by Lee Dunne
‘Ah shurrup,’ she said, playing, ‘I’m trying’ to listen to Buddy!’
‘Buddy Who?’
She grinned at me, knowing that I was kidding, and I went into the bedroom.
When I came back out, I knew I could do no wrong. I’d come back and they were glad to see me, and once they knew that I hadn’t done anything that would get me into trouble they were happy. And the two pounds had been like a breath of fresh air.
By the time I’d finished washing Ma and Mrs. Doyle had gone off to The Stella to see The Jolson Story. Al Jolson was a big favourite with both of them. They’d stood together to see him in The Singing Fool all those years ago, and I was chuffed for the pair of them. I was glad too that, even though I’d given the two quid for the wrong reason, I had treated them to a few hours of enjoyment up in the picture house, and they’d have enough for food for the weekend. And I wouldn’t feel so bad about hanging onto those two fivers.
Chapter 14
On the way to Campion’s I remembered the first night I’d worn the tweed suit, and how I’d felt as I walked up through Gulistan Cottages with just a few shillings in my pocket. Or was it a couple of quid? It was hard to be sure as I stepped it out in the grey pinhead, with the two crispy fivers in the inside pocket of my jacket.
I thought about luck too, and the way I seemed to attract it. There was no accounting for it but everything I did seemed to work out right for me. And even when things went against me, like Maureen and the baby, I got off with little more than a flesh wound. If I’d been able to believe in God I’d have said there was a guardian angel looking out for me, but with the way I lived that didn’t make sense either. According to the books and the priests, God was the top man, and unless you played it strictly by the rules he had no time for you. By the time I got into the bar I hadn’t come up with the answer.
Poor Redmond!
I always seemed to be making him green with envy, and as he stared at the suit I wondered why he ever bothered with me at all. It couldn’t have been easy for him while he was still wearing the suit with the shine on it, and I knew that if it had been the other way around, I’d have found a new pub to drink in.
He was in company, but he got up and walked over to me as I stood waiting for the two pints I’d ordered.
‘Tell me how you do it, Maguire. Just tell me how in the name of Jeysus you do it?’
‘What’re you on about now?’
‘What the fuckin’ hell do you think I’m talkin’ about?
The barman put the drinks in front of me and I handed him one of the fivers. Redmond looked from the note to me and back again. He didn’t say anything, but he looked as though he was about to bang his head against the wall. Then he grabbed the pint and put it straight down in one swallow. ‘Two more, Jimmy,’ he called to the barman, looking at me hard for a second before he said, ‘You know Maguire, I was more than right when I christened you Golden Ballocks. How in the name of Jeysus do you do it? And don’t tell me it was the masochist with the cane that paid you for beating the arse off her, or I’ll drop fuckin’ dead where I stand.’
I pulled out a packet of Woodbines and gave him one. He even looked at that as though it was a thirty-shilling cigar.
‘It’s only a Woodbine, Harry.’
He grinned at me, recovering his sense of humour. ‘Sure, but I was just checking. If it was marijuana, I wouldn’t blink a lid.’
We sat and I paid for the second two pints. I hadn’t even started on the first one so I carried the pair over to the table. We sat down and I put a big hole in the first one. If I didn’t, Redmond would end up drinking mine and all.
‘And it’s not a cane anymore, either,’ I said, ‘it’s a whip.’
‘Ah, for Jeyzuz sake, Maguire, couldn’t you put us in just the once, couldn’t you?’
‘I can’t, Harry. She’s not that kind of a mot. She likes me. She won’t just do it for any Tom, Dick or....’ I left his name off the line, sorry to lose the joke but afraid he might brain me with his now empty second pint glass.
He let me away with the joke, but only just, before he asked me: ‘She gave you the clobber and the fiver, did she?’
I shook my head. ‘No. I won the suit and some other gear in a talent contest.’
‘Maguire, leave off. This is Redmond you’re talking to, remember? There’s no need to get up on me back altogether.’
‘Straight, Harry. I sang a couple of songs in a talent contest and I won first prize.’
‘I never knew you could sing.’ He was a bit doubtful.
‘Well, I didn’t print the money myself and I didn’t pull the suit off a bush, either. Will you believe that?’
‘What about the fiver? Where did that come from?’
‘The mot! I’ve been down in Wicklow with her for the week.’
He was impressed. ‘Right enough,’ he said, ‘I haven’t seen you around all week. He rubbed his jaw viciously. ‘The one with the whip, was it?’
I nodded, with a face on me like a Mass Card: ‘yeh, she gave me the time of my life and then threw me the fiver when I was leaving.’
‘You’re poxed in luck.’ He spat the words out like bullets. ‘All my life I’ve been looking for a bird with dough, and a no good bastard like you gets one, no bother.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘you’re the one put me up to it. It was you who told me go into insurance and meet people. That’s how it all started.’
He nodded his head like a tired old man, and I burst out laughing. ‘Why do you think I buy you all the gargle I do? You don’t think it’s because I like you, surely to God?’
‘If you bought me a barrel a day, boy, you couldn’t pay me for meeting a bird like that.’ His eyes turned vacant and he sighed, in pain, ‘a masochist, with money, all this, and heaven too.’
