by Martha Long
I got the picture of Jackser and the ma and lost me flow. I took in a deep breath, snorting it in slowly, and took off again. ‘And now in the twilight of their years,’ I continued, ‘they are being threatened with a pauper’s grave for their tragic son! Hmm! Oh, no, Mr Hammond. It is not enough they have suffered this tragic loss. But the bureaucrats have to put the boot in and cause them the ultimate indignity of a pauper’s grave for our beloved Harry!
‘I intend taking this matter to the Dail, Mr Hammond. This is grotesquely inhuman, and I shall be quoting you, Mr Hammond. Every single word of our conversation!’
‘Hang on now! Just hang on a minute. There’s no need to be hasty!’ yer man whined, interrupting. ‘Look! If you get on to the department, they have a grant. It’s a death grant for them that hasn’t got the means.’
‘Oh, thank you, Mr Hammond! Pity you bloody well didn’t say that in the beginning! We could have saved ourselves a lot of argument!’
‘Well, I’m sayin it now!’ he growled.
‘OK, thank you,’ and I hung up. Bureaucratic bastards! They are always trying to save money on the backs of the poor! You would think it was coming out of his own pocket!
I dialled the number he gave me, then waited. It started ringing.
‘Hello,’ a male voice answered.
‘Hello, I’m ringing about the death grant. My brother has just died, and we have no money to bury him.’ I held my breath, waiting for a response.
‘Ahem, yes, you’re on to the right department. But are you in receipt of any social welfare payment?’
‘Oh, yes!’ I breathed. ‘His father is getting the dole.’
‘Right,’ the voice answered. Then a pause.
I waited, holding another breath. Wanting to break the pregnant silence between us.
‘Was the deceased working?’
I hesitated, thinking.
‘The deceased working when he was alive,’ the voice prompted, trying to be helpful.
‘Oh! No! He nev . . . No! He was on the dole,’ I said firmly.
‘Right,’ your man said. ‘You can go in to Dinny’s Funeral Undertakers. Do you know where they are? They’re over before you get to the Liffey.’
‘Oh, yes. I know where you are talking about,’ I squeaked, getting very hopeful.
‘Well, if you take yourself over to them, and tell them the department sent you – and we don’t deal with anyone else mind, only them – they will sort you out.’
Silence while I digested this. ‘So, they will arrange the funeral, and we won’t have to pay a penny. Is that right?’ I asked him.
‘Yes. But only up to a certain amount. The grant is for a fixed sum.’
‘Right. Thank you,’ I said. ‘Oh! But I can’t go anywhere else, is that right?’
‘No. They have the contract.’
‘OK. Thank you very much,’ I said, hanging up.
Now! One more phone call before I go. Where’s that phone book? I picked up the directory, and my eyes flew over the listings for churches. Where does Charlie live? I don’t know the exact address; he’s always on the move. But the area should be enough. I’ll get a local priest to call and give him the message about Harry. It’s too far to drive down there. I won’t have the time.
This sounds like a presbytery near to his house. I dialled the number. It’s ringing! I waited, letting it ring. There’s no answer. I dialled again, there’s still no answer. I looked for another presbytery in the book. This should do. I dialled the number. It’s ringing. My heart leapt when a voice said, ‘Hello.’
‘Eh, hello! Whom am I speaking to, please?’ I breathed down the phone.
‘This is Father Noel Harris. Can I help you?’
‘Oh, yes, Father. I am trying to contact my brother, Charlie Long. We have had a death in the family. It’s our brother Harry. I am trying to get a message to Charlie. He doesn’t have a phone in the house. Could you possibly call on him, Father, and tell him to come as soon as possible to my mother’s house?’
‘Yes. Yes, certainly I will do that. What is his address?’
‘Father, I don’t know the exact address. But he is living two doors down from Ryan’s sweet shop. Do you know where that is?’
‘Ah, yes. That’s no problem. I will go up there now myself. And I am very sorry to hear of your tragic loss. You have my deepest condolences.’
