The Wake (And What Jeremiah Did Next)

by Colm Herron

  I waited in disbelief and then saw from his expression that I was expected to ask for the answer.

  “I don’t know Father,” I lied. “What’s the difference?”

  “Well you see, the magician’s wand is for cunning stunts.” He stared at me to see when the penny would drop. I smiled slowly, then nodded approval, indicating that it had. His shoulders shook again, pleased. If I’d told him what I thought in return for the penny I don’t think they would have been so pleased. At this point he removed his hand and left me abruptly, realizing I suppose that he was neglecting his duties. As I was mine. Three people were waiting to offer their sympathies. Mammy was nowhere to be seen, having gone upstairs to lie down, possibly permanently. I wiped my right hand on the shoulder of my pullover and went to meet them. I heard word behind me then that prayers were about to be said so I made my apologies and went to the kitchen where Maud was laid out.

  Father Swindells was looking solemnly into the coffin, lips moving noiselessly, and after a short time he waved his hand over the corpse in what looked like a gesture of dismissal, begone from me, then moved away and stood with his back against the kitchen door, proceeding to intone a decade of the rosary, flicking his long mother-of-pearl beads extravagantly as he went from one Hail Mary to the next. The mourners responded respectfully, some sitting, some kneeling . When the decade was finished the priest moved forward expectantly, looking for someone to offer him a seat. There were no men occupying any of the chairs so Majella McCorkell, one of the youngest present, got up and said: “Here’s a sit for you Father. I’m going now anyway.” She bowed her head to him as she passed and he touched her shoulder familiarly.

  “That’s big of you Majella,” he said smiling broadly. “And while I’m on the subject, no word of you starting that diet is there?”

  Majella reddened and answered: “No word yet Father.”

  There were one or two stifled giggles as she went out. The priest sat down, shifting his backside on the chair until it was settled comfortably. He looked around him benignly and his gaze settled on Mairead McCaughey to his left.

  “Hello Mairead,” he said. “And how are you and all the bairns?”

  “We’re grand Father. We’re all grand.”

  “And Charlie. How’s Charlie getting on? Still helping out with the Saint Vincent de Paul?”

  “He is Father.”

  “Isn’t he the great one,” said the priest. Then duty done with Mairead the eagle’s head rotated ninety or so degrees due west and the blackbutton eyes found Susan Helferty.

  “Ah, Susan,” he said. “I see you’re with child. How many will that be now?”

  “Nine, God willing Father.”

  He smiled, gratified. “The more the merrier. Aren’t you great now Susan. And Bobby’s working away. Two jobs still hasn’t he?”

  “No Father. He was paid off last year from the building and Jimmy Heffron told him he doesn’t need him in the pub anymore.”

  “Oh dear.” The priest’s indifferent eyes blinked and stared ahead. “Well I’m sure you’ll be all right. God will provide, my dear, God will provide.”

  He was a little taken aback when Susan began to sniffle but sharp enough to lay a comforting hand on her arm. “Now now Susan, don’t you be worrying now. You’ll see.”

  But the floodgates were well and truly open. She took a large gray handkerchief from her overcoat pocket and proceeded to weep buckets into it. Father Swindells seemed at a loss as to how to stem the flow but Miriam McBride rode to the rescue.

  “Maud went sudden, didn’t she Father?” she said.

  He looked across at her and smiled, composure restored. “The ways of God are not our ways,” he said softly. The blubbering went on unabated to the side of him but the priest was on familiar ground now and raring to go. “Sure none of us knows,” he said, fixing his full attention on Miriam, “not one of us knows the day nor the hour. When I hear about a sudden death I always think of that parable Our Lord told about the wedding. You know the one I’m sure.”

  Miriam nodded knowingly, not knowing the one I’m sure but hoping he’d think she knew. Miriam is what we call in these parts a good-living girl. This doesn’t mean she grows her own vegetables or even that she lives it up. No, it means that she never lies out of the chapel, never has a bad word to say about anybody and would never let a man near her.