I left him drooling, went over and ordered two more pints. He still sat dreaming at the table, and I thought that if the suit had made him envious, the bullshit was at least giving him a bit of pleasure. He wasn’t having it himself but, he knew someone who was, and to Harry that was better than nothing.
For the next half hour he kept on about the talent contest, but I stuck to my story. It was a lie, but if I were to tell him the truth he’d only hate me twice as much for being the luckiest bastard that ever drew breath.
When he suggested going into town for a drink I said okay. I had money to burn at the minute and I was in the humour for a change of scene, so, in no time at all we were getting off a bus in Parnell Square.
He took me into this lounge that was well filled with people including a lot of women. That was something I hadn’t expected. You didn’t see that many women in pubs in Dublin.
There was a fat fella playing the piano in one corner. He tickled the keys beautifully and he was all smiles, and there was a microphone beside him. He had a nice sort of face and he seemed so happy that you couldn’t help liking the look of him, and the feeling that everybody was having a good time was very strong in the lounge.
I bought a couple of whiskies and two pints of stout and when I handed Redmond the small glass he licked his lips. He took the whiskey in his mouth and he rolled it around his tongue. Not getting much chance to drink ‘the hard tack’, as he called it, he wasn’t just slinging it down the hatch.
It was a big lounge and newly decorated and there was a man in a grey suit behind the bar that looked like the boss. He kept an eye on the six hard working barmen and he seemed very pleased with the way the bells on his tills were steadily ringing. And you could hardly blame him. The barmen couldn’t pull the drinks quick enough.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.’ The fat pianist was on the microphone. ‘We start the ball rolling this evening with a song from your friend and mine, Tommy O’Reilly. And remember ladies and gents respect for the singer at all times, and of course, the m
icrophone is open to everyone. A big hand now please for Tommy O’Reilly.’
There was a good deal of applause for the man who walked up to the piano. He was a stout little fella of about fifty, and he had the easy way about him of a man who had done it all before. He wasn’t shy or nervous and when he started to sing it was in a good strong ‘Peter Dawson’ voice. He didn’t pay any attention to the microphone. He didn’t need it, and when he finished the song the audience nearly brought the house down with its applause. Then, for his encore, the little man did ‘Me and My Shadow’, in a song and soft-shoe dance routine, and I thought he was great. He worked hard and he enjoyed every second of it, and when I glanced at Redmond I could see that he was lapping it up as much as I was.
After that it was a long procession of people up to the microphone. Some were very good, others not so good, but every one of them having a try, giving a little of themselves and having fun as they did so. That was the great thing about it, as far as I could see. Almost everyone wanted to contribute something towards the success of the evening, and though I kept on looking about the room I didn’t see one person pull a face if one of the singers hit a bum note. Getting up, and having a go, seemed to be all that mattered.
By the time we’d had four or five rounds Redmond was looking really smug about something. I was trying to find out why, without actually asking him, when the pianist asked me by name, over the sound system to ‘oblige the company’. I knew then why Redmond had brought me to a singing house.
‘This’ll be a cakewalk after winning a talent contest,’ he said slyly, with a grin on his crooked mouth.
I felt like running out the door, but I knew he was waiting for me to do just that.
‘You sleeveen bastard,’ I hissed at him, and I walked up the room to the piano, my legs like jelly and my insides turning over with nerves.
I always think of that first walk to that first piano whenever I hear people run down a singer or a comedian. It always seems so easy, when you’re just watching, to do so much better. All you have to do is stand there. Well, I stood there as the pianist played my introduction, and from the way my legs were shaking it took me all my time not to fall down on the floor. And all the nice, jolly sort of people that had been in the room before seemed to have left. Instead I was looking at god knows how many vicious faces, all waiting for me to make a fool of myself. And when a fella sneered to his mot, he had to be sneering at me. He was. I just knew he was!
So, to protect myself, I just picked out a spot on the wall below the ceiling at the back of the lounge and I sang to that. I couldn’t look at the faces around me, knowing that if I did, I’d never get through the song.
At that time, Billy Daniels had made a great recording of ‘Bye Bye Blackbird’ and I sang it as I’d learned it from the record Josie had bought. And instead of just standing there and shaking all over, I began to move gently, the way he did for that particular number, and it worked very well for me. I was able to take the reprise while bringing my eyes down from the back wall and give the audience the impression I was singing to each and every one of them, and in no time I was aware that there was a lot of appreciation for what I was offering. And it was a great feeling.
For the encore, I sang ‘Patsy Fagan’ which is a real personality song, the singer being the guy himself and full of bounce and self belief, and it went down very well. When I ended my spot I knew from the strength of the applause that I had done really well, and I could taste my own gratitude for my good fortune.
When I got back to Redmond I could see that he was more than a bit surprised, and then he said, ‘ You did alright, Maguire, not too dusty at all, you fucker!’
