My favourite time on the Diana was when the old man let me take the helm. Most of the steering was done from inside the wheelhouse but on a good day you could steer from behind on this little wooden seat. Sitting about ten feet up on a raised platform, I could look over the top of the wheelhouse and steer away, really feeling the movement of the boat, all seventy foot of it, as she rolled through the Irish Sea.
The Diana always had three crew. There was Billy Black, the deckhand who lived by the boat in Dunmore where she was kept. He would look after her and keep her all polished up and in working order. Billy had originally worked on trawlers but like most fishermen, he couldn’t swim. Billy also had another problem – a strong weakness for the bottle. Sometimes when they were in some foreign port, Billy, scuttered drunk and very noisy, would row himself back to the Diana in the middle of the night singing, ‘Fräulein, Fräulein’. When I was much younger I always thought he was singing, ‘Throw a line, throw a line’, which would have been much more suitable considering the circumstances. The two other crew were a cook, who we always got from an agency in Dublin, and an engineer. The cook always changed but the engineer was, more often than not, Liam Cassidy, who loved going to sea.
When Grandpa Charlton was alive, we used to spend time on his yacht, the Sonic. Now the Sonic was not little, not like the Diana. Grandpa would not be seen dead in such a small yacht: after all, the Diana was only seventy foot. So in 1948 Grandpa bought this beautiful motor-yacht, which had originally been built in 1930. He then spent £100,000 on the refit. The Sonic was about seventy yards long and weighed 280 tons. She had two huge funnels, a crew of thirty-three and a white ensign flying from the stern, which meant apparently that Grandpa was a member of The Royal Yacht Squadron.
This yacht was so big you could jump off the top deck into the water and really hurt yourself if you weren’t careful. I loved her because there was loads of deck space to play on and a really friendly crew who made a fuss of me because I was the youngest. These holiday trips on the Sonic were always in August and either to the Mediterranean or to the west of Scotland. If it was to the Med, then the yacht would go out ahead of us and we would fly in our own chartered plane and meet her somewhere like Palma. We’d sail around the island, stopping off at beautiful old ports. During the day, the Sonic would drop anchor in these secluded bays with incredible clear blue water where you could see to the bottom, even though it was sometimes thirty or forty feet deep. We would jump off and go snorkelling.
When the chief steward, Mr Perkins, rang the bell for lunch, we would swim back as fast as we could and get on board in time to shower and put on our towelling dressing-gowns for lunch. These towelling robes were really comfortable and had The Sonic RYS written on the breast pockets in blue thread. The lunches themselves had weird food like foie gras and wild strawberries. I was shocked when I found out that the foie gras came from specially fattened goose livers, but I still ate it. If you are brought up on a farm you can eat anything. Much to my surprise, it was delicious.
Some days we would arrive in a port to be met by the harbour master all dressed up to the nines in his smart uniform, saluting our arrival. I think they thought Grandpa was pretty important. Out of nowhere a line of chauffeur-driven cars would appear and whisk us off to see some old village or monastery. But the best time for me was when we played games like badminton on the huge deck and everyone joined in.
If the trip was to Scotland, we would fly to London, then travel up on the sleeper train and meet the yacht in this little bay where Grandpa had rented a large castle for all his guests to come and stay for the grouse-shooting. The water was not as warm as the Med. It was bloody freezing. Every morning, Grandpa, standing on deck, all-important in his double-breasted blazer and captain’s cap, would force us to parade in our bathing costumes and jump into the water before we had breakfast. God, it was cold. But I always felt better after a huge plate of scrambled eggs and devilled kidneys on toast.
When Grandpa Charlton died, Grandma sold the Sonic as she had too many fond memories of her. Not long after, the Sonic was bought by the president of some African country and hit a rock off the Canaries and sank. They said the captain was plastered.
Six
The big difference between sex for money and sex for free, is that sex for money usually costs a lot less.
Brendan Behan
Thursday, 27 June 1963
The gardens at The Hall are looking exquisite. Paddy Kelly stands behind Liam Cassidy, who is on his knees in a flowerbed that runs down the side of a long rectangular lawn. Liam is doing the real work, pulling the weeds and handing them to Paddy, who is trying hard not to look at the boss man watching, pipe in hand. Cromwell, by Bobby’s side, snarls at Paddy.
