Two Walls and a Roof

by John Michael Cahill

  We arrived in Tralee fully kitted out for a biking weekend, all bedecked with fur coats, helmets, gloves and food; well prepared for the icy weather of a Kerry Easter. We looked like people from another planet, or from Tibet at the very least. I decided on these clothes as it was an early Easter that year and a motorbike is a cold way to travel in our weather, so we came prepared for all eventualities. The train journey was uneventful, except all the time I kept getting this uneasy feeling about the hotel, not having booked it myself. When we drove the bike to the hotel I became even more uneasy. The car park was full and I began to wonder what was on in Tralee. Soon I realized that a huge car rally was on in Killarney and the overspill of people was also filling up every place in Tralee, twenty miles away. But I assured Etta there was no need for worry as Bobo had our room arranged and it was free as well. There was a queue for the reception desk and we had no choice but to join it and ask for Bobo, but it was obvious that rooms were really scarce that night. Still I was not too worried; ours was booked after all. As we stood in line, complete with our Himalayan garb, we began getting all kinds of condescending looks from the well-heeled customers who didn’t arrive on motorbikes carrying large, cheap helmets, furry coats and bags of food. We were quite unconcerned at these scornful looks as Bobo had it all arranged for us, and I kept telling Etta that we were very lucky that Kyrle had such important friends. We slowly moved ever closer to the reception desk, holding our helmets, gloves, and coats, while the rich and famous politely moved their expensive suitcases along as well.

  Finally we arrived at the desk and I saw the receptionist staring at us, her eyes travelling up and down our bodies as her brain began registering disbelief at the sight before her. Then she looked directly at me and began a long purposeful silence…. After she had done her best at intimidating me with the long pause, she goes, “Can I help you……. sir?” with another long pause before she says the word ‘sir’, and again she began staring me up and down. In my innocence I took this as possibly she had been told by Bobo to expect motorbike types as special guests, but alarm bells were tinkling nonetheless. Then in my best ‘man of the world’ accent, remembering how James Bond did things, I says, “Yes my dear, we have a reservation. Cahill is the name, it was arranged by Bobo,.. Bobo Boyle”. As I started to speak she began to check the register, but the minute she heard the name Bobo her head shot up in amazement. I became sure then we were in for special treatment, as according to Kyrle, Bobo was a special friend of the manager. She coldly says to me, “No, we have no reservation, we are booked out, nothing at all, not a room left,” and then she gives me another one of her special long pauses. Still it has not dawned on me that anything might be amiss.

  I tell her that she’s mistaken, that it’s all been arranged by Bobo Boyle, a friend of the manager, and we have to have a room as we have no place else to stay. She becomes adamant that she hasn’t got a room. The line of guests has now grown very long, and later I realized that we were quite the source of entertainment for all. This initial argument soon develops into a row, with me getting mad at her for her inability to read a register, and she threatening to call the manager. I tell her to go right ahead, as he will fix it being Bobo’s friend. She picks up the phone and makes the call.

  Within two minutes he arrives out of an office. He was a big man, not one to take on lightly, especially when you are weighed down with motorbike gear and your girlfriend is now bright red and tugging at you to leave. So I start to repeat the whole story again and as soon as I got to Bobo he roars out, “There’s no Bobo here, do you understand English? No Bobo”. His tone shocked me. This was not funny and I tell him so, then he says very firmly, “Look, we have no reservation for you two,” giving us a rotten sneering look in the process and he continues, “You better clear off now and stop wasting our time or I’ll have to call the Guards”. That was too much for me. I then decided that with their kind of attitude I wasn’t staying there no matter what they offered, so I say to Etta, “Let’s get the fuck out of here, they are all only fuckers anyway. This place is full of em”. If they felt we were tramps, we may as well speak like tramps. We gather our gear and slink out. By then I am raging, first in disbelief that Bobo let us down, then later Etta says rather quietly, “Maybe there is no Bobo, did you ever think of that?” The penny drops finally. We had been tricked, and I roar out, “That dirty rotten fucker, fuck him. He’s the greatest bastard alive, I’ll get him for this, no matter how long it takes”.

  By that time it had become really late on a Saturday night, and with every rat hole full, we hadn't a chance of finding a place to stay. It was now survival time. We went from place to place asking the same question, “Any rooms for the night?” getting the same answer, “No,” and I becoming more and more desperate while cursing Kyrle all the time. We were eventually told of a woman called Mrs Kaner who was every person’s last resort. We found her house, or should I say coven, in a narrow lane in the middle of Tralee town, and she arrived at the door as we knocked politely. She was a small, thin woman who kept coughing up phlegm into a dirty old handkerchief. I asked if she had a room for the night, and she looks us up and down slowly amid the coughing. There is no doubt but we must have looked a bit dodgy with all the gear, but she says, “Well I have only the wan room with two beds,” and I say quickly, “That’s fine, we’ll take it”. She says, looking at Etta, “Are ye married?” I wouldn’t lie about such things on principle alone and answer that we are not. Unknown to me, Etta was feverishly trying to change a ring to her married finger behind her back when it looked like I blew it. Mrs Kaner says, “Oh well sure I don’t know about this at all. I can’t have any of that ould carry on in me house, I don’t go for it you see,” while spluttering and hacking again into her hanky as she talks.

