‘Do your Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald one.’
‘From Maytime? God, can I remember it?’
‘Go on Ann, sure we’ll help you.’
‘All right so. What’s the first line again Fonsie?’
Martin heard his dad’s small voice from somewhere inside the room.
‘Ah… love is so sweet in the springtime.’
‘That’s it. You’ll all have to help me now if I forget.’
And she began. Martin was really nervous now. He didn’t want his mam to make a fool of herself.
‘Ah love is so sweet in the springtime
When blossoms are fragrant in May
No years that are coming can bring time
To make me forget dear, this day.’
It was all right. His mam knew all the words. Every single one. She lifted her chin high and smiled and swayed her head along with the song. Martin never knew his mam could sound so soft or look so happy.
‘I’ll love you in life’s gray December
The same as I love you today
My heart ever young will remember
The thrill it knew, that day in May.’
‘Isn’t your mother a lovely singer? She broke a few hearts with that voice when she was a young one.’
The man spoke in a whisper, but Martin got a big scare, because he was so lost in his mam’s singing. He looked down. Standing below him in the hall, Mr Storan winked up. Mikey. He always had a big smile when he was drunk.
‘Sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart.
Will you love me ever?’
‘What are you doing up at this hour? Here cowboy, are you hungry?’
Mr Storan held up what was left of a sandwich he’d been eating. Martin reached down through the banisters and grabbed. Corned beef. Brilliant.
‘Will you remember this day?
When we were happy in May.’
Mr Storan pointed towards the back room and put his fingers to his lips. When his mam got to the last line of the song she lifted her hand and nodded to everyone to join in.
‘Springtime. Lovetime. May.’
Someone went aahh and then there was a big cheer with Mrs Storan loudest of all. Martin would have cheered too but he didn’t want to get caught.
‘Your Noble Call, Ann.’
‘Oh, let me see now.’
Ann looked around and saw her sister Bernadette’s husband. Perfect.
‘Seán Enright. Come on Seán.’
Ann picked Seán Enright because he knew every Percy French song there was and Percy French was always just the thing to liven up the party. She didn’t want another slow song after hers, so she hoped her brother-in-law would do ‘Phil the Fluther’ or ‘Eileen Óg’ and get the whole crowd clapping along. Seán Enright lifted a finger, crouched and beamed around the room. He had beautiful teeth. He started quietly.
‘You may talk of Columbus’s sailing
Across the Atlantical sea…’
Ann was delighted. ‘Are you right there, Michael?’ was a great laugh. This would get everyone going.
‘But he never tried to go railing
From Ennis as far as—’
Seán paused before the next word and everyone sang or shouted it.
‘Kilkee!’
‘You run for the train in the morning,
The excursion is starting at eight.
You’re there when the guard gives the warning,
And there for an hour you’ll wait.’
Ann looked around to make sure everyone had something to drink. She knew people would be raising their bottles as they joined in the chorus. Even Mikey Storan and Seán Durack, who were usually too busy drinking and smoking in some corner to take part in a sing-song, had stuck their heads in to listen. Fair dues to Seán Enright. Ann loved the way he had a kind of a twinkle in his eye that made everyone see the humour in the song. Now all the bottles and glasses were swaying in the air as the whole crowd sang.
‘Are ye right there, Michael, are ye right?’
Mikey Storan went ‘Whoo whoo’ like a train whistle.
‘Do you think that we’ll be home before the night?
Ye’ve been so long in startin’,
That ye couldn’t say for certain
Still we might now, Michael,
So we might!’
Now Seán stopped and sighed and shook his head like there was some terrible thing about to happen. Before he even started again, people were already laughing.
‘Kiiil-kee! Oh, ye’ll never get near it,
You’re in luck if the train brings you back.’
He was just brilliant, there was no one better to put over a song. The way he did the actions when he sang about the passengers pushing the train up the hill was so funny. And then he made his voice very deep. Going. Down. Slowly.
‘For All The Way Home Is Dooowwwnnn-hill.
