The old man’s upset now.
‘He’s two years younger than me! Thank you very much, you little bollocks.’
*
It is dark on the avenue as the estate workers and their families, chattering away, head home. Annie Cassidy walks between her parents but something bothers her. ‘Why didn’t she come with Kennedy, like, to Ireland?’ she asks.
‘Who’s that?’ asks Maureen back, still happy and dreaming of President Kennedy and how it’s so amazing that Kennedy is, at that very moment, standing on the same soil and not so very far away either.
‘Jackie? Mrs Kennedy,’ says Annie.
Liam Cassidy, ever the diplomat, explains: ‘Well Annie, she probably felt it was his thing, the Irish connection and all, the special thing to him, so to speak. You know that kind of a way? She didn’t want to interfere.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ says Maureen, suspicious. ‘He normally takes her everywhere. And she doesn’t look so happy in her photo shots any more.’
‘You read too many of those gossipy magazines,’ says Liam.
‘Well, does she? You don’t always have to marry the right person you know, like from the same background. You should only marry for love.’
Liam smiles.
*
It’s supper and we’re all sucking asparagus and Mum is being interesting for once and telling us all about her friends the Kennedys, when she knew them in London before the war. Apparently JFK’s old man, Joe, was the American ambassador to England.
Bridget Collins, one of our parlour maids who comes from County Carlow and is my best friend apart from Annie, is pouring Mum her usual bucket of wine. Bridget practically spills the wine in the excitement of hearing Mum yak on about JF bloody K and how well she knew him. Emma as usual wants to add a religious tone. ‘Exciting about Kennedy, Bridget, isn’t it?’
‘Oh God, yes, Emma. It is.’
‘He’s not America’s first Irish president, you know,’ says Emma, all clever.
‘You’re codding.’ Bridget is stunned.
‘He’s their first Roman Catholic, Irish president.’
‘I never.’
‘Bridget fancies his pants,’ says Lucy.
‘I do not!’
‘You do so.’ Bridget blushes and looks thrilled. Meanwhile I open Annie’s present on the table so I can drink it. Everyone is shocked to find out it’s my birthday. They are all embarrassed they haven’t remembered, except the old man. He’s just furious that I didn’t tell him, as though I’m trying to make him look bad. The good thing is he then orders Bridget to get some champagne, non-vintage of course, so we can all celebrate. He even asks how old I am. I love the attention. Everyone’s being nice to me. The other time I get attention is when I’m ill. For some strange reason, the parentals make sure we are really looked after when we’re sick and for once don’t give us a hard time.
Mum, now full of French bubbles, goes blathering on about her good friends the Kennedys and how my uncle Freddie, Mum’s brother, fell in love with Kick Kennedy, JFK’s sister. Sadly for uncle Freddie, Kick married an English fella, William Cavendish. But he was shot in the war by a German sniper. Then Kick was going to marry a Lord Peter Fitz-something-or-other but they were both killed in a plane crash. Mum says they were flying to see Kick’s mother, to try and get her permission to marry. Obviously they never made it.
Mum went to Kick’s funeral at Farm Street Church in London, right behind the Dorchester Hotel. JFK didn’t go and neither did the rest of the family, apart from their father Joe who was a right old criminal, according to the old man. Apparently Rose Kennedy, the mother, wouldn’t let anyone go to see Kick buried because Kick had disobeyed her and was going to marry a Protestant.
‘That’s appalling!’ says Emma, horrified at the idea that a Catholic woman could do such a thing.
The old man then swings the whole conversation round to himself as bloody usual. ‘It happened to us as well, just the other way round. Your grandfather, the Earl of bloody Charlton, God rest his soul, refused to give your mother away. Wouldn’t step foot inside a papist church. Waited outside with Winston bloody Churchill. Your grandfather couldn’t stand the sight of me just because I was a Catholic. Can you believe it?’
‘That’s not true, darling. My dear Papa just thought you were perhaps a little wild. The wild colonial boy, that’s what he named you. I was thrilled!’ says Mum, beaming away, although the vino probably helped.