‘Thank you, Father. Thank you very much for your help. I am grateful.’
‘Not at all. I am only too happy to help. Goodbye now.’
‘Goodbye, Father,’ and I gently put down the phone with my heart filling with pain. Harry! Why did you have to go before your time? I sat without moving, seeing his face lying on that cold . . .
No! It’s better to keep moving. I jumped up, grabbing my warm duffle coat from the coat rack. It’s going to be very cold out. Then I grabbed my bag from the hall table and checked for my house and car keys. I need a notebook and pen. Where’s me tobacco?
I rushed into the kitchen, grabbing them off the table. Are the windows locked? Cooker off? Then back out to the hall and put on my boots, pushing my jeans down inside them. I locked the doors behind me, making sure the French doors are locked, and headed out the front gate. There’s no point in going around to the garage; I left the car out. Anyway, I don’t want that bloody dog seeing me go out; he will only jump over the wall and tear after me.
11
* * *
I parked the car and headed in the door to the undertaker’s. A loud bell clanged over the door as I opened it. Jesus! That nearly took the ears offa me, the size of it! I looked up at a huge big brass bell, then whipped my head around the room. It’s only a cubbyhole. I’ve more room at home for a sweeping brush!
‘Can I help you?’
My head shot around, wondering where the voice was coming from.
An aul fella with a solid, round, bald head poked his nose through a door just behind the entrance.
‘Eh, yes!’ I said, getting ready to speak, then staring at the ham sandwich he shoved into his mouth while he examined me.
‘Take a seat over there,’ he said, waving what was left of the sandwich as he opened his mouth wide, showing me his big black horse’s teeth and his jaws working up and down, making short work of the grub.
I looked to see where he was pointing. The only thing I could see was a three-legged stool and an aul Victorian desk that had seen better days. One of the legs was propped up with old books. The woodworm had eaten the life outa the leg, and it was now practically honeycombed! What a dump! It hasn’t changed for years. This place is still limping through the 1800s.
I sat down, balancing myself on the stool, and opened my bag, taking out a packet of roll-ups, gasping for a cigarette.
‘Now! What can I do for you?’ he said, squeezing his huge belly past me.
I slammed my feet down on the floor, reaching my hands forward trying to balance myself as I tipped backwards from the force of him. I pushed the stool back against the wall and stood up, leaning against his desk, feeling very annoyed.
‘I’m here to arrange my brother’s funeral,’ I announced crisply.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, lowering his head and fixing his face into a very sorrowful look. Then he reached for a notebook and pen, and lifted his shoulders and arms, trying to stretch his nylon pink shirt with the two buttons missing in the middle. His belly button was straining through his vest. Then he stretched his chin sideways, jerking his neck, and tried to loosen the collar with his two fingers, rolling them inside. Satisfied that was sorted, he then bounced up and down on his old Victorian office chair, settling his arse and giving it a few rubs, like Bonzo does when he gets worms.
I waited.
‘OK,’ he said, finally satisfied he was comfortable and he could get down to business. Then he snapped his head up, finally paying me a bit of notice. ‘Now! I am going to need some details of the deceased. Where is the body to be collected from?’ He held the pen in mid air, waiting for my answer.
>
‘Actually, before we begin, may I have some details from you first, please?’ I said, looking at him.
‘OK. What do you want to know? It depends on how much you want to spend . . .’
‘Well, we have the death grant,’ I said, interrupting him.
He paused, looking at his notebook, then threw down his pen and pushed himself back in the chair, wrapping his massive arms around his head.
‘Ah! So it’s a pauper’s burial ye’re talkin about,’ he said, looking very disappointed and losing his ‘Mother-of-Sorrows’ look.
‘No! Absolutely not! We want a decent burial. So what exactly are you offering?’ I barked, glaring at him.
He snorted and flicked his eyes away from me, then looked back at me with sheer boredom.
‘Have you opened the grave yet?’
‘What do you mean? I thought it was your job to arrange the funeral,’ I asked him, feeling very confused.
