About a week later there was the opening meet of the hunt season. For some reason the Duke, the old man’s hunter (named after John Wayne, surprise, surprise) was very fresh and lepping around the place. This was the start of the season and of course he was going to be fresh. But the Duke was more than just fresh. He looked totally wild and I am sure it had something to do with Brendan as he was the only person at the whole meet who didn’t look startled.
Now the old man would never back down as pride was at stake, but when we started jog-trotting along the road to the first covert, the Duke was out of control, jumping all over the place and lashing out at everything in his path. The old man was shouting out to anyone who got in the Duke’s way: ‘Make way for the Master! Make way for the Master!’ He was trying to pretend to everyone that he was in control.
The huntsman started away drawing the first covert and soon the hounds gave voice. Having picked up a fox’s scent, we were off, tearing across the Kildare countryside with its stone walls and huge double banks. Suddenly we were all stuck in one field, gawping at this huge ditch. Jumping into a field is one thing but jumping up and out, is another. After all, ditches were built to keep the cattle from escaping.
At this stage the black and tans, led by Mandrake, were way ahead, running up a steep hill in full cry and there was a danger we would lose sight of them. I don’t think I had ever seen a ditch as big and my pony wanted nothing to do with it, which was a great relief for me, I can tell you. As we waited for the huntsman, Jack, to find a way across, the old man suddenly appears and his face practically changes colour at the obstacle in front of him. Brendan was watching with delight: his moment had come.
‘Make way for the master!’ yells Brendan as loud as possible. ‘Make way for the master, please!’ As all eyes were now on him, the old man had no choice but to have a go, and he and the Duke landed upside down in the ditch in a big heap. Luckily for the old man it had been raining and so he just sunk further and further into the mud as the Duke lay on top of him. It was hilarious.
Jack was really small and looked like a fox. He drank like a fish and because he needed a tipple before the off, we often wouldn’t get started until at least one in the afternoon, which didn’t leave much time until dark. However, Jack generally only did this when there was a full moon as he could then hunt on into the night. It was really wild and dreamy, hunting by the moon.
Our first hunt of the season would usually be in Kildare, at a famous pub called The Hideout, in a village called Kilcullen. I love The Hideout for one reason. It has Dan Donnelly’s right arm displayed in a glass case. Donnelly was a famous Irish boxer who managed to beat all the English and become a national hero. I could sip tomato juice and stare at the bones of his arm for ages. You wouldn’t believe how long it was. If you ever look at the paintings of Donnelly, you can see his arms stretching right down past his knees. And if you ever go to the Curragh you can see a monument at Donnelly’s Hollow where he fought a famous victory, beating a brilliant English boxer, Tom Cooper, by breaking his jaw.
Nine
He was born an Englishman, and remained one for years.
Brendan Behan
Sunday, 30 June 1963
I’m late for Mass, on purpose, and Mum’s giving me a lift as she’s on her way to Church herself. Mum goes to the Protestant church a little way up in the mountains by a beautiful rocky stream. As a child I used to play there when she was busy doing flower arrangements with Canon Winterburn. What a beautiful place, all those clear pools of water, miniature mossy swimming holes running down past the tree-shaded church.
I remember this one time when we were staying with Granny at Charlton Park. It was a beautiful sunny day and lunch was laid out outside on the loggia. We were surrounded, as usual, by maids and footmen wearing frock coats with big shiny brass buttons. Granny was sitting at the head of the huge long polished table and she says to us, Emma, Lucy and me, ‘Now children, there’s chicken or fish or lamb or kidneys or whatever you want.’ And she points at all the different dishes on display.
‘No, there’s bloody not!’ interrupts the old man. ‘This is Friday, Lady Charlton, and they’re having fish, nothing else. You’re not making bloody Protestants out of my children, thank you very much.’ Granny laughed. She thought it was really funny. So we ate the fish and remained Catholic.
So back to Sunday morning and Father Luke’s first Mass and I arrive at our church in Mum’s flashy black Triumph Spitfire Mark 1 and there’re no people outside, just a few old cars and tractors and bicycles and our beautiful black gleaming Jaguar. ‘Thanks Mother!’ I shout and she’s gone in an angry cloud of dust, about being called Mother. I can’t help it. Anyway what’s she complaining about? It’s better than putting bangers in her cigarettes, which I do when she’s really tanked up. That she hates.