  It’s now time for quick thinking on my part and I resort to playing the religion card, having seen the many holy pictures in her hallway. I says, “Ah that’s awright so, but would you know if it’s too late for us to go to the midnight Mass?” We have no notion whatsoever of going to any kind of Mass, but I thought it might swing her around, and she mutters, “Aahh sure yer not too bad so, ye go to Mass do ye, and it’s too late for the Mass now anyways, so come on in. Sure I’ll keep an eye on ye meself in the night”. So we do go in, glad to be out of the biting cold, but feeling we were not going to have a good night after all. I ask her if I can park my motorbike in her hallway, and she says okay but not to burn her house down. Secretly I was wondering if she had had a vision of my earlier bike burning incident in Mallow. After a short chat in her kitchen, complete with more coughing, she decides to show us the room. We make our way up a narrow little stairs along a creaking and creepy landing and arrive at the room with its two small iron beds. The room is freezing cold and we dare not ask for a heater. It was small and poky with a tiny window onto the street below. Then she said that she was sleeping in the room next to us, and she repeated this too often for my liking. With our room sorted for the night, things were looking a bit better and we ventured out for some food. Mrs Kaner warned us to be back by midnight or she’d lock the door and that’s it. She opened it for no one after the “clock struck”. She wouldn’t give us a key either, and so we took off quickly trying to find a chipper before we fell down with the hunger. We got our food and I wanted to get to bed and forget that awful day, so we made our way back quickly. As we returned, we passed a pub on a corner where it had revellers literally falling out of it. It was also full of singers and dancers with a great buzz going on inside. It would have been great to be able to stay, but Kaner’s curfew was close. I thought too that it might be a good idea to bring old Kaner back a little drop of whiskey to ensure we got a good breakfast, not the stale cornflakes I was expecting, so I tell Etta this plan. She agrees and we crush our way inside the pub. I eventually get to the bar and ask for whiskey in a bottle to take away. This must have been some kind of code word in Kerry because the burly barman looks at Etta and gives me a knowing nod, then he reaches un
der the counter, pulls out a large unmarked bottle and pours a clear liquid into another small bottle and tells me the price. I was surprised at how cheap it was, but obviously if you’re brewing your own spirits, your costs are lower. He had given me Ireland’s mountain dew known as poteen, and even I knew that. I really wanted whiskey, but there was no arguing with him, so I paid and left.

  Just before the clock struck midnight Kaner left us in and says we were just in time, or we would be left on the street for the night, with no deposit back either. She keeps looking at Etta while we chat to her in her kitchen, making Etta feel uncomfortable because of the looks and the constant hacking into the dirty old cloth. She says, “You’re very thin aren’t you?” and pinches her. Etta is disgusted. I gave her the ‘whiskey’ and she says, “And what’s this… is it the way yer trying to knock me out for the night? Well it won’t work, coz I sleep light you see”. I assure her that it’s just a gift and she looks at it again and says, “Tis a quare class of a gift, isn’t it,” but she began to drink it nonetheless. I tell her it’s just whiskey and I don’t care what she does with it, as I was then tired out, still mad at Kyrle, just sick of the whole day, and her ‘sleeping light’ remark was the final straw.

  By then it’s way past bedtime and we go on up to our room. I soon realize we can’t lock the bloody door either. I have visions of old Kaner rushing in through our door at the first sound we make, saying, “I’ll have none of that auld carry on in me house”. What’s more, she had reminded me of someone all night long, and then it dawned on me that she looked like an old witch. I could almost see her flying round the beds on her broomstick in the middle of the night casting spells on us, so I knew I would not sleep a wink, and there was not even the remotest chance of any of her ‘ould carry on stuff’ happening either. We strip off for bed, and I ask Etta which bed she wants. She chooses the one by the window and we get in the beds. I hear Kaner coming up the stairs and snuggle under the clothes with visions of her broomstick swishing past the door, or worse still, coming in through it. After about an hour Etta whispers, “Are you asleep?” How could I be asleep with all the revelry going on in the street outside? With happy people having fun on the long weekend, and us two stuck in a coven with a witch six feet from my head while I’m laying in a bed as cold as the grave? She says she is cold and will I swap beds. I agree and in crossing the floor I make a grab for her, just for the fun of it. Etta lets out a laugh and leaps back from me, falling on her bed which flies across the floor and up against the wall. It makes such a racket that I have a vision of Kaner coming straight through the door right at that moment, so I leap into my bed, which also bangs off the wall, but she doesn’t arrive in and we both fall sleep fitfully. Maybe the Poteen did work after all.