He suddenly leaned forward, spreading himself on the desk. ‘The department will only pay for,’ and he lifted his big hairy hand and started to tick off one by one what the grant will pay for, ‘the coffin: plain pine; the shroud; and one car. That’s it! If ye don’t want him going into a pauper’s grave, you have to come up with the money. And this you do yourself. You have to go over to Glasnevin Cemetery, and it will cost you two hundred and fifty pounds. And you can’t make any arrangements until you have the grave opened. Now, I must warn you. Where is the body, by the way?’
‘In the new hospital,’ I said in shock.
‘Was there a post-mortem?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Well,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘if you don’t get your own grave opened within the time after the body is released, the coroner’s office will bury him in a pauper’s grave.’
I stared in shock as he shook his head. It was going round and round like he was having a fit. My eyes followed his every movement, trying to take in what he was saying.
I don’t have two hundred and fifty pounds, I was thinking. If I hadn’t bought the plane tickets for Sarah, hoping she would be able to come home to see me. God! She’s due on Sunday! I blinked and straightened myself up. ‘So! I can’t make any arrangements with you until I have the grave opened. Is that what you are saying?’
‘Yep! That’s it in a nutshell,’ he said, shaking his head with energy.
‘Right! I will get back to you,’ I said, turning for the door and heading for the car.
I sat at the steering wheel, taking a deep drag of smoke into my lungs, wondering how I was going to work this out. OK. Think! What resources do I have? Sister Eleanor? No! Don’t beg. Friends? No! Don’t borrow. What friends anyway? They’ve all faded away since I started hibernating. Jeff? Or maybe Trilby (because he wears a trilby hat)? No! They would be after my body! I’m saving that for the worms. What then? Bloody hell! Think.
I can’t go out to the ma until I get this sorted out. Ah! The ma’s! The very place. I have an idea. It just might work. I gunned the engine and swung the car out into oncoming traffic. I swung out my arm, waving them down, making it clear my intention to take the centre of the road. Then I swung the car around in the opposite direction and took off like a bullet, heading towards the ma’s. Time will not be on my side. I need to act quick. Them bastards will not think twice about burying Harry in a pauper’s grave. Shouting or no shouting. They can do what they like. They have the power with their fucking rules.
Right. Here we are, back again. I’ve arrived at the flats. I’ll head over to the shops and park outside the pub.
12
* * *
‘Where’s the boss?’ I asked a moody-looking barman who was dragging a dirty dishcloth across the counter.
‘He’s inside,’ the fellow said, shaking his head towards the back of the pub.
‘Could I have a word with him, please?’ I asked, smiling at him, showing him me white pearls.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked, brightening up and dropping his dishcloth. ‘I’m the manager here.’
‘Well, eh, thanks. But it’s probably better to speak to himself,’ I whispered, waving my hand towards the back, leaning into the counter.
He hesitated, his eyes flickering with disappointment and annoyance because he wasn’t good enough. An he the bloody manager! He continued slapping the cloth up and down the counter wearily, deciding to ignore me. I watched him, waiting. Boring holes in his bent head, letting him see I meant business. Finally, he lifted his head, throwing me a dirty look, then steamed off to find the boss.
No, sunshine! With that sullen, dozy attitude of yours, it’s quite clear to me you couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery! I thought, snorting out me disgust as I looked miserably around the huge barn of a place. This pub was obviously purpose built to squeeze in as many people from around here willing to cough up their dole money and anything else they can get their hands on for the money.
They live in an ocean of misery. But at night this place stands out like a beacon. The lure of its bright lights and the noise of its lonely foghorn sending out sad, haunting music, touching the hearts of the lonely, the abandoned and the forgotten, as they raise their voices singing lustily, ‘If I Only Had My Time Again’ or ‘The Happy Days Of My Childhood’. For a while, they belong among the laughter, the shared sorrows and the tears. They gulp, wanting more, as the drink warms their bellies and mellows their heart.
