis.
‘Oh, that was gorgeous! It’s freezing first but once you get used to it, it’s lovely.’
‘Will I bring Francis down for a dip?’
Mona was a strong swimmer but Ann wasn’t sure she could trust her with the child in the sea. It would be just like her to get distracted and start gossiping with other swimmers and completely forget that he was there. But, not able to think of any good excuse not to, Ann let them go. She sat up and watched like a hawk to make sure that nothing went wrong. Mona swung his tiny toes into the water, then she trickled a little on his head, then, hugging him to her chest, she began walking in, deeper and deeper, until the waves were splashing around both their necks. Then Mona lifted him high and plunged him down and lifted him high again. Jesus, Mary and Holy St Joseph! Ann’s heart was in her mouth and it was all she could do not to run down screaming to rescue her baby, but she stopped herself because, even at that distance, she could tell, from the way Mona was behaving and the way the girls and some other children were dancing around them, and from what she could see of his little face, that Francis was enjoying it. He seemed to be laughing. The girls came haring up to Ann, calling did she see Francis swimming? Mona carried him out of the water and popped him down to let him crawl the rest of the way himself. He arrived covered in sand and making happy sounds.
At about one o’clock the picnic was laid out; a flask of tea, a small lemonade bottle with a cork in it full of milk, salad sandwiches and some plain scones. Mona had bought the ingredients and Ann had prepared everything. This arrangement suited both of them. Mona never had money troubles on account of her Seán’s grand secure job in the gas company, and anyway she had no patience for cooking, even making a few sandwiches was beyond her. God knows what they would have ended up with if it had been left to her. Ann, of course, would try to pay Mona for her half of the ingredients. Mona would refuse. Ann would say she wouldn’t eat any of it if Mona didn’t take the money and Mona would tell her she didn’t care, she wasn’t taking a penny. And back and forth the sisters would argue until Ann finally gave in but had the last word. ‘All right so, but I’ll make it up to you some other way.’
The children loved the wet tangy sandwiches, with the salad cream and the juice from the tomatoes already soaked into the bread, and even ate most of the crusts. Mona only nibbled at a corner of one sandwich while resting on her elbow sipping tea and criticising other women on the beach. Ann spent almost all her time collecting Francis’ bottle when he threw it away, wiping sand from the teat and persuading him to take it again. The sun stayed out, the Men’s Strand was packed, and everyone seemed to be having a fine old time. It was days like this were the reason why Ann always made such a big thing about going away on some kind of a holiday every year, no matter how hard they had to save to get here. Between missing out last year on account of Francis and then moving into the new corporation house, which she didn’t like as much as the old flat even though it was bigger and only around the corner, Ann was convinced that if they hadn’t got away this year she would have just gone mad. She had to have this little break. As soon as they got back Ritchie would be starting in secondary school and they’d have to save for his school fees. Luckily the Christian Brothers were willing to take it in small instalments. The coal business was pure useless, with no money in it until October or November and then Fonsie would be out until all hours in the cold and wet. The state of him most nights when he got home. And what was the work doing to his back?
Watching Mona on her Grand Tour of the beach distracted Ann from worrying thoughts. She started laughing when her sister stopped to gossip happily with two young single girls, the same pair she had read from a height earlier about their hairdos, their taste in swimwear, the cheapness of their lipstick and the vulgarity of their nail varnish. By the time Mona returned to tell Ann that they seemed to be a right couple of loose ones looking to trap some man, it was time to go. Marian put on her saddest face and Eva copied her, but the breeze was wilder and colder now and clouds were getting the better of the sun, so there was no arguing really. Francis was popped into his pram and the girls trotted ahead as the long walk up the cliff path began.
Then the screaming started.
At first Ann was not that bothered. She had noticed recently that Francis seemed less and less at ease in the pram. It wasn’t that he was too big for it, more like any kind of confinement at all seemed to upset him. She gave the pram a soothing jiggle as they pushed upwards. It didn’t do a bit of good. Ann began to feel a little embarrassed as other holidaymakers, passing by, started looking at her. The screaming was very loud now and constant. The little devil didn’t seem to need to take a breath. Ann stopped the pram and leaned forward, going, ‘Shh… shh… shh, love,’ as Mona touched her shoulder and repeated, ‘He’ll be grand, he’ll be grand.’ Francis’ cries reached such a pitch he started to cough. Then he began again with a howl of anguish that brought Marian and Eva running back.