‘Well done, Liam. Ten times better.’
‘Thanks, boss.’
‘Good man yerself, now!’ Bobby adds enthusiastically in his best Irish accent. ‘Her Ladyship will love it.’ Bobby walks off with his beloved Cromwell.
Liam is relieved and congratulates Paddy who has done very little but get in the way. ‘Well done, Paddy. A grand job. Really.’
Paddy is happy. ‘Oh yeah, oh yeah,’ he mutters. Paddy worships Liam.
*
I love lying here in the dusty yellow straw, hidden away between the bales. No one can find me in the hay shed, except Annie. I’m reading Mum’s April copy of Vogue magazine. Not as sexy as Playboy, is Vogue, but this one model looks great in her Playtex underwear. ‘Nice legs, baby,’ says I. ‘You’re looking massive!’ But of course if she’s English she wouldn’t understand.
Once my Aunt Daphne, Mum’s second sister, who is ‘fraghtfully English don’t-ya-know’, came to stay for the Dublin Horse Show in August. On the Saturday night she comes downstairs in her beautiful dress, all ready for the Meath Hunt Ball. Maureen Cassidy, thrilled, sees her and says: ‘Oh my God, Lady Daphne. You’re only looking massive!’ Aunt Daphne was horrified at being called fat and immediately decided she was going to give up eating completely, until the old man pointed out that she was actually getting a compliment, not an insult. I’m not sure she ever believed him.
Anyway here I am in the hay shed, still waiting for Annie and gawping at the Playtex model who looks massive and I put my hands on my willy from outside my trousers of course, but suddenly there’s a sound of rustling straw and singing: ‘You would cry too if it happened to you, do do do, do do …’ Annie’s arrived. How come she’s always happy? I wonder what it’s like to be like that, always happy.
Annie, standing right over me, points an imaginary pistol and does her John Wayne impression, ‘Okay pardner. Yer Vogue or yer life!’ I hand over the magazine I’ve stolen from Mum.
‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘I can’t help it. It’s all them cowboy films your daddy makes us watch.’
She starts singing again but I wish she’d shut the fuck up so I can tell her the bad news about not being allowed into the house anymore. ‘For ever my darling, our love will be true … Especially if you keep fecking your mother’s Vogue.’
Annie lies down all confident right across my lap and starts to read the magazine. I try hard not to get a stiffy by concentrating on something else, anything else. So I just rattle on.
‘All the boys at school think feck means, you know, fuck. “Look,” I said to them, “to feck something means to steal it.” “So,” they said, the English thickos, “so why do you say feck instead of fuck?” And I tried to explain it’s more polite, but they didn’t get it.’
‘That’s not their fault. I mean, between you and me, the Brits are a bit slow.’
‘God, I hate it. Why can’t I just go to school with you and the lads?’
‘Ah, what the hell are you on about? A few more terms and you won’t even talk to me. You’ll be too busy, canoooodling with your chums.’ I hate this, her doing my voice, I really hate it and I’m still angry from before and I don’t know how to tell her. Annie continues: ‘Chums. I say, old chap, who’s the girl? Oh no one really, old bo
y, just someone I knew vaguely, long ago.’
‘Oh shut the fuck up!’
‘What?’
‘Would you like it if I imitated you the whole time? Would you?’
‘Jesus. I’m sorry. Honest, Justin. I thought you liked it.’
‘I don’t.’ Now I feel even worse. ‘Sorry.’
Annie is trying hard now to make conversation, to make everything better. She points to a photo of a beautiful model wearing a wedding dress. ‘Oh, would you look at that?’
I can’t think straight and I know I’ll have to tell her and I’m ashamed. Annie notices.
‘I’m really sorry, Justin. Honest.’
‘No, it’s fine.’
Annie quite rightly guesses it’s something else. ‘Oh Jaisus. He found out. The boss man?’
‘About?’
‘Me trying your mother’s dresses when they went to the races?’
‘No.’
‘What then?’
I can’t say it.