‘Well, I’ve responsibilities now, haven’t I?’ It’s odd but I’m sure I see Mum raise her eyebrows at what the old man has just said. I can always tell when something winds her up, but I don’t know what it is, not this time. Mum’s dad, the earl, told his children that it was never good to show too much emotion. One thing you can say about Mum: she never disobeyed her dad. Not on that count anyway.
Bridget is still fiddling around with dishes at the sideboard pretending to work just so she can listen. The old man notices. ‘All right, Bridget. Off you go. The children will clear.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Good night, m’lady.’
‘Good night, Bridget.’
I like Bridget. She’s a laugh and really pretty and curvy although a bit old now, at least twenty-two. ‘Thanks Bridge, good night.’
‘Happy birthday, pet.’ Bridget leaves and the old man jumps up and goes to the door. He isn’t small, the old man. He’s quite a heavy old bollocks. Lucy says he lumbers. Not only that but he has these big hairy eyebrows that stick out. Disgusting. Like an ant when you look at it through a magnifying glass.
The old man checks outside, locks the door, then sits down and coughs. Oh fuck, what now? He always coughs when he’s about to make an announcement of national importance. ‘Now, Justin? Your mother and I have had a chat. We want you to invite friends over, you know, from school.’ What the fuck is he on about?
‘I don’t have friends at school.’
Mum joins in, a team effort. ‘Darling? You’re exaggerating. I’m sure you have lots of friends.’
‘Mother?’ She hates being called Mother. ‘I go to school in England. Remember?’
‘They can get a ticket. I’ll send one. Your mother and I’ll be happy to pay,’ says the old man, all enthusiastic about his brilliant idea.
‘What’s the point? I don’t like them, snotty English boys.’
The old man’s finished being all reasonable and persuasive. ‘The point is, you go to school in England to try and turn you into an English gentlemen, therefore it would be fitting if you had boys of that type to muck around with.’
‘Who says?’
‘I say!’
Emma, brain working overtime, suddenly clicks. ‘You don’t like Annie.’
Jesus Christ. All hell breaks loose as Emma and Lucy attack the parentals about how they think all the Irish are thieves and the old man really upsets Lucy about her last boyfriend Paddy Cusack, a stable lad from County Cavan, by insisting that he almost certainly stole some of their silver candlesticks. The one time Lucy and Emma dare to really take on the parents is about me. Somehow they always manage to make it look as though it’s about them. I just sit there watching as they all have a go at each other, until I’ve had enough. ‘Oh, shut up!’ I shout really loud. Everyone stops, stunned that Justin has dared to speak.
‘Thank you. Well done,’ says Emma, all righteous.
‘All of you! … Why is the argument always about me?’
Emma’s absolutely indignant. ‘That’s so unfair. I’m just standing up for you.’
And so is Lucy, indignant too. ‘So am I. So ungrateful, man.’ The old man has the last word. ‘The point is that, from this day on, I will not have children of the staff in my house. Understood?’
‘Yes, Dad, I understand.’ You big fecking bully! I hate you, I do. More than anything in the whole world. ‘May I get down, please?’ … Before I do something I regret like smashing the empty Lucozade bottle over your big fat hairy head.
He’s happy with himsel
f having won the day. ‘Good boy. Off you go then.’ I’m walking down the bedroom passage now and I’m so fucking angry with my pathetic cowardliness that I kick the curtains. It’s too late and too dark to go out into the forest and shoot something. Although I don’t know why I do it as I always feel bad afterwards. I remember once after the old man had upset me and I was really angry, I blasted this tiny rabbit, a baby not big enough to eat. When I got to it, it was still alive and looking up to me for help with its sad little eyes. I swear it was crying. I bashed it over the head with the butt of my gun to put it out of its misery. I never told anyone and I still feel bad even though it was at least two years ago.