‘Is Francis all right?’
Now Ann began to panic. She pushed the pram faster up the cliff path.
Suddenly people seemed to be deliberately blocking her way and staring at her. Where was Fonsie when she needed him? Mona called after her but Ann kept going faster and faster. She had to get him to the top, where she could lift him out and sit down somewhere and soothe him. Something! The screaming now sounded evil in her head, as if he was deliberately trying to get at her. What did he want? A hand landed on hers and stopped the pram. Mona had caught up. ‘Take him out. He’ll stop then.’
Maybe she was right. Ann unstrapped Francis and lifted him. She held him close and whispered. ‘What is it, what is it love, shh now, shh!’
But it was no use. Absolutely no use. The screams speared her ear and the pain vibrated in her head. She didn’t know if she was going mad or what but it actually sounded like his screaming was getting louder and louder. Was that possible? How could his lungs keep going? Why did he not burst? They weren’t far from the top now. Maybe Fonsie would appear. She started running, moaning in Francis’ ear.
‘Oh stop it, Francis, will you please stop it!’
All she wanted now was to get that noise away from her. If only Fonsie would come and take him, then he could scream all he liked as far as she was concerned. At the top of the cliff the paths were crowded with families buying duileasc and periwinkles from two carts. Everyone turned to stare at Ann. She knew they were all wondering what was happening to that poor child. It was suddenly clear that there was only one thing to do. She would throw him over the cliff. Ann started to run towards the old ruined watchtower. If he didn’t stop screaming by the time they got to the edge she would fling him over.
‘Ann, Ann, what are you doing?’
Ann didn’t look back, she kept on moving.
‘Ann, Ann, Ann, give him to me. Here, give him here.’
Could she trust him with her sister? The sliver of common sense left to her recognised what a stupid thought that was. Ann
slowed to let Mona catch up. The girls were further behind, pushing the pram. The screaming was indescribable. She pushed the demon into her sister’s hands.
‘Take him away. I can’t cope. Get him away from me or I’ll throw him over that cliff. I swear I will!’
Mona walked away quickly, the screams fading as she went further and further. Ann thought, oh thank God, thank God, feeling the comfort and freedom of her own arms clutched about her. She could still hear his cries, but far away now and mixed in with other cheerful holiday voices. Even the crashing of the waves below sounded soothing. What was she to do with the child, what was she supposed to do?
Suddenly, the screaming stopped entirely. Where had her sister taken him? Had they gone off somewhere? But when Ann looked around, there was Mona in full sight no more than fifty yards away, standing with the girls next to the periwinkle cart. Francis, smiling, was balancing on his own two feet and Mona was holding his hands up high. It looked for all the world like he was dancing.
1961
Four. December 31st
It wasn’t night yet but it might as well have been. The unbroken grey of the sky made the countryside all round soggy, flat, dark and dead. The rain drizzled on and on. Nothing seemed to be moving on the landscape except for Fonsie’s old lorry. He was doing great business today. Everyone wanted even more coal than usual after such a miserable wet Christmas. Already he’d had to go back to Tedcastles for a second load. If only he could get around faster, then he might get rid of the whole lot before the end of the day. He worked his way through his town customers at a great rate but out in the county the cottages were far apart, up long mucky lanes. He got stuck once or twice and had to ask the owners to come and help out with a push. His shoulders felt damp and his back ached, but his pockets were stuffed with notes and heavy with change. Everyone was glad to see Mr Strong with his lorry-load of fuel. In weather like this people liked nothing better than to cosy up to a blazing fire. Tonight, with everyone calling to each others’ houses to say Happy New Year, it would help make the welcome special. At home around this time, Ann would be telling Ritchie to light the fire, so the back room would be lovely and warm for the party. Their first big do since moving to number 66. A few drinks, sandwiches, a bit of cake and a singsong. Fonsie’s thoughts couldn’t be cheerier.
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