*
The gardens at The Hall are deserted. Liam and Paddy have left for lunch. Dressed in a navy-blue skirt, silk blouse and a light-yellow cashmere cardigan, Lady Helen Montague walks elegantly down the path where the weeding had taken place all morning. Helen stops, pulls out a packet of Sobranies, takes one and – click – lights it with her gold Cartier lighter. She looks at the packet of cigarettes. Blast, she says to herself, about the fact she does not have her gold case to put them in. Helen is annoyed about the case, not because it is beautiful, nor because it was a wedding present from her annoying husband, but because it’s hers, and she hates losing things that belong to her.
As she strolls, she thinks back to what her husband was like before, when he was a real man. When Bobby asked her father for her hand in marriage, her father had refused, and Bobby let rip: ‘Look, Lord Charlton, I don’t give a tuppenny what you think. I’m not some snotty-nosed Old Etonian who’s impressed by your title. I love Helen and I’m going to marry her. And if you don’t want to pay for the wedding, that’s fine. And if you cut Helen off without a penny and I have to marry her in a barn, that’s fine too. We’ll survive. So, put that in your pipe and smoke it!’
*
In the hay shed, Annie lies back in the straw, flabbergasted and upset by my news. ‘Not allowed in your house? Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
Now she’s staring at me with that serious look I love. ‘Let’s run away and get married.’
‘Oh sure. Just like that.’
Annie’s in dreamland. ‘… and we’ll live on a farm by the ocean and I’ll wear jewels and Sybill Connelly dresses just like your mam and everyone will know I’ve been past because of the gorgeous Chanel perfume I’m wearing.’
A shout from outside the hay shed ruins the moment. ‘Annie? Your dinner!’ It’s Maureen, Annie’s mum. She always knows where we are.
‘Coming! … But we can never be married,’ says Annie, acting all sad.
I know we’re not old enough, but I still feel disappointed. ‘Oh. Why?’
‘’Cos you’ll have to marry someone who has lunch and I’ll have to marry someone who has dinner.’
‘Eejit!’
She whacks me on the head with the magazine. ‘See you later, alligator!’
I can’t help smiling. She’s happy at least. She’s got her Vogue.
Once, when I was about six, this photographer arrived from London. Mum had agreed to do a Vogue fashion shoot. Anyway, the photographer wanted a really wild shot of Ireland and the Wicklow Mountains with this beautiful aristocratic lady and nothing else to be seen but the gorgeous, untamed Irish landscape.
Everyone was away, and there was not one person to look after me. So Mum, to her great embarrassment, had to take me with these fancy fashion people on the shoot up into the mountains. I was, as usual, full of Lucozade and running around everywhere like Ronnie Delany. So to get me out of the way, she tells me to run down the road and back by the other road and complete a triangle of about half a mile. She promised to time me. Great. No problem. Off I ran, followed by this old lab we used to have. What she hadn’t bargained for was how fast I was. I was back in a flash.
When the photographer arrived home in London and developed the prints, he discovered to his horror that the best photo he had was one with me running up in the background with the dog behind me. So much for gorgeous barren landscape with nothing else in sight. They published the magazine and there I was, tearing up the hill with Bran panting away behind me. There was an article about Mum and it even mentioned me and Bran. Mum was really annoyed for some reason. Lucy said it was because I had ‘stolen her thunder’. But the funniest thing was that when I got to read the article, the bit where it says Mum’s age had the numbers scribbled over so nobody could tell how old she was.
*
Lady Helen, walking through the garden, puffing on her Sobranie, is muttering to herself. ‘Boring, boring. Bloody, fucking boring.’
As she reaches the immaculate Victorian greenhouses, she peers inside at the rows of white and black grapes hanging from the ceilings. Helen is not looking for something in particular. She is looking for some amusement to brighten her dull life. Helen leans down to stub out her cigarette on a neat pile of bricks, which are sitting by the greenhouse door. She has an idea. A sly smile comes to her face.
She picks up a brick, stands, looks around to make sure the coast is clear, then using the strength of all her frustration, smashes the brick through two different panes of glass. Slightly shocked by what she has done, she replaces the brick. Walking slowly back down the garden path and rubbing her hands together to brush off the earth, Helen’s face appears to have changed. She is almost purring with happiness and whispers to herself: ‘Not boring.’ She sits down on a garden bench, enjoying her last smoke before lunch. She’s in no hurry. She’s used to people waiting for her. And, to top it all, she has, in one fell swoop, improved her morning. She’s no longer bored and she’s found a brilliant way to stir Bobby off his fat arse and into some kind of action.