Then the light slowly fades, as the music stops and the laughter dies, leaving only a darkness. It’s then they make their lonely way back to the squalor of a bare, empty flat. The only thing taking up room is the cold, hungry children lying on the dirty beds. They have been waiting listlessly for a good day that never came.
The carpet was manky, black from the dirt, and the smell of stale smoke, spilt drink and dusty air was giving me a headache. An aul codger sitting in the corner waved his pint of stout over at me. He kept grinning, showing me his gummy mouth. All his front teeth were missing. I stared impassively. On second thoughts, he’s not that old after all, probably in his mid forties. He just looks ancient. Yeah, that’s years of neglect and booze. Jaysus! What a waste of a life!
‘Who is looking for me?’
I whirled around, seeing a freckled-face aul fella with red greying hair.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’ he snapped, looking very annoyed I had interrupted him.
‘Oh, yeah,’ I said, trying to think, feeling me heart sink. I’m not going to get very far with this fella, I thought, seeing the watery blue eyes take me in from head to toe, then narrowing, giving me a suspicious look. Fuck! Bet this aul fella thinks he owes himself money. He has that mean, hungry look about him. You’d need a can opener to get any money outa his pockets.
I watched him as he rounded the bar, coming over to me. He kept staring at me like I had done something wrong.
‘I remember you!’ he said, waving his finger at me. Then he suddenly bent his head, saying, ‘Well! So, you didn’t join them after all!’ Then he stood with a laugh ready on his face, waiting to hear me answer.
‘Join who?’ I said, wondering what the hell he was talking about.
‘The nuns! The Carmelites!’ he roared.
‘ME? Sorry, I have no idea what you are talking about. I never . . . Eh, no! I’m not a nun.’
‘That’s for sure!’ he roared again, laughing his head off, looking me up and down. I stared at him with me mouth open. Not able to make head nor tail outa what the hell he’s talking about.
‘Do you not remember me?’ he said, laughing with a mad glint in his eye.
‘No! I never met you before in my life,’ I said, getting outa breath from trying to work this out.
‘Come over here,’ he said, leading me to a table in a little alcove.
I followed him, taking in the dark pinstripe suit with the Italian black-leather shoes. Hmm! He’s not short of a few bob. This place must sure pay its way. But how the bloody hell can he know me? He’s obviously mixing me up with someone else.
‘Well, now then!’ he said, pulling out a chair for me to sit on, then planking himself down beside me. ‘The last time I met you, you told me you were taking yourself off into a nunnery!’
‘Ah, would you go on outa that!’ I said, giving him a slap on the arm, feeling now on safer ground because, whoever he was, he was certainly being very friendly.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You were with that bowzie, Georgie Peacock!’
‘Oh, right,’ I said slowly, getting a picture of Georgie. A fella I used to know with plenty of money and no sense. He threw it around like confetti! Dragging me all over the place. He even had his own box at the races. But that went nowhere. He was a bloody alcoholic! Anyway! I wasn’t interested in getting serious. I think he just wanted me for the company more than anything else. For a while, I was glad to oblige.
‘But how do you know him?’ I said. ‘Or, at least both of us together? I’m still not able to make the connection. Georgie had a lot of friends. I don’t remember half of them,’ I said, staring into his icy-blue eyes that seemed to be softer now, when he let go and smiled. Pity about the hair, though. It would never have matched the eyes before it turned nearly stone grey.
‘Ahh! Georgie and I go way back,’ he said, leaning himself back on the chair. Then he sat with his hand on his chin, resting his elbow on the table, watching me.
I kept shaking me head slowly. ‘No, can’t say I remember you.’
‘No?’ he said, shaking his head, agreeing with me. ‘The yacht club. I do a bit of sailing.’
‘No! Definitely not!’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t catch me anywhere near a boat. I can’t swim and I get seasick!’ I said, getting more annoyed with meself and puzzled by the minute.
‘Well! Obviously I didn’t make much of an impression on you!’ he said, laughing, then shaking his head, trying to look sad. He lifted his head, looking around, and sighed, ‘Do you want a drink? What would you like? Martin!’ he shouted, roaring over to the barman.