  At about six a.m. I hear a car pulling up outside her coven, and the front door gets a few loud knocks. Thick Kerry accents were saying, “Mrs Kaner let us in, let us in will ya”. I assume these were some revellers who didn’t make her curfew and she was sticking to her rules, or else the poteen had worked. Later still they are back again pleading, but still no entry is allowed. Then there are peals of laughter from the callers and all goes quiet once more after their car drove off. In the morning I knew why. We are having the dreaded stale cornflake breakfast as feared, and I know the gift had failed when Kaner tells me that my bike is leaking water. I jump up, as there was no water in my bike but there was petrol, and I rush to the hallway not wanting a second bike conflagration. To my relief I found that the whole floor was covered in piss, not petrol, and then I knew why the peals of laughter took place; the revellers had all pissed in her letterbox in revenge. We finish our breakfast and as we leave she says, “Well ye had a fine time last night didn’t ye, and be sure to return on yer honeymoon”. Obviously the poteen didn’t work for all of the night. I couldn’t believe it. We had done nothing, and here is the old witch thinking we had sex all night long. I couldn’t win, but I was sure of one thing, we wouldn’t be going back to Kaner on our honeymoon or anytime else either.

  The weekend’s disasters didn’t end there however. It was then Sunday and we spent a lovely day just driving around Kerry on the bike. It was gloriously sunny and we had such a good time that we decided to continue on to Killarney to see the car rally. This was uneventful and we drove all around the lakes and saw the beautiful scenery. We didn’t notice the time passing until it was eleven o’clock at night, and then with drunks and revellers everywhere, we needed a place to stay once again, but none was to be had. I again raged at Kyrle and swore more vengeance on him, and as a last resort we headed for the railway station. I assumed it would be open and at least we would be in from the cold. We drove up and snuck in, trying to act inconspicuously, but we had just got in when a big fight broke out between a large amount of drunks who had had the same idea as us. We hurriedly left as the guards would be arriving, and even though it was freezing cold, a prison cell was not the ideal place to spend the night. I knew of the car park at the Three Lakes Hotel. It was somewhat sheltered on one side and we decided that was our spot. We sat on a wall inside it and tried to keep warm by huddling together. This went on for hours, but we couldn’t sleep as I was certain we would freeze to death if we did sleep. Of course that was just innocence. Eventually we decided to sleep in an open sports car and we were just getting into it when the Guards arrived and told us to get the hell out of it. After an eternity, dawn broke and we saddled up and drove back to Cork. We crashed out on Etta’s single bed, and even though it was a small bed, we were so tired that we would have slept on a stone that day. And so ended our terrible weekend. On the Tuesday Kyrle had the cheek to ring me and ask how Bobo was doing. I was so mad I called him every name under the sun before slamming down the phone on him. We naturally made it up later, but he probably thinks I have forgotten about the revenge. I have not. If he remembers though, it’s got to be the worst kind of terror for him, not knowing when it will happen and the right opportunity just has not presented itself as yet, but it will.

  We dated for about five years and then began living together, which was almost unheard of in those days. I had no interest in marriage and was quite happy with life. By then I had been working with my good friend Larry Andersen for years and time just drifted along. Etta would vaguely mention marriage, but I saw no need of it and would never have got married. However, after five years it became too much for her, and with Christmas approaching and no sign of a ring, one evening she just gave me an ultimatum: get married or shag off. During the row that erupted she simply pointed out to me that while a man can go on living like we did indefinitely, a woman loses her looks and then has to start to find a man all over again. It became crystal clear to me that she was right and I saw that we seemed to be happy, so decided to get married.

  On the day of the wedding I had made the mistake of letting Hayes convince me that he would be my chauffeur; a mistake indeed, as he was always late for everything. In typical form for Hayes, on my wedding day Kyrle (my best man) and I had to walk to his house about a mile away, as there was no sign of him getting up. Jerry’s mother had to drag him out of bed and then he managed to break all records getting us the seven miles to Mallow and the church, but we were late as usual.

  Etta, knowing him well, made sure that she would be ‘extra’ late, but we still arrived after her and that was a bad omen for the marriage. The day became totally mad, with family and friends just having a great time. My father got totally drunk on poteen and that night he decided to have a row with the mother’s kitchen table. He said the table ‘had no clothes on’ and it was naked. Everyone fell around laughing because he was sitting in his car seat chair in his nightshirt and nothing else. He looked like Ghandi on a bad day, and it was a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black.

  I know that we went to Dublin on our honeymoon and Etta got the flu. After walking around Dublin all day and her getting worse, we went to a pharmacy and got tablets for the flu. The chemist warned us that they were strong and to ta
ke just two every four hours. I persuaded Etta to take four so that she would get better faster, and within minutes of taking them she conked out, sleeping for over twelve hours. It’s a wonder she is still alive, but it cured her of the flu and so we began our turbulent married life.

  The plan was to move to a little flat or apartment in Cork City, and this we did. I used to go to work in Mallow by train each morning and evening, and Etta worked in The Brothers of Charity home for retarded children. Being an inveterate practical joker all my life, I saw no reason to stop because of marriage, and many a joke I played on poor Etta. The worst or best of these jokes (depending on your point of view) was known to us all as the lizard incident. We were living in our flat in Cork City at the time on the Lower Road. This flat had paper thin walls and was not at all conducive to a tempestuous married couple. Our neighbours on the ‘paper thin’ side were Mick and Mrs Grimes. They were a lot older than us but were very nice people, keeping their distance, but being helpful if they could in a crisis.