At the Cassidy house, Delany, Annie’s pet donkey, is tied up in the garden, chewing on an old Kellogg’s Cornflakes carton. Still feeling raw after the news from Justin, Annie is too distracted to notice. She’s staring at the package in her hand: ‘So, you’re going to banish me from your house, are ya, you miserable old fecker?’ A determined look sets on her face. ‘Deliver it, he told me. Deliver it, I will. Oh yes,’ she promises herself. She doesn’t quite know what the gold cigarette case is about, but she knows it could mean trouble at The Hall. That would be good.
Annie, clicking open the case, offers a cigarette to Delany in her best upper-class English accent: ‘Hello, I’m Lady Helen. Do have one of my Russian cigarettes. Flown in from Moscow. Wonderful, really, do, do, do!’ Mulling over her magnificent plan, Annie walks into her house for dinner.
*
I’m on my way to the house for lunch, wondering what on earth Mum thought she was doing this morning, telling Joan she wants a reaction out of the old man. Jesus, that’s the last thing we need. He’s always bloody reacting. Anyway, she wants to be careful over the phone as the old man could be listening in downstairs in his study. And he wouldn’t be the first person to listen in.
Our telephone number here at The Hall is Kilcullen 211. If we want to speak to someone, we have to wind the old phone a couple of times until it’s answered by Mrs Lamb up at Lamb’s, the pub. Mrs Lamb runs the local telephone exchange and the best pub around. Often she’d be pulling a pint for one of the lads and she’d hear the bell ringing and have to rush across the yard and answer the phone and put the call through. Mrs Lamb always swore blind she never listened in. But she did, for sure. Oh yes. Once Mum was chatting away with Joan, having a heated discussion about the day of the Beaumonts’ party.
‘It’s on Friday,’ says Mum, very sure of herself.
‘No, no Helen, you’re quite wrong. It’s on Saturday. I’m absolutely certain,
’ says Joan.
‘You’re both wrong, m’lady,’ pipes up the voice of Mrs Lamb from the exchange. ‘I heard you discussing it with Mrs Beaumont herself. It’s on Thursday after the Curragh races.’
Mrs Lamb was very useful at times. One night Mum wanted to speak to her good friend Beryl Mullins and asked Mrs Lamb to put her through. ‘Oh there’s no point in doing that,’ says Mrs Lamb.
‘Why’s that?’ asks Mum, all confused.
‘The Mullins have gone to a birthday dinner with the Parnells. They’re having venison and lemon meringue pie. I’ll put you through if you like.’ Mrs Lamb knew everything.
Although Mrs Lamb could manage the pub and the telephone exchange with great skill, she wasn’t very bright. Years ago, when Aunt Daphne was staying, she asks Mum if she can use the phone. Mum, of course, says yes, but warns her to be careful of what she says, as Mrs Lamb is always listening in. So Aunt Daphne phones her dad in England. She tells Grandpa Charlton all about the old man’s peculiar behaviour. Grandpa just loved hearing the stories about his strange son-in-law. He then asks Aunt Daphne to tell more but remembering Mum’s words of warning, Daphne gets nervous. ‘Actually Papa, I must be frightfully careful about what I say. Apparently the exchange lady always listens in.’
‘I do not!’ pipes up the indignant voice of Mrs Lamb, who hadn’t missed a word of the conversation.
Grandpa Charlton had mixed feelings about my old man although all the cousins thought he was brilliant. To give the old man his due, he could be very funny at times, although not always on purpose. Uncle Freddie told me the great story of the old man’s first disastrous attempt to ask Grandpa for Mum’s hand. Everyone was staying at Charlton Park for a long weekend and all the younger relations suggested to the old man that the best time to get Grandpa in a good humour was after a big breakfast. So as soon as breakfast was over all the cousins, at a prearranged signal, snuck out of the room leaving him alone with Grandpa. Mum apparently was last to leave and she gives the old man a big smile and a flirty wink for good luck on the way out. As she goes out the door Grandpa looks up to find himself alone with the wild colonial boy. ‘Yes? What do you want?’
The House of Slamming Doors Page 5
