*
‘Wonderful.’ Lady Helen lies back on the bed, dishevelled, eyes blazing.
Roger, lying exhausted beside her, is pleased with his performance but wishes Helen would occasionally like something a little more romantic. He sips from a Bloody Mary.
‘Was it really?’
‘What do you think?’ She smiles, and Roger grabs his chance, the only chance to once again broach the subject that means so much to him.
‘Helen, darling? Have you thought about what I said? Lamu Island. Imagine! Sunshine every day, lovely African people, the Indian Ocean at weekends. Honestly, darling, you wouldn’t believe it. It’s like going back a thousand years. Stunning blue sea, old dhows, friendly Arabs, dolphins, turtles, and …’
‘And what?’ says Helen, wishing that Roger would just shut up and enjoy the moment.
‘We’d have loads of servants.’
‘I have loads of servants.’
‘The boy can come with us.’
Helen takes a Cocktail Sobranie from the pack and lights it. Then she remembers when she last had her cigarette case.
‘Oh my God. Have you got it?’
‘Got what?’
‘My cigarette case, of course. Didn’t I leave it in your MG? I’m sure I did.’
‘Oh shit!’ Roger looks worried. ‘You did.’
‘So? Where is it?’
Moments later, Helen is striding furiously down the main staircase into the lobby. She’s so annoyed she’s even forgotten that they shouldn’t be seen together.
‘Are you always so stupid?’ Roger, following close behind, hardly has a chance to answer.
‘A pretty girl, right at your gates. The front ones.’
‘You ass!’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘No, you’re bloody not. You did it on purpose!’ she hisses.
‘Christ, darling, I just wanted to get a look. There’s nothing wrong with that. After all, he is mine, isn’t he?’
‘I told you, stay away from him!’ Roger thinks it better just to remain silent. Whatever he says will only be wrong. ‘Well? Describe her.’
‘A stunner. Too young, of course.’
‘I didn’t ask whether you’d like to sleep with her, although I wouldn’t be surprised. Brunette, red hair, blonde?’
Roger’s face is in shock. ‘Like her,’ he says.
‘Like whom?’
‘That’s her!’ Roger points into the Lord Mayor’s Lounge. ‘Now, we’ll find out. Oh yes, we will,’ he says as he strides in.
But before he can get through the door, Helen grabs him and pushes him round the corner against the wall, out of sight.
‘Hey!’ says Roger, protesting.
‘Don’t you dare!’
‘Why ever not?’
‘She’s with the boy.’
*
Annie and I are sitting there having a great old time eating cakes and strawberries and scones and clotted cream and Annie’s gawping at her chandelier and I’m looking across the room and I see that couple again, the ones from the lobby, and I suddenly realize what it is that confused me about what they were up to.
‘Listen,’ says I to Annie, all serious. ‘Do you think we’re different? You and me?’
‘Have you looked in your pants lately?’
‘Ha, ha. Very funny. What I mean is. Once I remember when you went to visit your uncle in Donegal and you came back …’
‘Yeh?’
‘I saw your parents. They, they threw their arms around you. Your mother actually cried.’
‘So?’
‘What’s it like?’
‘I dunno. Just normal I suppose.’ Well, it doesn’t look normal to me. It looks fecking weird.
‘Annie? Did you ever watch those American films where they live in white houses with porches and they all have big lawns that go straight down to the road with brand new red bicycles flying everywhere, and everyone knows everyone and there’s never a cloudy day? Big fridges in all the kitchens and hanging out at the ice-cream parlour?’
‘Lovely.’
‘That’s where I’d like to live. Wouldn’t you? Annie?’ Annie’s not listening and the cup of hot drinking chocolate in her hand starts shaking and I know she’s going to drop it, the clumsy cow, all over the silky yellow sofa. I grab it quick, the cup, and just in bloody time, thank heavens.
‘Oh, my God! Hello Mister.’
Annie’s staring up like she’s seen a ghost and I look up and there’s this big man standing over me and Annie and I’ve never seen him before but something makes me feel I have.
‘Aren’t you going to introduce me, young lady?’
‘This is Justin. Justin Montague,’ says Annie, all nervous and emphasizing my surname for some strange reason.