From Redmond, that was praise indeed, and I bought another two pints on the strength of it. After that, I was dragging Harry all over the city to any pub that had a singing licence and guy that could play the piano. After a while, Harry was moaning about all the coming and going but, since I usually paid for most of our gargle, he tagged along, and encouraged me to keep chanting since I might just get lucky and even end up with a dance band or something! This was said half joking-whole in earnest, what you might call a back-handed compliment which, coming from the greatest cynic around, was nothing to be sneezed at.
**********
Singing had become very important to me, and apart from the time I spent with Breeda I did little else. No reading or scribbling in exercise books, the dream to write now in a trunk in the attic at the back of my mind, not dead, but sleeping.
I didn’t say anything about the singing at home. I was afraid that Ma would worry herself to death if I admitted that I was in pubs most nights of the week. Also, Josie would have laughed herself sick at my expense, and Billy would have sniffed and made some remark, probably true, that would have caused a fight. I just couldn’t see them understanding me wanting to sing more than I wanted to work in insurance.
Even Redmond would have laughed if I’d told him that I really wanted to be a singer. To his mind it was alright going around pubs and singing a few songs over a couple of drinks, but fancying yourself enough to think you could go on a real stage, and get paid for it, that would have seemed a bit too strong to him. It was something he would never have attempted - Redmond was a born talker, a fella who could tie most people in knots with words - but he didn’t talk too well without a glass in his hand - in cold sobriety he was a bit shy, unless he was talking to such an idiot that he felt superior. And, as he said himself, the only thing wrong with his voice, was the bloody sound of it.
So once again it was to Larry Deegan that I turned for advice. He was the one person I knew who wouldn’t be surprised by anything I might say, and more than once since my return from Wicklow and Claire, he had asked me was I okay.
He felt a change in me, he said. Was I fed up with the office? And he said this more and more, just about the time I decided to try my hand at singing.
I’d told him about the suit and the money, and the way I’d kidded at home about the talent contest. And in the little pub where we drank, we’d gone over the story so many times that we’d milked it dry of every laugh that was in it. Now he listened as I told him about the singing houses and it wasn’t long before he realised how much I enjoyed entertaining people.
‘I think you could be anything you want,’ he said, ‘and whether or not you’re a great singer doesn’t matter. You have enough appearance and personality to put over a song. That’s all that counts now. If it wasn’t for microphones you wouldn’t be able to hear Crosby and the rest of them behind a tram ticket.’
I knew he was right. Microphone technique was just as important as singing, and it seemed to me that this was something I had. And I would always be a ‘mike’ man because I was a crooner, if I was anything.
That Thursday night I went with Redmond to a place called Hollyfield Hall in Terenure. Thursday was talent-contest night, and after I’d sung a couple of songs the man in charge asked me if I’d sing in a charity concert on Sunday night. I was delighted. There was no money in it but it was a chance to sing on a real stage before a big audience - this was before television really landed in Ireland - and even Redmond was enthusiastic about it.
On Sunday at nine o’clock I died on that stage, something I will never forget in my life. The microphone broke down, the pianist messed up my accompaniment, and to put the tin hat on it, there was a fella in the front row who could sing ten times louder than I could. And the bastard did just that, believe me. I felt like jumping feet first into his big mouth, but all I could do was struggle with the number.
I got a bit of applause that was pure sympathy, and as I walked off the stage I felt about nine inches high.
Redmond put an arm around my shoulder as I got off. ‘Don’t worry, Head, you did alright, considering.’
He turned around to the fella in charge who has just come off the stage after announcing the next act. ‘You’re a r
ight prick,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘You invite the kid up here to sing and he doesn’t get a bit of help from any of you. Not from you or the pianist or anybody else.’
‘Sshhhhhh’ the man hissed, ‘there’s a show going on out there.’
Redmond laughed straight into his face. ‘Go take another look, pal, you might change your mind.’ He turned to me. ‘Come on, kid, let’s get out of this kip.’
I followed him out, and though I knew he was right about me not getting any help, it wasn’t much of a consolation, and though I could remember reading that every stage performer was supposed to have gone through a similar experience, this didn’t help either. What had happened to them, and what had happened to me were two entirely different things, and I was fairly heart sore when we got to the pub and went in for a drink.
Like everything else I got over it in a few days and I kept on at the pub-crawling. And sometimes when I thought about that concert, I was actually glad about the experience. The fact that I wanted to go on singing after that meant that I had enough belief in myself to put up with any hardship that might come along as I tried to make my way. And that was a good thing, I felt.
One thing that did bother me, though, was the change in my attitude about insurance. I wasn’t worried about being fed-up with the paper round - that had always been for the much needed money - but insurance had been my idea of a job for life. Now, suddenly I couldn’t bear the thought of going into the office. Even my promotion from office boy to junior clerk didn’t strike a chord of enthusiasm in me.
I was grateful when Mr. Hayes told me the news, and to tell the truth it was much sooner than I expected it, but it wasn’t important anymore. The ten-bob rise was a great help, but, really, I didn’t care any more. All I wanted was to get out of there and try to earn a living on the stage.
For Ma though, it was a marvellous Christmas present. She danced around the kitchen when I told her the news, and even Josie told me that I couldn’t have been as stupid as I looked.