You can buy them in Dublin, these bangers. They’re little rectangular pieces of cardboard about the same shape and size as a nail file. You just slip the dangerous end into the top of the cigarette. It goes in very easily and disappears between the cigarette paper and the tobacco. As soon as the victim lights up they will manage just three or four puffs and then bang! The cigarette explodes and the smoker is left shocked and then livid.
I look around, the coast’s clear, as everyone’s in Church. I sneak quickly up to the Jaguar keeping low just like James Bond. I have a spare set of keys in my pocket and I unlock and open the passenger door. Fast as anything I lean across the red leather seat and flip down the glove compartment. Inside is a wad of cash. He’ll never notice a bit missing. Just as I stretch across and grab it there’s a low snarl from behind me. Oh, Holy Mother of God! That fecking killing machine of a Nazi is sitting on the back seat protecting his master’s car and now he’s lunging for me. I drop the money and jump out quick as anything. Slam! I shut the door. Breathing fast with fright and because I’m running out of time I have yet another sudden brainwave. The old man was wrong. I’m not stupid. I’m a genius.
I have a few sugar cubes in my pocket that I keep for the horses. I hold out a lump at the snarling Cromwell through the closed window. Cromwell stops snarling and looks interested. I open the door real careful, smiling, offering the sugar and comforting words. ‘Good boy, Cromwell. Yes, yes. Sugar. What a lovely ugly fucker you are.’ Cromwell, thrilled with himself, snaps the sugar lumps off my hand and starts munching. Delighted and relieved, I snatch half the money, replace the wad in the glove compartment, jump out, slam the door and lock it. Time for Mass. But not before I’ve finished with that Nazi mongrel. So I stick my face against Cromwell’s window, squashing it and making a horrible sound. Cromwell goes apeshit, snarling and barking and slobbering and baring his teeth as he bangs his head trying to jump through the closed window to get at me.
*
St Mark’s church is packed to the rafters. The women, as always, are sitting on the left, and the men on the right. Many of the children are wearing gumboots. One child is even barefoot. Handsomely dressed compared to the impoverished locals, Bobby, Emma and Lucy Montague sit in the front right pew. No one else would ever dare sit there. A few rows behind on the left, Annie Cassidy sits with her mother.
Annie stares with hatred at Bobby’s back. She imagines herself walking up to Bobby and saying something really horrible in front of all those people, to make him look like a complete eejit. But then she remembers her dad and his job.
Everyone stands as Father Luke, very determined not to be bullied, walks noticeably slowly into the church, followed by two altar boys who wear football boots peeping out from under their cassocks.
‘Where’s your brother?’ asks Bobby, whispering as quietly as he is capable of to Lucy. Lucy shrugs her shoulders. No idea.
Father Luke begins.
‘For those you of who do not already know, you have a new parish priest. I am Father Luke Conlon. I am so glad to see all of you here on my first Sunday in charge.’
‘In charge?’ says Bobby to his daughters. ‘My arse!’ Lucy sti
fles a laugh. Emma looks disapproving.
Father Luke starts the service, very slowly: ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and of the Holy Ghost.’
The congregation snaps back.
‘Amen!’
Father Luke is taken aback but quickly regains his composure.
‘My brothers and sisters, to prepare ourselves to celebrate …’ Luke hesitates and stares down the aisle at the young lad who is walking towards him and recognizes the son of his tormentor.
*
I’m walking up the aisle and everyone’s staring but I don’t care. I see Annie with her mum halfway up on the left and, like an eejit, I forget we’ve fallen out. I wink at her. In return she gives me a cold stare and looks away. Good girl. Quick as I can I reach the family pew and I look across to the left and I see Bridget and I am frozen and I can’t move at all and suddenly I hear a voice:
‘Where the hell have you been?’ But it’s a blur, this voice, because all I can think about are Bridget’s lovely breasts.
Then I can hear the old man again. ‘Oi, Justin! I said, how did you get here?’
I suddenly come to my senses. ‘Mother! On her way to Church. You left me behind,’ says I, pushing past him to sit between Emma and Lucy.