And as you’re wobbling through the dark,
You’ll hear someone make this remark.’
Ann saw Fonsie swaying, his whiskey glass in the air, with a big smile on his face. He looked so fresh and young when she made him dress up and he was properly washed. That coal dust drove her mad, it was so hard to get rid of entirely.
‘Are ye right there, Michael? Are ye right?’
Now all the gang looking in from the hall roared, ‘Whoo whoo!’
‘Do you think that we’ll be there before it’s light?
Oh, it’s all depending whether,
The oul’ engine holds together,
But it might now, Michael,
So it might!’
Ann’s ‘Lovely, Seán’ was nearly drowned out by the roars of approval and before the cheers died down another voice from the corner of the room burst into song without even waiting for the Noble Call.
‘The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la,
Have nothing to do with the case.’
Ann couldn’t see who the singer was through the crowd of bodies, but what matter. Everyone was joining in loudly on the tra-las. The party was really flying now.
‘I’ve got to take under my wing, tra-la!
A most unattractive old thing, tra-la!’
Out in the hall Mikey Storan looked to see if Martin was still enjoying his sneaky peek from the top of the stairs. The little body was curled up, his cheek pressed against the banisters. Fast asleep. Mikey grinned. He stuck his head into the back room, caught the wife’s eye, and gave her the nod to come out. Mary mouthed back, ‘What? What?’ Mikey gave her the nod again, bigger this time. She slipped out. No one noticed ’cause they were all going full belt.
‘Tra-la lala la-ah. Tra-la lala la-ah, The flowers that bloom in the spring!’
Mikey pointed up the stairs. Mary looked.
‘Ah sure, God help us. Better get him back to bed before Ann sees him.’
While Mikey lifted Martin gently so as not to wake him, Mary went ahead and opened the door of the boys’ bedroom. She rolled back the blankets and once Mikey laid him down, she tucked him up. On the way out of the room. Mary stopped to look at Francis in his cot. ‘And look at our little angel godchild. Can you believe he’s sleeping through all this?’
‘For once. Let’s keep it that way, come on.’
They tiptoed out but in the dark of the landing Mikey suddenly pulled his wife close to him. Mary didn’t protest and it was a few more minutes before they came downstairs. As she returned to her seat next to Ann, Úna Durack with the banshee voice was coming to the end of her party piece. Very slowly.
‘For one… is my mother… God bless her… and love her,
And the other… is my-y… sweeeeet… heaaart.’
Ann, applauding politely, whispered to Mary, ‘It’s a pity, because she sings lovely when she’s sober.’ Úna Durack now spoke in her most official voice.
‘My Noble Call is for my nephew Ritchie Strong, where is he? I have a special request for that beautiful song I heard you sing before. The one you learned in the scouts.’
‘Oh, the little coon? That’s gorgeous. Go on Ritchie.’
Ritchie had always liked singing although since his voice broke he wasn’t so confident. He felt his face go a bit red with all the attention.
‘Tell him to sing, Ann.’ ‘Ah, he’s shy!’ ‘You’ve a lovely voice Ritchie.’
He looked to his mother, who was passing round a plate of corned beef and cheese sandwiches. Ann smiled and nodded. Ritchie decided to give it a go.
‘Lilac trees a-blooming in the corner by the gate,
Mammy at the little cabin door,
Curly-headed pickaninny comin’ home so late,
Cryin’ ’cause his little heart is sore.
All the children playin’ round
Have skin so white and fair,
None of them with him will ever play…’
The tune had a gentle lilt, and Ritchie sang it very sincerely. The thing he liked most about it was the way it always made people cry.
‘Now honey, you stay in your own backyard,
Don’t mind what dem white childs do…’
Already he could see tears starting to fill up in eyes all round the room. His mam was smiling at him, encouraging him. His voice sounded innocent and gentle.
‘Every day the children as they passed old mammy’s place,
Peeped inside the fence at night or noon,
Then one day they looked around but everything was still.
