The Wake (And What Jeremiah Did Next)

by Colm Herron

  I did my best to sail breezily past the women in the scullery with a civil Hi, ladies. I’m not sure if it came off but nobody passed any remarks. This gave me the confidence I needed for my entrance into the wake room. What the hell, I reckoned, the worst that people can say is that I’m dropping a heavy hint about the late hour without actually telling them to get out.

  “And where is Charles De Gaulle now?” demanded Bill.

  “In the easy palace,” answered Willie Henry.

  “Exactly,” nodded Bill without turning a hair. “He’s sitting pretty in the Élysée Palace. So what exactly,” he continued, “did the student revolt, th-th-th-the streetmongering achieve? Exactly what did it achieve?”

  “Sweet damn all,” shouted Willie Henry.

  “Exactly,” said Bill. “It achieved nothing. But mind your language sir. The deceased is lying next to you. Sorry, what’s her name?”

  “Maud Abeline,” spluttered Margie. “Maud Abeline Harrigan.”

  Bill nodded gratefully. “An unusual name. And by the way, don’t expect any help from Europe when it comes to achieving human rights in this part of Ireland. Europe hasn’t exactly rushed to help the people of Czechoslovakia and Yugoslavia in their hour of need.”

  Margie was giving my pajama bottoms the once-over and I wasn’t happy about the expression on her face. Undisguised glee I think would cover it. I remembered then that I hadn’t any underpants on and heart in mouth I sneaked a look down to see if I was decent. Nothing in sight. I decided I’d be all right as long as I didn’t move. What the future held was something else. Truth to tell, I was in God’s hands.

  “Too right,” said Seamus. “But can anybody tell me what America’s doing? Why are they sitting there doing nothing when people out in those places are getting slaughtered? The land of the free. Isn’t that what they call themselves?”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have any more whiskey out there Master would you? I wouldn’t say no to a wee nip.”

  Realizing that I was the master in question I gazed raptly at the part of the floor visible between my legs and was horrified to see that a space had opened up in my fly and was widening even as I gazed. For this to happen in front of human remains and in company which included one female, broadminded though she clearly was, was bad enough but I was conscious that three other women would be emerging from the scullery any minute with tea, spring-sprongs and sandwiches. Or four was it? Hard to remember. I quickly crossed my legs.

  “America’s too busy killing thousands of Vietnamese just so they can save face,” explained Bill.

  “Right, there’s another thing. What are they doing out there anyway?” said Jim. “Is that not the stupidest war ever was?”

  “It’s about money,” said Bill. “It’s a fraud in fact. This thing stopped being about communism a long time ago. It’s about arms companies lining their pockets and then giving millions to the Democrats so they can be re-elected. Or the Republicans as you’ll see next month.”

  “They’re all a crowd of bastards!” shouted Willie Henry.

  Nothing daunted Bill proceeded with his analysis:

  “That’s why John Kennedy was assassinated of course. And Bobby. He was planning to pull out just like his brother was.”

  “That’s what I always thought,” said Seamus. “It’s a scandal when you think about it. I’ve a cousin from Ohio was killed in that Tet offensive at the start of the year and his whole family think he died for his country.”

  “Well so he did,” said Bill. “He died fighting for big business. That’s what America is, big business. How would you put it? Uncle Sam plc? A lot of the boys that aren’t conscripted join up because they think they’re answering their country’s call.”

  “Stars in their eyes,” said Margie. “Fifty.”

  “Well, they’re fed this pup about the American dream from first grade and a fair percentage never grow out of it,” continued Bill, directing his attention to Seamus and Jim as if Margie hadn’t opened her mouth. “And do you know that many of them actually think the people who drew up their constitution were inspired by God.”

  “Like the boys that writ the bible.” This interjection from Willie Henry. Bill cast a tolerant look in his general direction.

  “It’s not going to last, is it?” asked Jim. What was this anyway? They’d been getting ready to drink Bill’s blood before the priest came in and now it was all sweetness and light. I wasn’t exactly in the right condition to get to the bottom of the new dispensation and of course I’d missed a few installments but it nearly seemed in my tender state of mind as if Hourigan had been maybe sent in by God Himself. For behold, every mountain and hill shall be made low and the something shall be made straight? And the something something smooth?

  “What’s not going to last?” said Bill. “The war?”

  “No, I mean America,” said Jim. “Sure it’s an empire isn’t it? And empires all end, right?”

