Father's Music

by Dermot Bolger

  He reached out to touch the back of my hand. It was a token of affection and recognition, but for some reason I also felt he was checking the length of my fingers, imagining them holding a bow.

  ‘Thanks for the grapes,’ I said.

  He paused in the doorway. ‘I always wondered what this hotel looked like,’ he said. ‘The high life, eh? But whatever you say, you’re still a child to me and it’s a far nicer world out there.’

  He walked down the corridor without looking back. I don’t know why I did it, but I flicked out the light. I closed the door and dressed myself in the dark where I couldn’t see my reflection. I felt confident again and strong. I didn’t know where I was going, but I was going out.

  There were two parties going on downstairs when I left the hotel at eight o’clock. An elderly committee were bringing their drinks into the restaurant, while younger people made their way through the bar to an office party in the ballroom beyond. I heard a band warming up there. There was nobody at reception as I slipped out. A taxi was leaving people off and I hailed it to bring me into Dublin. The driver knew of Hughes pub but seemed surprised that I was going there alone. He asked why and when I mentioned music he suggested various pubs along the tourist trail. It was rough and ready around Hughes, he explained, and the streets there could be dodgy after dark. It was hard to imagine having this conversation with a London taxi driver. All this concern had started to annoy me with its suggestion that I was incapable of looking after myself.

  The area around the pub was ill-lit and deserted though. Some sort of law court stood along the quays, and there were small Victorian terraces overlooked by blocks of modern flats. Trucks were parked up on the pavements of narrow streets leading to the fruit and vegetable markets. There were rows of shuttered warehouses, smashed pallets and the smell of discarded fruit. At first I thought there wasn’t going to be music in the pub. There was no platform or lights or microphones. It was early and the place was quiet with just a few older men gathered in one corner with instruments still in their cases. Younger people gradually joined them, including a girl my own age. I sat at the bar, drinking white wine slowly. I wanted to remain sober. Nobody paid me any heed as the bar filled up with a mixture of locals from the markets and people in search of music.

  After what seemed an eternity, the musicians took their instruments out to warm up. I only figured out who McMahon was when a man with cropped white hair began to shake notes from a concertina. He nodded and muttered something to the others. The tuning up was suddenly over and, unannounced, the first tune began. The pub didn’t go completely quiet but voices were lowered to afford the music respect without undue deference. Similarly, the musicians didn’t seem to play for the drinkers gathered in the bar. They were sharing the music with them but still primarily playing amongst themselves. Applause was rare and there were no introductions to songs or sets of reels. The musicians just chatted amongst themselves after a tune and then started again at a nod from McMahon.

  Occasionally a man or woman sang, equally without warning or announcement, and there would be silence in the pub, even among the local women in the far corner who had nothing to do with the session. Listening to the unaccompanied singing I understood what the taxi driver meant about certain songs dying out with the death of a singer. Although the words were mostly in Irish, even the ones in English were difficult to comprehend. But their effect was far more than just the words. All the emotion seemed to be carried in the phrasing and spacing, in almost imperceptible lulls and silences between, and often within, individual words. Even the barmen stopped pouring drink as those voices quietly coaxed the song towards its conclusion. The applause that followed was modestly ignored as if singing was an everyday thing, neither deserving or requiring such recognition.

  An obvious break came when the musicians began to move about the bar. Sandwiches arrived down with a fresh round of drinks. McMahon had put his concertina carefully back in the box at his feet and was enjoying a cigarette. I picked up my glass and decided to approach, unsure of what I wanted to say.

  ‘You play it well.’

  ‘There’s a fine sound in it still,’ he replied as though the instrument played itself.

  ‘Are you Jimmy McMahon?’

  ‘That’s me,’ he agreed, stubbing the cigarette out. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Have you ever heard of a musician called Frank Sweeney?’

  ‘I can’t say I have. Where would he be from?’

  ‘A fiddle player from Donegal.’ I waited to see would he make the same connection between names.