God had called away that little coon…’
In the scullery Marg Crowley listened to her nephew sing. She always liked helping out at parties, rinsing and drying plates and filling them with more sandwiches. She preferred to stay in the background and enjoy the sing-song without having to join in, because she hadn’t a note in her head. Now she stopped to wipe tears from her eyes and went near the door to listen to the song more closely.
‘What do you supposin’ they’s gonna give,
A black little coon like you?
Stay on this side of the highboard fence,
And honey don’t cry so hard.
You can go out and play, as much as you may,
But stay in your own backyard.’
Marg Crowley was thinking what a sweet, kind, boy Ritchie was to learn a nice sad song like that when, to her horror, she heard her husband’s name called.
‘Peadar Crowley. Ritchie, call on your Uncle Peadar there.’
Oh God no, thought Marg. He’s going to make a show of himself again, going on about coming from Cork. If he sang ‘The Boys of Kilmichael’ she’d die of embarrassment. Then she heard the fussy sing-song tones.
‘As you know friends, I am a Corkman which, of course, is my good fortune.’
Marg resumed washing plates noisily but it was hard to drown out a voice as insistent as her Peadar’s.
‘But having been enchanted by an angel from your fair island city, I ended up living and working amongst you, so I suppose tonight I should commemorate one of your local heroes in song.’
He cleared his throat. The voice, precise and tedious in speech, was, in song, a ponderous bass.
‘’Twas on a dreary New Year’s Eve.
As the shades of night came down.
A lorry-load of volunteers approached a border town…’
Immediately everyone joined in, apart from Fonsie Strong, who dropped his head so no one would see that, even though his hand was politely beating time on his knee, he wasn’t singing the words.
‘And the leader was a local man,
Seán South from Garryowen.’
Fonsie’s sister Marg had never heard her husband perform this particular Republican rabble-rouser before. This was even worse than ‘The Boys of Kilmichael’ as far as she was concerned. Thank God her old mother hadn’t felt up to coming tonight. She’d have been raging. Peadar Crowley paused and held up a warning hand to let everyone know there would not be a happy ending to this heroic tale. He slowed the tempo and his voice grew sad as the daring plan was foiled, Sten-guns roared and two men died. One was Seán South.
‘They have gone to join that gallant band
Of Plunkett, Pearse, and Tone.
Another martyr for old Ireland.’
He gestured once more to invite the crowd to join in for the last line. They did so respectfully.
‘Seán South from Garryowen.’
‘Maith an fear, Peadar.’ ‘Up the republic!’ ‘Ya boy ya.’
Peadar waved for silence. He was by no means finished yet.
‘Now I suppose yours truly can make a modest fist of a song when called upon. But, my friends, as regards true singing talent, I’d never place myself remotely in the same category as the man I’m about to call on now, because he is in a class of his own. A stalwart of the Cecilian Musical and Choral Society for many years, we are fortunate indeed to have him here tonight.’
Mary Storan nudged Ann. ‘Oh Jesus, not Paddy Dundon.’
‘I sincerely hope he will honour us with something from his repertoire. Perhaps a certain charming old Neapolitan love song that he has made his own. My Noble Call is to our great friend and compatriot, Paddy Dundon.’
There was no protestation, no false modesty. Paddy Dundon did not stand but simply acknowledged Peadar’s call by raising a hand to quell the cheers of encouragement. Once silence had fallen, he sat forward on the edge of his chair, placing the palms of his hands on his knees. Eyes closed, head lowered, Paddy Dundon breathed in deeply. Most of the crowd were already familiar with his thin and nasal tenor.
‘Catariiii, a-Catariiii,’
He jerked his head up, and it shook from side to side a little.
‘How I adore you Catarì, my da-a-arling,
Although your heart is cold…’
He lifted both hands, making imploring fists.
‘My Catarì, I love you so.’
The hands fell to his knees again as he sat back.
‘Catariiì, Catariiì, my love you can’t deride.
Life was sweet when you were by my side…’
The voice gradually softened, almost to the point of inaudibility, then returned at startling volume.
‘Calling! I’m calling for you-oo!