‘Hello, Justin. I’m Roger.’ So I jump up and take his hand.
‘Hello sir. How do you do?’ But he keeps a hold of my hand and doesn’t let go of squeezing it and it’s all sweaty, his palm is, but I don’t want to be rude and pull away.
‘Emma has it,’ says Annie quickly to my surprise.
‘Oh dear,’ says this Roger fella, looking worried.
‘Emma? Emma has what?’ Annie doesn’t answer me. What the fuck is she on about?
‘May I sit?’ asks Mr Clammy Hands.
‘Please do sir,’ says I, moving the bag of pears from the sofa.
‘Thank you … Justin,’ he says, staring at me. I mean really staring. ‘I say. When’s your birthday?’
‘My birthday? June 26th. I was just thirteen, sir.’
‘You’re a good-looking young boy.’ I’m looking at Annie and we’re thinking the same thing about this weirdo and we’re trying not to laugh. So before we do, we make our excuses and leave.
*
Roger is alone. On his lap sits the bag of pears. He munches one, distracted, and even though he realizes he is dribbling pear juice down one side of his chin, he doesn’t care. Roger’s life has changed in one moment. He has just met his son, his only child, for the first time ever. He doesn’t know what to feel and he hardly hears the words of the head waiter who is now standing over him.
‘Afternoon tea, sir?’
‘What? No, thank you. Armagnac please, Laballe, Chateau Laballe. A double. No. Make it a double, double.’
‘Certainly, sir.’ The head waiter turns to leave.
‘One moment. That boy? Do you think we look alike, him and I? The one that was just here with the young gal?’
‘Oh yes sir, of course. I’ll get your brandy, sir. You’ll feel much better.’ The head waiter walks off, muttering to himself. It must be the moon. Jesus, the boy is the spitting image of his da.
*
I’m in shock because I’m clutching a ten-pound note, a whole ten pounds, as we walk back down St Stephen’s Green towards Grafton Street.
‘Dirty skunt!’ says I, all disgusted with the perv.
‘Who gives a shite? Ten whole pounds! God, give us twenty, we’ll arrange an orgy!’ Roaring with laughter we’re running off down the street towards the Green Cinema.
When you want to go on a date in Ireland, you ask a girl to the pictures. Once you’ve met them, probably at a hop. I went to my first hop in the local town hall about six months ago. Everyone was away and Bridget was desperate to go and didn’t want to go alone. I was happy to oblige and in the end was really pleased I did. It was a great laugh. All the lads were sitting on these long wooden benches down one side of the hall, facing the women sitting on the other. One of these lads, Declan Flanagan, a spotty bank clerk, had noticed Bridget and was desperate to ask her to dance. All his friends kept nudging him to get across and speak to her and finally he got up the courage. Declan took off his cap and across he comes to Bridget and mutters, ‘Would you like a dance?’
Off they went, flying around the floor while the local show band played an Elvis song called ‘Kiss Me Quick’. When the music finished, the happy lad brings Bridget back to her place where I was sitting with all
the ladies. As they arrive back, Declan says to your one, to Bridget.
‘Would you like a mineral? Or would you like to go the toilet?’
Anyway, Bridget looks Declan up and down for what seems like a very long time and then replies.
‘I think I’ll just go the toilet, thanks anyway.’
The poor Flanagan lad looked devastated and I couldn’t figure out why. Christ, she only wanted to go the bathroom. It couldn’t be that bad, could it? I soon found out the truth on the way home when Bridget explained. Apparently it was a signal, this wanting to go to the toilet. If Bridget had wanted to spend more time with Declan, she would have just accepted the offer of the mineral. She didn’t fancy him, not at all. So she went to the toilet even though she explained that she hadn’t really wanted to go at all.
Twelve
Anybody can be good in the country. There are no temptations there.
Oscar Wilde
Sunday, 30 June 1963
We’re inside the Green Cinema, Annie and me, and it’s only half full, which is surprising because I just read in The Guinness Book of Records for 1962 that the Irish go to the cinema more than anyone else in the world: twenty-six times per person, per year.