  She was still nodding like a toy dog in the back window of a fastmoving car when Father Swindells went on to talk about the parable of the ten virgins though he didn’t say virgins of course. Bridesmaids was the word he used or was it girls? I can’t exactly remember. Whatever it was it wasn’t virgins because he knew that that particular word was one that should only be used in mixed company when it referred to the mother of Jesus. Otherwise, taboo.

  “The bridegroom was late coming if you remember and the five foolish bridesmaids hadn’t taken the precaution of having enough extra oil for their lamps. Of course the other five bridesmaids, the wise ones, had plenty to spare but wouldn’t part with it when the foolish ones found their lamps were dry.”

  Disobliging bitches I was thinking when the door swung open and Willie Henry McGillycuddy stood swaying and surveying all before him. He quickly spotted me and hastened forward to shake my hand, face wreathed in sympathy.

  “I’m sorry for your trouble Master,” he said. It’s a strange country we live in when people call it having trouble when someone dies. Granny Coffey used to say a person was in trouble if somebody belonging to them died. Funny word trouble. Hold on, I’ll be with you in a minute, I’m having trouble with this shoelace here. Excuse me but could I trouble you for a light? I hear your man Doherty got that wee one Majella whatdoyoucallher from Rosemount in trouble. Did you not see her? Like the side of a bus already. Somebody was telling me there’s a bit of trouble at the bottom of William Street, petrol bombs flying everywhere. Ah yes, and then there’s the Troubles. I’m sorry for your Troubles. The capital letter at the start and the s at the end make the difference, not one wake but thousands of them, thousands butchered for a free Ireland or a British state in the northern bit. The head of the body politic severed from the rest. Now that’s severe. Capital punishment for being Ireland.

  “Thanks Willie.”

  “I didn’t even know she was sick so I didn’t. When did she die?”

  “She died today. The doctor was attending her but I don’t think anybody expected her to die. It was sudden all right.”

  Willie Henry’s big rheumy eyes held me in their respectful gaze. “I was just coming back from the Don Bar there and me blood was up and I was going to give them boys in the police car passing in the street a piece of me mind and then I saw the big black bow on the door there and I says to meself Aw my God, that’s Master Coffey’s house. Aw my God, don’t tell me. I always member you warning me about me two boys and the trouble they were going to get in if I didn’t see to them. I always member that, Master. And they’re doing all right now so they are. Kevin’s down in Doherty’s butchers working you know and Hugh’s going to get temporary in the Castle Bar coming up to Christmas.”

  “That’s great Willie. I’m glad to hear it.”

  Father Swindells’s voice behind me. “Well now Jeremiah, if you could give me your attention for a moment. I have to be going.”

  I turned to see the smooth shining face smiling superiorly up into mine. He’s forty if he’s a day and I’ll put on any money the man’s never used a razor.

  “Thanks for coming Father,” I said mustering semblance of gratitude.

  “Not at all Jeremiah. Sure what would you expect me to do when one of my parishioners dies? Eh?”

  Not many people can make you feel foolish for thanking them but this boy can. And what’s this about my parishioners? He’s only a curate for Christ sake. But he’s the school chaplain and that makes him feel important. Charlie Chaplin the weans call him. He was hardly away when Susan and Mairead went too. I saw them to the front door and when I came back Willie He
nry was standing uncertainly at the coffin. I went over to him and joined him staring down at the corpse. The way you do.

  “God she’s far shook Master. She was a fine looking woman so she was too.”

  “She was”.

  “A fine looking woman. Sure I used to see you out the town with her all the time.”

  I didn’t take in what he was saying right. This is what comes of being on autopilot. But now he was gawking over my shoulder and his face was whiter than Maud’s. I heard Mammy’s voice behind me.

  “How are yous all doing?” she was saying and ones were getting up out of their seats to sympathise with her. Willie Henry gripped me by the arm.

  “Who’s that there in the coffin Master?” he croaked.

  “Oh I’m sorry Willie Henry. Did you not know? I thought you knew. That’s Maud Harrigan from next door. We’re waking her. She doesn’t have anybody.”

  “Jesus Master, you gave me the wile scare there. Sure I thought it was your moller was dead.”