My belov-ed, what can I do-oo?’
His spread his hands in supplication, and his lips shook.
‘You break my heart
But still my love is only for you.’
His body seemed to sink a little as he allowed the note fade to silence. Those few who had never seen this performance at other parties now lifted their hands to applaud but even as the first clap sounded, Paddy Dundon’s voice burst through, this time adding a crying tone, a tender leaf-thin tremulo.
‘Catariiii, a-Catariiii’
Some of the younger lads stared at each other in disbelief. Gussie, making sure first that his dad wasn’t looking in his direction, scrunched his face like a madman and mimed along. Ritchie had to look away to stop himself from laughing.
‘Under the moon and stars beside the ocee-on
You said your love was ever mine.’
Once more Paddy Dundon let his voice sink towards silence but this time the crowd braced themselves, knowing what to expect and, sure enough, he delivered a heartrending howl.
‘I’m caaalling! Caaaalling for you-oo!
My belov-ed, what can I do-oo?’
Then he stood, leaping almost from his chair, and stretched a hand towards some far-off place.
‘Though we’re apart,
My love is a-always for you-oooo.’
Paddy Dundon held the note as his head and body sagged. his right hand pressed to his breast. Then silence. He sank, with downcast eyes, back in his chair. Peadar Crowley led the applause which grew and grew, although it was hard to distinguish between the sincere ovation of the majority and the derisive whoops of a few smart lads. Mary Storan looked Ann with a smirk. ‘There’s no one else like him.’ Her old pal knew exactly what she meant. When the crowd finally calmed down, Paddy Dundon abruptly pointed a finger in Fonsie’s directi
on.
‘My Noble Call is for the man of the house.’
Such a command could not be denied. Mikey Storan shouted from the hall.
‘Go on Fonsie, your own song, “Alfonso Spagoni”.’
Ann was thinking, what else would he sing, sure he only knew the one song? Accepting his fate, Alphonsus Strong, the shy host, sat up straight and half-sang half-talked his music-hall party-piece, ‘The Spaniard Who Blighted My Life’.
‘List to me while I tell you, of the Spaniard who blighted my life.
List to me while I tell you, of the man who stole my future wife.
It was at a bull fight that I met him. He was giving a daring display,
But when I went outside for some nuts and a programme,
The dirty dog stole her away. Oh yes! Oh yes!
The dirty dog stole her I guess.
When I catch Alfonso Spagoni, the toreador—’
Everyone roared. ‘La-la laaaa! La-la laaa!’
‘With a mighty strike I will dislocate his bally jaw.’
‘La-la laaaa! La-la laaaa!’
Mikey and Mary Storan took to the floor, clicking their fingers and doing some kind of a Spanish dance, as everyone swayed and clapped along. The pair of them were such fun; Ann couldn’t imagine having a party without Mary and Mikey. This was what she loved about these nights, everyone joining in, everyone with their own party piece and their own way of performing, old friends and neighbours of all ages, making their own fun with what little they had. Hadn’t she met Fonsie at a do like this nearly twenty years ago? Surely there would always be sessions like this.
‘Yes, when I catch Spagoni
He will wish that he’d never been born.
And for that special reason
My stiletto I fetched out of pawn.’
By now the whole party had crowded into the back room. The walls were ready to burst. What a great New Year’s Eve. As Fonsie sang the chorus for the last time, everyone clapped to the beat.
‘I’ll find this bullfighter, I will – I will
And when I catch the bounder, the blighter I’ll kill
He shall die! He shall die!’
Full-throated roars shook the new house.
‘He shall die-didley-eye-die-die-die-die-die-die-die!’
‘He shall die. He shall Diiiie!’
The crowd waited their moment, allowing Fonsie’s featherlight tenor to hold cleanly on the high note. Every time he sang this song he had the same moment of memory, sitting on the coal-cart with his father, old Nell pulling them along slowly as usual, and his father smiling down at him lilting gently, ‘die-diddley-I-die-die-die’, and encouraging his little boy to join in.
Unspoken Page 9