Suddenly I hear pop music: ‘Love, love me do.’ It’s The Beatles, that group Lucy is mad about. I see Bridget and she hasn’t seen me. She’s in a blue dressing gown and carrying her new, flashy, Silvertone transistor radio. She slips into the bathroom in her bare feet and closes the door. I stalk up, commando-like, and kneeling down, peer through the keyhole and watch and listen. ‘So, please love me do. Love me do.’ Bridget removes her dressing gown and suddenly I realize why men fall in love. I’ve never seen breasts in real life, not even Mother’s. The old man has Playboy magazine which he sneaks into Ireland, hidden away from the customs officers. He really loves looking at black girls and their big ‘bubbly doops’ as he calls them. He hides the magazine in the cover of Country Life. But I always manage to find it.
There they were, oh my God, Bridget’s incredible bubbly doops and they are really the most beautiful things I have ever seen in my life. I can’t think straight, all the anger has left me and I just want to burst in, climb all over her and bury my head in them.
*
Downstairs, Lucy Montague is washing the Renaissance Gold Wedgwood coffee cups in the pantry sink. Emma, drying, roughly snatches a saucer from Lucy’s hand. ‘Steady!’ says Lucy, mystified by Emma’s aggressive behaviour.
‘Sorry,’ says Emma. ‘I can’t help it. He’d be fine, Dad, on his own. She just puts these ideas into his head because she’s bored and wants to cause trouble. Why does he do it?’
‘Do what?’
‘Just do everything she says?’
‘Ah. First, she’s on a pedestal way above him, up in the sky. She’s got a handle, man …’
Emma, confused, interrupts. ‘A handle?’
‘A title. Lady Helen? That makes her much posher. It makes him insecure.’
‘And second?’
‘Secondly, the dosh … she has it. He doesn’t.’
‘So?’
‘What do they say in west Cork? “Money talks. But if you marry it, it never shuts up!”’
Emma’s mask falls. She laughs.
*
I’m running my bath but I can’t stop thinking about Bridget’s breasts and Annie’s lips. They’ve all become one, a blur. I have a photo of Annie stuck on my long dressing-mirror, grinning away with her lovely big lips. I better hide it from the old man or he’ll have it removed. ‘We cannot have photographs of children of the staff in this house. I will not allow it!’ Oh I get you, you tosser! It’s all right to have Playboy photos of darkie breasts all over the place but not a normal one of my friend, with her clothes on, you fecking perv!
I’m staring at Annie’s photo and I’m wondering what it would be like to kiss it so I lick it instead and I’m still thinking of Bridget’s boobs and what it would be like to lick them. Shit. Now I feel bad. Lucy says I’m full of Catholic guilt, whatever that is.
Suddenly I’m angry again and I look in the long mirror and I look fat and I pull all the spare bits of flesh but they won’t come off. ‘Feck, feck, feck!’ How on God’s earth am I going to explain to Annie about her being banned from my house? And what will Maureen say?
Maureen Cassidy is one of the few local people who likes Mum. I think that’s because Maureen only sees the glamour and the dresses and that sort of thing. When Maureen worked in our house years ago, Mum was not so far into the drink and was a little bit nicer and obviously looked better, not so puffy. One night when I was at the Cassidys’ house watching them eat their yummy tea, Maureen told me about the parties when I was a baby and before I was born.
‘There used to be these great dinner parties, really fantastic! All these lords and ladies came and the women were all a bit jealous of your mother because all the men were staring at her because she was so beautiful. Of course all these people were posh, the ones that came to the dinners, but they didn’t have the same kind of money as your parents, Justin. The women were dressed in clothes from Dunnes’ Stores or Switzers. But your mother, she wasn’t. She was dressed in Christian Dior and Sibyl Connelly and she looked beautiful, oh my God, she really did. Your father was jealous as well and one night he took a carving knife to one of the guests for staring at your mother. Anyways, the next day your father comes into the kitchen and tells us all, the staff, “I goddamned took a carving knife to that Mr bloody Cooper last night for making eyes at my bloody wife! He won’t be showing his face around here so often, I can tell you.”’
Maureen says that people get a little disappointed with Mum because she doesn’t pay enough attention to the families of the workers any more. Apparently it is normal for the lady of the house to show an interest in the families’ welfare. Just to go around and chat to everyone and let them know she cares about them. Mum used to be quite good at this, according to Maureen, until she started drinking.