  “Would you like to sit down?”

  “I’ll do that,” he said and then whispered in my ear: “You couldn’t give me a wee nip of something Master could you? I’m just feeling a bit weak. I’ll be all right if I get a wee nip to bring me round.”

  “I will surely.” I said. “Paddy all right?”

  “The very thing Master. Just a nip now,” demonstrating with finger and thumb wide apart.

  When I came back from the scullery Jim Loughery and Seamus White were sitting beside Willie Henry and he was telling them about what happened. They shook hands with me and I smelt the drink off them too. They were laughing and trying to keep straight faces at the same time. Seeing I’d the whiskey in my hand I offered them a drink too.

  “I wouldn’t say no,” said Jim. Plump and happy by nature, eyes like a friendly ferret, looking a bit guilty now because he hadn’t even gone to the coffin I’d say.

  “Thanks Jeremiah. I’ll have a wee one,” said Seamus. Always well-cut suit, good tweed too. Some people are like that. Sunday best the seven days. Must be a family thing. Goes back to childhood probably. We used to always wear our best clothes to mass and then change out of them after our breakfast. I looked to see who else was there now. Just Margie McConville. The other women had gone out to the hall with Mammy. I was embarrassed nobody got tea. I was never at a wake where there was no tea. Probably about ten people sitting there in the front room with their tongues hanging out and not one to see to them.

  “Margie,” I said, “would you fancy a drink? Orange or anything?”

  Margie nodded. “I’ll have what yous are having. Whiskey’ll do fine. I hope it’s not watered Jeremiah.”

  She was smiling away, big rosy face on her. Always up for a bit of crack Margie. Looks like it’s the hard core out here in the kitchen.

  “Naw, I only bought it the day there so my mother never got at it yet.”

  She gave a big man’s laugh. “Do you mean to tell me she drinks your whiskey and then waters it down to cover her tracks?”

  “Naw,” I said. “I mean she’s the next thing to a prohibitionist.”

  “Not a dilutionist then?” she said.

  “Or illusionist,” said Jim.

  We were all drinking the whiskey when Mammy came in again and took one look and reversed out. The first two or three sips loosened me. I could feel the tension come off my shoulders and was starting to see on a different level from before the stupidity of the whole thing I was implicated in. For no reason then I thought of Aisling coming to plead with me and her shock when she saw the bow on the door. Or somebody telling her about the blinds being down and her thinking it was Mammy was dead and landing up hoping it might mean a new start for us.

  “Somebody told me Maud died intestate,” Seamus was saying.

  “Where’s that?” said Willie Henry.

  Margie had her lips tight together to stop the laughing. Her glass was well down already and she was rocking back and forward nearly spilling the rest.

  “Aw there’s money there,” said Seamus. “Straight up. You know she was the daughter of Hoof Hogan.”

  “Hoof Hogan?” Willie Henry was frowning, eyes half closed as if in deep thought. “I never heard of him now.”

  “God you must have heard of Hoof Hogan,” said Seamus. He left his glass carefully on the empty chair beside him and loosened the top button of his shirt. “Made big money in England so he did and then came home and bought a pub down in Carndonagh. They lived in Troy Park. Hoof had a wile drouth on him from when he came back.”

  Margie nodded, recovered. “Aye sure he drank most of what he had but he still managed to leave a fair whack behind,” she said. “Didn’t he marry that Prod from the Waterside whatdidyoucallher? From some English or Welsh family away back wasn’t she?”

  “Who?” I asked, hearing but not taking it in right. She stood submissively in a gymslip when I strapped her to the cross that time. Soft linen faded to a thread nearly.

  “Aw gee,” she said screwing up her face, “it’s on the tip of me tongue. English I think they were. Their name began with a t and hold on a minute till I think — the first vowel was u or maybe i. Naw, wait a second, wait till I try and remember, I think it started with an m — I’m not sure — but I’m definitely right about the vowel. U it was. Muggeridge … Murrick… Mulder … Hold on, I’ve got it. Jenkins.”