  ‘Donegal, eh? I’ve known a fair few from there in my time; the Dohertys, James Byrne, Tommy Peoples and the Glackins. But Frank Sweeney? Unless you mean Proinsías Mac Suibhne?’

  ‘Would he ever use the English version of his name?’ I asked.

  ‘If it’s Proinsías you have in mind he’d never need to,’ McMahon explained. ‘Where he travels there’s nobody who wouldn’t know who he is.’

  ‘Say he was introducing himself to an outsider?’

  ‘Mac Suibhne never would,’ McMahon said. ‘He’s the shyest man I know. That is until you put a fiddle into his hand.’

  ‘Where might I find him?’

  McMahon laughed and picked up the sandwich. He took a bite and chewed.

  ‘You mightn’t,’ he said. ‘Not easily anyway. He’s no tourist attraction. Often you’d find gold or buried weapons in those hills faster. The locals look after him. He’s the last of his kind, now that John and Mickie and Simie Doherty are gone. They know if anyone tries to exploit him he won’t come back. No doubt he’s playing somewhere in Donegal as we speak, but I couldn’t begin to tell you where.’

  He looked at me more closely, suspicious of my interest. I wasn’t going to blurt everything out like in the taxi. I didn’t want another hymn of praise for my father’s abilities or more man-made excuses for a man who’d abandoned his family.

  ‘Did he ever play in Dublin?’ I asked.

  ‘One time before the war at the Oireachtas, I’m told. He didn’t win the gold medal though, Donegal music wasn’t regarded as pure Irish then. He was bitterly disappointed. He never entered a competition again.’

  ‘But you yourself saw him in Dublin since then?’

  ‘I don’t know who told you that,’ he said, with his suspicion renewed. ‘I’m just here to play a few tunes. The last time I saw Proinsías was six years ago in a wee village up the Derryveagh Mountains. He was meant to play in the back of a pub that some young fellow was left in charge of, as the owner was away at a funeral. A Belgian film crew bustled their way in, bullying the young lad and sticking up lights and cameras everywhere. Proinsías arrived and took one look before walking out again. The crew wanted to go after him and corner him on the road. God, there were nearly fist fights in the bar before people got rid of them. Some of us went looking for him, but nobody was sure which way he’d gone. There’s tracks over those hill known only to Proinsías and the mountain sheep. I found him sheltering in a ditch, like a rabbit escaped from a snare. All the man wants is to be left alone. There’s no mystery to him. If he landed on your doorstep you wouldn’t recognise what you had on your hands. But because he’s wary of cameras you media people want to build him up into some sort of sage, when he’s just an old man set in his ways. Now I don’t know who you are and what television station you work for, but you’ll never get him to record. Any records he made were on old wax discs with Seamus Ennis in the 1950s, playing at house dances at the height of his powers. They’re what he wants to be remembered by. He’s a proud, lonely old man and he’ll join no circus and jump through no hoops for anyone.’

  The musicians had gathered back around the table. McMahon’s expression made it clear I was in the way.

  ‘I don’t work for television,’ I said. ‘But I believe that my mother knew him over twenty years ago.’

  I watched McMahon’s face as he carefully studied mine. The musicians were slightly impatient, waiting for
him to begin. He saw I was offering no more information.

  ‘Where did she know him?’ he asked.

  ‘Firstly in Donegal, then a long way outside it.’

  McMahon was quiet for a moment. ‘What did she say about him?’

  ‘Nothing and I heard nothing good from anyone else.’

  He nodded and pondered. I was certain now that I had discovered my father’s identity. McMahon’s voice had changed.

  ‘There’s few who’d believe Mac Suibhne was ever outside Donegal.’

  ‘Maybe there’s lots of things they mightn’t believe about him.’

  ‘Did you ever heard his music?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Has she long hair still, your mother?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s dead.’

  McMahon’s eyes studied mine. Part of me wanted to ask how well he remembered seeing her, if she had looked happy and was it on the day she married in Berkeley Street church. But another part of me didn’t want to know.

  ‘I hope you find him.’

  ‘I asked where I might find him,’ I replied. ‘I never said I was going looking.’