  Bill was in his element all right. I saw him throw one or two darting looks at my pajama bottoms but he was on a roll and not inclined to be sidetracked. “It is. It’s been an empire for well over a hundred years now and as for lasting I’d give it another couple of hundred years at most.”

  The scullery door swung open and there was Mammy with a steaming teapot in one hand and a plate of Madeira in the other. I didn’t buy Madeira. Somebody must have brought it in. The rest of the caterers, four in number, stood in a row behind her carrying trays of cups and saucers, milk and sugar and platefuls of spring-sprongs and sandwiches. I actually don’t know what they’d been at out in the scullery all that time unless it takes five women to make a pot of tea. Because every single salad sandwich had been prepared by me and it was me that bought the spring-sprongs in Strains. Bonding probably, that’s what women do isn’t it? Strange mysterious people, I’ll never understand them. Hurrying me to tighten the bonds and her still wet from the shower that time and the halter neck plastered to her skin and the deep dark hollows underneath, mother of God, and the Flower Duet playing above the beating, louder than her squeals even.

  And then followed the most revolting five minutes I’ve ever spent in Mammy’s company. “Och sure you’ll take another sandwich will you not Seamus? You will surely. And how are your ones all doing anyway? That’s great. How’s your mother keeping, Margie? Isn’t that great now. She went through a bad time there for a while didn’t she? God knows you never know what’s round the corner. Sure look at Maud. Will you not have a coconut cream Mister Braddock? Jeremiah got them fresh down in Strain’s this evening there. Och go on would you, have one. And how’re you keeping, Jim? That’s the nicest wee girl you have. Sure I saw her at the First Communions last May there. Shirley Temple I says to Maud, the spit of Shirley Temple in that picture she was in, Dimples wasn’t it? Are you taking tea Jeremiah? Are you sure it won’t keep you from sleeping now? Jeremiah usually doesn’t drink tea at night for fear it’ll. All right, if you want, son. It’s light enough anyway.”

  “We were just talking about America there Missus Coffey,” said Margie. “Do you think they’d ever put a good word in for us with Westminister? The Catholics I mean.”

  Mammy didn’t understand the question. “How do you mean? Here Nellie, you wouldn’t take this pot of tea and cake into the front room would you? Give Maeve that plate of biscuits, sure she’ll carry that, won’t you, Maeve? Can yeez manage now? What way are you talking about, Margie? I don’t exactly follow you.”

  “Naw, it’s just we were on about America there and I was thinking they might be able to influence England you know to give us equal rights here.”

  Mammy’s face darkened. “The first thing I’d like to see is that gang of hooligans off the streets. Sure they’re destroying the town so they are. I’ve a nephew a Jesuit priest out in America and he’s coming here next week with his sister a nun in charge of a big school in New York and his niece going on to be a doctor. They’re all coming and God knows what they’re going to think.”

&nbs
p; “But they love the Irish don’t they?” persisted Margie. “And there’s millions of Irish out there would support us.”

  “Do you really think so?” said Mammy. “When they see on the TV what that crowd down the town’s doing I don’t think they’d support anything so I don’t. Honest to God I don’t.”

  “I know one thing,” said Seamus. “The American women would fall over themselves to get an Irishman even if he’d two heads on him. That’s a fact.”

  Mammy looked gravely at him. “I don’t know where you heard that from now Seamus.”

  “Aw it’s true,” said Jim. “Sure I read about this Yankee widow woman was on a cruise round the Cape of Good Hope one time and she got to talking to this shifty looking wee Corkman was on his own and she says to him Why did you decide to come on the cruise then? And he says to her Well the fact is ma’am I’m on the run. Escaped from prison there last week. And she says Oh really? And what were you in prison for if you don’t mind me asking? And he says I killed me wife with a hatchet so I did and I sent the pieces in a parcel to her mother. And she says Oh, so you’re single then.”

  Everybody laughed except me and Mammy, me because I needed to be careful about making sudden movements on account of both my head and the other thing and Mammy because she has no sense of humor and she’s stupid. Even Bill laughed, nearly spilled the tea he was laughing that much. You wouldn’t have believed he was the same man walked in the door. Mammy stood there a bit baffled but the same woman’s never at a loss for long.

  “There’s only one man we can trust to do anything,” she said, “and that’s Eddie McAteer. If people would listen to him then we might get something done.”