‘You were late, as per usual.’ He’s happy now. ‘I never. She’s going to Church again.’
‘That’s good,’ says Emma who approves of going to Church even though it’s a Proddie one.
I’m between the girls now and I whisper. ‘She’s really dressed. And that perfume – what a pong!’
‘That’s bad,’ says Emma, strangely changing her mind. What’s she on about?
‘Scent, man, scent!’ says Lucy. ‘Perfume is what the peasants call it.’
So I lift the tip of my nose to let her know I think she’s a terrible snob and the old man nods at Father Luke, telling him to continue.
‘My brothers and sisters, to prepare ourselves to celebrate the sacred mysteries,’ he says, all slow, ‘let us call to mind our sins.’ Father Luke pauses and smiles, very pleased with himself. He doesn’t know he’s fighting a losing battle.
Suddenly all the congregation start at once at high speed, women and men, even the lads who stand at the back. It’s like a sheep sale in Australia. ‘I-confess-to-Almighty-God-and-to-you-my-brothers-and-sisters-that-I-have-sinned-through-my-own-fault-in-my-thoughts-and-in-my-words-in-what-I-have-done-and-in-what-I-have-failed-to-do.’
Poor old Father Luke has turned white as the locals continue.
‘And-I-asked-blessed-Mary-ever-virgin-all-the-angels-and-saints-and-you-my-brothers-and-sisters-to-pray-for-me-to-the-Lord-our-God.’ They’re finished now and out of breath and happy as Larry, all of them. The old man smiles to himself and to the men behind who nod back, united in triumph. Poor old Father Luke looks totally gobsmacked.
Outside the church the old man shakes hands with the new priest. ‘Forty-two minutes. Not bad … for the first time.’ A warning.
‘Thank … thank you, Mr Montague.’ Another one bites the dust.
I’m watching the old man walk with the sisters towards the Jag, but out of the corner of one eye I’m also watching Annie as she gets onto the Dublin bus, which has just appeared. Annie’s looking all serious and sad and she’s doing a grand job as her parents look upset as well. Great. The bus pulls away. It’s my turn now. I walk away from the Jag and across the road kicking the gravel and sulking and trying hard to look all forlorn and suicidal and I can hear the old man behind me commenting to everyone who’ll listen, about me, of course. ‘Pathetic!’
Then he shouts out to get my attention. ‘Oi! Justin?’
‘Leave him alone,’ says Emma. As if.
‘If you’re not back in half an hour, you’ll miss lunch!’ That would only be a punishment for you, you fat git. I reach the trees on the far side and I’m trying hard to go a little faster without him noticing and I wish he’d just get into his fecking Jew’s canoe and go home. Hurry up please Dad, hurry or you’ll ruin my brilliant plan. Just as I’m about to give up hope the Jag starts and he roars off down the road.
Now I’m running through the woods as hard as I can go and I’m smiling again because no one’s looking. I grab a branch as a whip and now I’m winning the Grand National.
‘Coming to the post it’s Carrickbeg chased by Ayala ridden by that great Irish jockey Pat Buckley …’ I’m flying through the bushes being scratched alive by the branches and stung by the nettles and I’m beating myself with the stick as I run. ‘… now Ayala’s moving up. Can he make it? A hundred yards to go and Ayala’s in front. He’s going to win, he’s going to win!’ I jump over a fence and ‘He’s won!’ onto the road, right into the path of the Dublin bus, which screeches to a halt in front of me.
The bus is moving again and I’m apologizing to the driver who, to give him his due, looks amused. Unfortunately, the conductor doesn’t look very happy.
‘Bold boy!’ says the driver, trying to look serious.
‘Thank you, sir, for stopping,’ says I, all humble-like.
Mr Grumpy Conductor is not impressed. ‘I’ll sir you, you little skunt!’
The driver’s still on my side though. ‘Hold on now, Jimmy. He’s just a kid running off some energies. Were you never one?’
I run upstairs quick out of harm’s way. Annie stands at the top in fits of laughter. ‘Just like Ronnie Delany winning Olympic gold,’ she says.