  I rose and walked back to the bar. I could hear McMahon’s voice behind me, raised for the first time.

  ‘There’s a reel I’d like to play,’ he said, ‘although I’m not sure all the musicians here know it. It was given to me by a Donegal fiddler called Proinsías Mac Suibhne who picked it up as a child from the lilting of a woman.’ He lowered his voice, obviously addressing the musicians. ‘Do any of you know Last Night’s Joy?’

  Some must have nodded, for he began to play and several of the older men joined in. I put my glass down on the counter. He was playing it for me as Frank Sweeney had once played it to please my mother. I found I knew the melody. I could remember my mother humming it to me in bed when she would cuddle into me after reading stories. It was years since I had heard it, but the air had never left my head. I hated McMahon for playing it, I hated its sweet intoxication. The pub was jammed now. I walked to the door and out into the night air without looking back. I walked as fast and as far as I could along those echoing, narrow streets but I still couldn’t shake that tune from my head. My father’s music and my mother’s pain, both trapped inside me. The tune brought back the feel of her arms about me in bed. I cursed all Irishmen and their excuses. No music and no gift gave anyone the right to desert their family. I had always seen him as strong and callous, but the fact that he was as vulnerable as my mother made him no less of a bastard. In fact it was worse. He had not been some raggle-taggle gypsy, seducing and casually forgetting her. He must have understood the torment she went through. He should know that she was dead, but what was the point in going after him? My mother had never wanted revenge for what he had done and I know it was not in my gift to forgive him.

  Eventually I stopped in that maze of narrow lanes, with no idea where I was. I hurried on up a side-street littered with smashed pallets. Cardboard boxes were piled in a shop doorway. I was almost past them when a whisper caught my attention. I knew I should keep walking. If it was a man I could be in trouble. But that whisper hadn’t been in a man’s voice. I approached the boxes which were lined with newspapers and a filthy blanket. The boy who stared aggressively out looked younger than Martin had been. He had his arm protectively around a girl of nine or ten.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’ he demanded.

  ‘Are you not freezing?’ I asked, kneeling on the concrete.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ The girl sounded frozen and suspicious. There was a cut on her arm which could turn septic.

  ‘Have you any money?’ the boy asked.

  I had a ten and a twenty pound note in my pocket, along with a handful of pound coins. It might just be enough for a cheap coach to London, but I handed him the ten pound note, knowing I was leaving myself stranded. He examined it distrustfully, then watched me stare at the girl’s arm.

  ‘What’s the story?’ he said. ‘Are you a bleeding lesbian or what? Lay a finger on my sister and I’ll split you.’

  ‘I’m concerned about that cut. It might need a tetanus injection.’ The word meant nothing to them, but the girl looked worried.

  ‘I just caught it on some wire,’ she said.

  ‘Cuts can be dangerous.’

  ‘Stop scaring her. We can fucking look after ourselves.’ The boy was belligerent. I thought he was going to throw the money back at me. There was movement among the papers and, though they tried to prevent it, a third head appeared. This child seemed no more than three or four. She stared, with eyes just opened from sleep. I felt chilled.

  ‘This is crazy,’ I pleaded ‘There’s going to be sharp frost. You can’t have her out all night. Where are your parents?’

  ‘Da’s always kicking me Ma and he kicks us too,’ the girl said, taking strength from her brother. ‘Ma’s inside, she was caught stealing in Dunnes Stores. We’re not going back to me Da and we’re not leaving our sister with him.’

  She put her arm around the child and pushed her under the blanket, but she poked her head out again to stare at me with open curiosity.

  ‘It’s cold sleeping on the streets,’ I said.

  ‘How the fuck would you know?’ the boy sneered.

  There was no use explaining. They wouldn’t believe me.

  ‘Please,’ I pleaded with the girl. ‘The child shouldn’t be out in this weather, none of you should. Let me at least clean the cut on your arm. I’ll give you this jacket if you will. You can use it as a blanket for your sister.’