Annie and I are sitting, feet up, watching advertisements and shovelling popcorn and we can’t help joining in on the jingle for the bread that gets delivered to us in a van. ‘Johnston, Mooney, and O’Brien, Make the best bread, bread you can rely on. It’s Johnston, Mooney, and O’Brien, the favourite family pan! Da da!’ And we’re laughing away at how funny we are and people are staring but we don’t care. If you’ve had to tangle with my old man on a daily basis nothing scares you. Or everything does, if I’m honest.
A little later and the main programme is on. Annie’s eyes are out on stalks, and I jump up out of my seat like a real hero to protect her, and now I’m pointing my pistols like John bloody Wayne.
‘Get back!’ I yell at Annie, as I stand in front of her and I start to shoot the scary birds on the big screen. ‘Pow, pow! Pow, pow!’ And some people are looking round in their seats, disgusted, but I don’t care as I’ve got ten pounds in my pocket. ‘Pow, pow!’
And now the whole cinema is staring. ‘Pow, pow!’
Annie grabs me and pulls me back down into my seat. ‘Nutter!’
I’m sure she’s thrilled and proud of me for being such a hero. We’re watching again and it is frightening, as poor old Tippi Hedren gets all blooded being scratched and pecked by birds that have gone mad. Annie grabs my arm for safety and I love it as no one can see. I just wish I had the nerve to kiss her as well.
Anyway, I’m just happy to have enough cash to take Annie to the cinema, not something I can always do. I used to have a friend, Walter Cosgrove, and Walter’s parents were really rich and owned most of the cinemas in Dublin. The only money I ever had was from working on the farm, and as I only got half-wages for working my arse off I never ended up with much in my pocket and I couldn’t afford to take Annie to the cinema, something she really loved. Luckily Walter fancied Annie. So Walter and I came to a gentlemen’s agreement. He would get us the tickets and we would sit either side of Annie. It was quite funny as Annie and I would have our eyes glued to the screen and Walter would have his glued to Annie. Walter once said to me:
‘Gosh, Justin. She’s lovely, Annie. I just wish I had the nerve to take someone like that home.’
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. What he was basically saying was that he liked Annie enough to bring her to his house but wouldn’t have the nerve to introduce her to his parents as she wasn’t from the same kind of background. In the end, Annie got sick at being gawped at by Walter so I had to revert to stealing money from the old man’s holiday cupboard to pay for our visits to the pictures.
This holiday cupboard, as I called it, was in his dressing room above his sock drawers. As soon as the parentals came back from one of their many holliers, the old man would just grab all his foreign currency and throw it up on the top shelf. He was too bloody lazy to bother changing it. About once every two years he would grab the whole lot and take it into Dublin and have it converted. There was always piles of it lying around, mainly French francs or Canadian or American dollars. I would sneak in, grab a bundle and take it to the bank in Dublin. It was very exciting because I never knew how much I would get and I always justified it in my mind that it was Mum’s family money and therefore more mine than his. I guess it is still stealing so I’ll tell the priest eventually. That should make his day.
The old man himself always had problems with the bank. Well, that’s not altogether true. In fact it was normally the other way round. They had problems with him. They were terrified. One time the new head bank manager in St Stephen’s Green wrote to him. He just wanted to go over everything and discuss the huge overdraft. Apparently the old man had received a very polite letter from this particular new manager, suggesting that he, the manager, could come out to visit the old man at The Hall or if that didn’t suit, he would be delighted to ‘meet you in town and give you luncheon at the Kildare Street Club’. A very charming letter by all accounts.
But the old man didn’t see it that way. He saw it as a threat and went berserk and wrote back a stinging reply saying that he would go and meet the new manager ‘when he was good and ready and not before!’ And if the bank manager was ‘stupid enough to mention his overdraft again, he would move banks’. I guess the old man knew he held the power as Grandpa Charlton was a director of the very same bank in England.
Lucy saw the actual reply that he sent and it ended like this: ‘To put it in simple terms you might be capable of understanding – don’t cut the udders off a good milking cow!’
As we walk out of the Green Cinema I check the time but Annie’s still thinking about the film. ‘Watch out! Keep your eyes open!’ she yelps, all fake-scared and looking up to the sky as though we’re about to be horribly savaged by a few scrawny old Dublin seagulls.