Una Kershaw, who was the head nanny when I was born, recently told me the same sort of thing. ‘She didn’t start with the drinking, Her Ladyship, until she thought she was starting to lose her looks,’ said Una. ‘And Emma was getting to be a real looker and the boys were all gawping at her and your mother didn’t like that as she was always the prettiest woman around and she’s not any more and she has to have a drink to make her feel better. Of course the drink is doing the opposite and it’ll ruin her looks, more’s the pity.’
Una was right about this and this is how I know. I remember a couple of years ago when Lucy and Emma arrived back from school and Emma was then fifteen. I was shocked at how lovely she had become. I almost forgot she was my sister and used to dream about her at night. Really. I couldn’t help it. She was dead sexy.
Mum didn’t want anyone around the house who looked as good as her. And Emma did. Everyone, but everyone, was saying how beautiful Emma was with her shiny long dark hair and her lovely skin and great curvy figure and the fact that she looked so natural. So Mum, of course, was not happy. She was jealous of all the attention that Emma got, especially from the old man, but she pretended to be happy and kept telling Emma how proud she was. Lying cow.
Mum persuaded Emma, who was very innocent, that she should take her as a special treat to get her hair done at Brown Thomas, Dublin’s version of Harrods. Off they went to Dublin, Emma full of delight with herself. When they came back a few hours later Emma looked white in the face and bleary-eyed from crying. Her hair was absolutely ruined.
Mum had convinced Emma that her hair should be permed as ‘it looks a little dull, darling’. Perming it would ‘give it some life and make you look much more grown-up’. Emma fell for it. By the time she twigged what was happening it was too late and it took a year for her hair to become long and natural again. I didn’t really hate Mum, not like I did the old man, but I came close to it that particular time.
But then, Emma is naive, very naive. She always expects Mum to be kind to her and is always disappointed. As for myself, I don’t really get upset with Mum, because truthfully I hardly know her. I mean, Mum never looked after us as babies and if I didn’t have to go and kiss her good morning, I would hardly see her at all. But for the girls it’s different. It is like a permanent battle and they really, really despise her.
In the old days when Mum wasn’t drinking so much, we used to have an estate Christmas party. All the parents would bring their children into our schoolhouse, where my sisters and me used to be taught by the governess before we went to big school
in England. There would be a great social with ice cream and cakes and Lucozade and all sorts of games, which Mum would organize. At the end Mum used to give out presents. She loved doing it. There was an old stable door at the back of the schoolhouse and she would hide behind it with all the presents and a fishing rod. Mum, hidden away, would dangle a wrapped present over the half-door using the rod and would then call out the name of a child who would walk forward and take their present. That was really good fun. She doesn’t do those things any more.
More often than not I made my own toys. Most people thought, especially anyone English, that you could just buy what you wanted if you had money. Not in Ireland. Once when I was about eight years old I saw this film about robots, The Day the Earth Stood Still. I decided then and there that this was what I wanted to be: a shiny robot. So I got a few old cardboard boxes and strung them together. I had three boxes all tied up with string, one on top of the other.
Then off I went to Dublin on the most important part of the exercise. It took half a day to find a little pot of silver paint but it was worth the long search. I was thrilled. When I got home I painted the three boxes, made slits for eyes, and transformed myself into a fully fledged robot. I walked around, peering wildly through the slits, trying to terrify everyone.
Three
An Anglo-Irishman is a Protestant with a horse.
Brendan Behan
Thursday, 27 June 1963
I’m dreaming and it’s horrible and all I can hear is this loud voice, roaring away: ‘Paddy! Paddy, Padddyyy?’ I’m awake now and the morning sun peeks annoyingly through my skinny curtains, and I can still hear the yelling: ‘Paddy! Paddy? Padddyyy?’ Fuck! I know exactly where it’s coming from.
The old man is outside the milking parlour across the yard and he’s ‘relieving all the anger he gathered in the night’. He’s screaming for poor Paddy and now I’m covering my ears as I can’t bear to listen and I’m too scared to go out there and defend him. I should do it and I’m ashamed, but I just can’t. The old man would kill me.
The House of Slamming Doors Page 2