  Margie looked round at us all, pleased with herself. “Never turned,” she went on. “Let on she did so’s she could get her man but then never darkened the door of the chapel after the day of the wedding. She turned queer remember. Do you not remember?”

  “You mean …” said Willie Henry, eyewater shining with the scandal of it. “You’re not telling me a woman —”

  “Ended up sweeping the grass out her front before they put her in the mental. She used to get up in the morning and go out and sweep the grass before even she got her breakfast.”

  “Howard Hughes is supposed to be like that,” said Jim.

  “That’s the film man,” said Willie Henry. “I didn’t know he swept the grass now.”

  I thought of Aisling again and brought the bottle in and poured out a bit more for everybody.

  “Good on you Master,” said Willie Henry. “God save Ireland.”

  “Hoof left school with nothing,” said Seamus. “Could hardly write his own name so he couldn’t. And then after he got married to your woman they went across the water and he worked as a brickie in London. Never spent a penny if he could help it and ended up a millionaire. This is the nineteen thirties I’m talking about now.”

  Jim shook his head. “That’s a goodun. You’d think I’d have heard of him. Hoof Hogan you say?”

  “Hoof Hogan. Rough as a bag of spanners. Dressed like a tramp. He bought a bit of waste ground in London for next to nothing thinking you know it might come in useful sometime and it turned out years after it was wanted for an extra part of a runway for some airport. So one day this boy in a three piece suit comes to the door and offers him half a million for the land. Quarter an acre it was, less than quarter an acre. So your man Hoof tells him to go and get lost and he comes back the next week and offers him over a million.”

  “Handy money,” said Jim.

  “Handy money all right. This was the nineteen thirties now.” Seamus began to smile broadly. He took a sip from his Paddy, looked curiously into the glass and loosened his tie till it hung like a scarf. “But wait till you hear anyway. You won’t believe this so you won’t. He bought a Bentley.”

  “That’s the car you’re talking about?” asked Margie.

  “Aye, he bought a new Bentley. Three and a half liter job, Rolls Royce engine, one of the dearest cars going at the time, like a car royalty would have.”

  “Christ,” said Willie Henry scratching at his fork with his free hand. “God forgive me for using the holy name but was that not the car Sean Connery drove in From Russia with Love was it not?”

  “Not the same car,” said Seamus, “
but wait till you hear now what I’m going to tell you. In them days Bentley always did an after sales kind of service where they’d send some top mechanic out to check how the car was performing. So about three months or something after Hoof buys it this Bentley boy arrives at the building site because that’s the address he was given you see. So Hoof brings him over to it sitting beside a cement mixer that’s churning away. The Bentley’s half covered in mud and bits of cement and God knows what else and your man’s sort of thrown by all this but anyway he shouts over the noise of the mixer Tell me, how’s she behaving? And Hoof shouts back at him Tiptop, tiptop, I’m very pleased with her now. She’s a powerful yoke so she is. I was thinking I might put a tow bar on her next week.”

  Seamus laughed with his head away back. “I was thinking I might put a tow bar on her next week,” he said again. That was in case we hadn’t heard it the first time. We all laughed along with him and I was thinking maybe he was going to say it again because I could tell to look at him he wasn’t finished but what he said was : “Were you ever in the bar Hoof had in Carndonagh, what’s this you call it?”

  “I’m not sure. Which one was that?” asked Jim.

  “Aw Jesus I’m trying to think. Sure there’s so many pubs in the place. There’s supposed to be one for every county in Ireland you know.”

  Margie stifled a shriek, big chest wobbling. “You’re not telling me there’s thirty-two pubs in Carndonagh.”

  “At last count,” Seamus answered. “I’m just remembering now. The Bore’s Head, spelt B-O-R-E.”

  “He was trying to be funny then?” said Jim.

  “He was not. He couldn’t spell. He couldn’t even write sure, except he learned to write his name on checks. Naw, the boy that painted the name up, this boy from out the Moville Road I think, wasn’t that great of a speller himself. But wait till you hear. Do you know what Hoof said to this crowd of teachers came into the Bore’s Head one time the day they got their summer holidays. They were mob happy, is that what you call it?”