  ‘Take her jacket and she’ll want your knickers in return,’ the boy snapped aggressively, feeling his authority undermined. But the girl stared at my jacket and nodded. She held her arm out. I had tissues in my pocket that I had to wet with my own spit to scrub the muck off. The girl winced, but the cut wasn’t deep. I was an expert on them from all the times my mother or Gran had cleaned wounds on my arm. I had no antiseptic or cotton wool. I felt helpless.

  ‘You should go home,’ I told her. ‘Things can happen on the streets that affect you for the rest of your life.’

  ‘Tomo has a knife, he’ll look after us,’ she said, trying to believe it herself.

  The silent child reached beneath the newspapers and produced an empty brown-stained baby’s bottle. She sucked on the teat for comfort.

  ‘What was in her bottle?’ I asked.

  ‘Coke. She likes coke.’

  I took the bottle from her. The child let it go, too scared to cry. One side of her face was bruised. Her eyes told me she expected to be slapped by adults. I stared at the filthy teat. I had never felt so utter despair. I wondered where Martin was now. Probably in jail or with his brain burnt out. I had been his glimpse into a different world and I had let him take all the blame. The children seemed embarrassed by my distress. I felt the boy pat me softly, offering comfort.

  ‘Take it easy, right,’ he said.

  I handed the empty bottle back to the child and took my jacket off. The girl accepted it without a word and spread it over herself and the child who stared, wide-eyed. She dropped the empty bottle and held her hand out. I reached into my pocket and, taking out three pound coins, placed them in her palm. The child looked at them, then back at me. I realised she had longed for something soft but there was no comfort in the coldness of the coins. I stood up. She clenched her fingers around then and stared after me with silent disappointment.

  I walked quickly to a main road and stood, trying to hail a taxi. Every cab was full, everyone in festive mood. I would have walked on except that I had no idea where I was. Finally a cab stopped, the driver surly that I was only travelling a short distance. He never spoke until we had reached the hotel. Cars were parked all along the road and I heard music inside. I searched my pockets for the twenty pound note, but I knew immediately that the boy had pickpocketed it while pretending to comfort me. The driver was impatient to be gone.

  ‘Come on, love,’ he said, ‘it’s a busy night for me.’

&
nbsp; A figure stepped from a parked car and seemed to be trying to see who was in the taxi. He had Luke’s shape although it was too dark to make him out. If I had money I would have told the driver to move on, but I was trapped without even the fare to pay him.

  ‘I’ve lost my money,’ I said.

  ‘Virginity you lose,’ he sneered, ‘money you spend. You didn’t lose it in here. You knew damn well you’d no money when you hailed my cab. So what are you playing at, how exactly did you plan to pay me?’

  The driver leaned back aggressively. The figure outside walked up to the cab window and pulled the door open. It was Al’s friend, Carl. He stared at the driver.

  ‘What’s your problem, pal?’

  ‘She’s no money to pay.’

  Carl looked at the meter and counted out the exact amount from his pocket. He handed it to the driver who accepted it brusquely. Carl helped me from the cab, then leaned in to address the driver.

  ‘You want a tip, pal? Fuck off back to the zoo.’

  Carl slammed the door. For a second I thought the driver was going to get out, but the cab just sped off. Carl saw that I was shaken. He put an arm around me.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

  ‘I was waiting for you.’

  ‘Who sent you?’ I pulled slightly away. ‘Was it Luke?’

  ‘That cranky oul fuck? It was in me bollox.’ He looked more serious. ‘I got a phone call from Al. He sounded rough. I didn’t know what the stroke is, but he asked me to ask you would you meet him please.’

  It was a quarter-of-an-hour’s drive before Carl pulled into a massive car park in front of a cinema complex and pleasure dome. An electronic sign announced that breakfast was served twenty-four hours a day. Inside, the noise was deafening. An eight-lane bowling alley was packed, with people cheering and slapping hands at every strike. Lines of video games and poker machines stretched away further than I could see. It was after midnight but people were happily sitting down to full breakfasts. I felt the scene would look exactly the same in five or twenty-five hours’ time.