‘More like Milo O’Shea winning an Oscar. Poor Emma. She nearly cried for pitying me.’ I pull out the wad of cash, very pleased with myself.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you robbed the bank.’
‘No. The old man. Hey, I’ve got a new one about poor old Paddy.’
‘Sock it to me, Shakespeare.’ Annie loves my little poems.
‘Paddy Kelly broke his belly, sliding on a lump of jelly …’
‘Brilliant!’ says Annie.
We’re both repeating it, laughing: ‘Paddy Kelly broke his belly, sliding on a lump of jelly. Paddy Kelly broke his belly, sliding on a lump of jelly.’
Minutes later we’re sitting right up the front of the bus. We’re looking through the huge window and it’s like going to the cinema and the bus seems to be going really fast when you’re sitting up here like a fairground ride. I totally understand why Paddy Kelly likes them so much, these buses. Whenever there’s a new design of double-decker Paddy, on his day off, will ride the bus to Dublin and back time and time again until it’s dark. Once Paddy was reading his old newspapers late into the night, as he always does, when his eye catches an advertisement. ‘CIÉ Mystery Bus Tour of the Countryside. £3. Lavish Picnic Included.’
On this particular day Paddy Kelly sets off all excited to Dublin, to CIÉ headquarters. He pays his £3, nearly a week’s wages, and away they go on the Mystery Bus Tour of the Countryside, Paddy and all these Dublin ladies. But where do they go on this mystery tour? All around the area where we live. Sadly for Paddy, he knew every inch of the ground the bus covered. At the end of the day, the bus heads back to Dublin and on its journey goes right past the lane on Golden Hill where Paddy lives with the old lady who looks after him. ‘Let me off. Let me off,’ mutters Paddy.
‘No way,’ answers the greasy Dublin driver in his greasy Dublin voice. ‘I tuke twenty-tree people on this tewer and that’s hew many I have to bring back. Rewels are rewels. So sit back dewen. At wunce!’ Poor Paddy had to ride the bus the whole way to town and catch another one, all the way back home.
And so here we are, Annie and me, and we’re up the front and singing and the only other people up here on the top of the 62a bus to Dublin are two old ladies who are loving it and tapping their seats as we sing away, the pair of us, in our best Dublin accents: ‘I’ll tell me ma, when I go home, the boys won’t leave the girls alone. They pull my hair, they steal my comb, and that’s alright till I go home. She is handsome, she is pretty, she’s the belle of Belfast city. She’s a courtin’, one, two …’
‘Stop that racket!�
� Oh shite. Mr Grumpy Conductor is standing right over us, furious. ‘Hold on, now. Hold on just a bleeding minute. I know you. You’re a Montague, aren’t you?’
‘So?’
Then he sticks his ugly face right into mine and spits all over me, dirty bastard. ‘So? So you’re going to be a loud-mouthed gobshite just like your father.’
Well it’s one thing me being rude about the old man but I’m not going to have some fecking Dublin gurrier insulting him.
‘You’re the fecking gobshite!’
The conductor grabs my ear and pulls it really hard and I practically wet myself as he splutters at me. ‘I’m going to give you what for, you stuck up snotty little blow-in.’
‘I’m not a blow-in. I was born here, I’m Irish! Do you hear? Irish!’
‘If a cat has kittens in a fishmonger’s it doesn’t make them fish, does it?’
I’m lost for words but Annie isn’t. ‘Ah, but he smells of fish.’ And now she’s batting her beautiful eyes at the conductor. ‘Mr Conductor? Justin’s dad may be a little bit loud, just like that Murphy fella. You know Mr Murphy? Isn’t he your boss?’
You liar, Annie. Brilliant! The conductor, suddenly nervy, lets go of my ear and now I’m rubbing it and trying at the same time to keep track of what Annie’s up to.
‘In fact, Justin, wasn’t that Mr Murphy down at The Hall for a party just the other day? I’m sure Mr Murphy would love to hear how well you looked after us on the way to Dublin. Wouldn’t he, Justin?’
‘Oh he’s always asking, so he is,’ says I.
‘Well?’ asks the conductor, all subdued and quiet.
‘Well what?’
‘Where are youse two agitators getting off then? That’s what.’
The House of Slamming Doors Page 8