I glance at my watch and realize to my horror that we’re late. ‘Oh shite, Annie. The last bus. Run!’
Now we’re running hard holding hands down Grafton Street towards Aston Quay to catch the 62a. I hear someone hooting their car behind us and I look back to see if they’re hooting at us but Annie says all funny, ‘Don’t! Probably more perverts.’
I’m still running but looking back and I can’t believe my eyes and I stop suddenly and I’m still holding Annie’s hand and I’m much stronger than her because of riding racehorses and Annie practically flies in through the door of Bewley’s coffee house because I stopped so quick. ‘Jesus, Annie, sorry. It’s Donal. Look!’
The Jaguar pulls up, all slow of course, with Donal driving and Bridget in the passenger seat. Bridget thinks it’s hilarious seeing the pair of us. ‘Would youse two like a lift or are you eloping?’
‘Eloping,’ says Annie. She loves Bridget.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised. Hop in!’
A little later the Jag crawls down a country lane. Annie and I are in the back, and Annie leans forward over the red leather seat, which is just like a sofa, and points at Bridget’s large bag. ‘Shopping?’
‘Of course,’ says Bridget.
‘What did you buy?’
‘Glue, what else? To fix a certain Chinese vase.’ Bridget’s got this funny-serious look on her gob, that look she has when she’s taking the mickey. Annie gets the joke straight away.
‘Sorry Bridget. I couldn’t help it. Mr Montague gave me such a fright …’
‘I wouldn’t worry yerself. It was only a fake.’
Annie makes the sign of the cross and looks heavenwards. ‘Thank you, God.’
Donal decides it’s time to make an announcement.
‘Justin? I was informed by the boss man that you two weren’t to be seeing each other.’
‘Donal will say nothing, I can assure you,’ says Bridget, staring daggers at Donal.
‘What about youse two, Donal?’ asks Annie. Christ, she’s got a nerve that one.
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‘Mr Sheridan to you, Annie Cassidy,’ says Donal, furious at Annie’s impertinence.
‘Sorry, Mr Sheridan,’ says Annie, not sorry at all.
Donal doesn’t like Annie’s cheek. Not one iota. ‘You’re a bold girl, Annie Cassidy, and very pass-remarkable. I was giving Bridget a lift to visit her sister. She’s married in Blackrock.’
‘Everyone’s married in Blackrock. Anyway, Donal’s engaged himself,’ says Bridget.
Annie and I are stunned.
‘No!’ says Annie.
‘Since when?’ asks I.
‘May,’ says Donal.
‘1959,’ says Bridget.
‘Bloody hell! Four whole years?’ says Annie.
Now Bridget’s having fun and teasing Donal. ‘Poor woman. When are you going to do it?’
‘Maybe next year. As you know …’ and now Donal’s looking in the mirror at us two, ‘… I don’t like to rush things.’
We nearly wet ourselves laughing. I have never, ever, heard Donal make a joke, especially about himself. It was brilliant.
Donal had a cousin, Declan Reynolds, a really lovely man. He wasn’t serious like Donal and was always very kind. Declan was an electrician in Clondakin and used to come and sort out all our wiring and service the generator. I mean, when you lived in this part of the world, the power was always going off and that would mean a disaster in the milking parlour. Imagine milking a hundred and fifty cows by hand: your fingers would drop off! So because of the farm and the racehorses we had our own diesel-powered generator.
As soon as the power went out, the old man would lumber out with his torch to go and wind up the wheel and get the generator started. You could hear him cursing away about bloody Ireland and the bloody Irish. But he wasn’t really being honest. I’m sure that it made him really happy, made him feel like a real man, to have to go out in the middle of a stormy night to save us and the animals from a terrible fate.
I think Declan realized what a hard time I had, so he used to take me pike fishing. I was always a bit suspicious of people like Declan. After all my own father doesn’t even like me so why would someone like Declan take an interest? Was he a perv or just trying to get in the old man’s good books? I just couldn’t help thinking it because I don’t really trust many people, but I do feel bad for having had those thoughts, especially about such a kind man.
The House of Slamming Doors Page 10