  Willie Henry spoke up. “Eamonn McCann said on the TV he’s … what’s this he said he is?”

  “Who? McAteer?” said Margie. “Middle-aged, middle-class and middle of the road.”

  Mammy looked down at her, waiting for more and when it didn’t come she said “And what’s wrong with that? Sure that’s the kind of man we need.”

  “Naw Margie,” said Jim. “McCann was talking about the Derry Citizens’ Action Committee. John Hume and them. Eddie McAteer and the Nationalist party’s finished Missus Coffey.”

  “The Nationalist party’s finished, long live the Nationalist party,” Seamus said smiling away to himself.

  Big Bill Braddock had been chewing at the bit during this political chat and then he spoke or maybe it should be spake. “You have two distinct entities here. The Action Committee are Catholic reformers and McCann’s people are Marxist revolutionaries. Most people don’t trust Marxism because they’ve a feeling it only makes sense in small groups, you know, like communes and the like. So these revolutionaries are going about in a kind of heroic expectation. Some of them are probably prepared to die even. Violence is McCann’s only chance actually, violence done by the state against the people.”

  “Sure isn’t that how Gandhi got the British out of India?” said Margie.

  “Aye but Gandhi was organized,” said Jim. “McCann’s crowd can’t even agree what time to start a meeting at.”

  “They couldn’t run a bath,” shouted Willie Henry rocking back and forward. And emboldened by what he took to be the prevailing mood he added “Or a piss-up in a brewery.” He looked round for a seconder and finding none must have decided he hadn’t made his point properly. “Or a whatdoyecallit in a hoorhouse.” He smiled then, pleased I think at his self-restraint. We all knew what a whatdoyecallit was but I for one was grateful that the word hadn’t been made flesh.

  Mammy went rigid. “Willie Henry,” she said and her voice was scarcely a whisper, “Do you not know you’re in a corphouse now? Have you no respect? That’s what the drink does!”

  Her head swiveled till she had me in her sights. “And who was it gave it to you? I think I can guess.” The last lot of words came out in fragments as if they’d about ten syllables each because, and don’t ask me how I knew but I did even though at this stage I was fixed on the flying ducks, she had noticed my bottom half. And she was opening her mouth to say I know not what when Willie Henry spoke fidgeting nervously at his fork with the two hands. “I’m wile sorry Missus Coffey. I didn’t mean any disrespect so I didn’t, honest to God.”

  She stared at him and blinked and then put her hand on the doorknob. “I must help the girls in there. They’ll be wanting help I think.” She threw me one last scalding look and was gone.

  +++++

  Radio 3 playing low, soft and low. What is it, chamber music? Anything that brings sleep will do. Jesus what a night and still not shot of her. Lying down there in a box in the dark in the corner, still occupying our kitchen, our kitchen, still controlling the agenda and her stiff as a board. Half six tomorrow evening we’ll, Charlie Bradley and Denis McLaughlin that is, will bring her, me and Charlie Bradley and Denis McLaughlin, morticians, will bring her to the cathedral for her overnight stay, bed and board, breakfast not included. She should feel at home there right next to the altar where her and Kate and friends dusted and fussed at the flowers and the rest. Tulips were the ones she always tried to get up, you’d have thought they were the only flower there was. And the colors, green, cream, orange, white, red, every color you could think of nearly except. Blue was it? Blue I think. I never remember seeing blue. Where did she get them when they weren’t growing here? I’ve seen them standing up there proud and erect all times of the year. Imports from Holland? When it’s spring again I’ll bring again tulips from Amsterdam. Not any more she won’t.

  What’s that they’re playing now? Christ I don’t believe it. It is. It’s the fucking Flower Duet. I don’t want to hear it. I need to sleep. Well, maybe just a wee bit, maybe just a minute.

  Under the dense canopy

  Where the white jasmine

  Blends with the rose

  On the flowering bank,

  Laughing at the morning

  Come, let us drift down together,

  Let us gently glide along

  With the enchanting flow

  Of the fleeing current

  On the rippling surface.

  With a lazy hand

  Let us reach the shore.

  Her eyes were shining now. “Forget about all the other things. I love you.”

  “And I love you too.”

  “Sleep,” she said. She fondled my face and shoulders and when the alarm went off her hands were still on me.

  Mellifluously a voice told the story of the music. Nilakantha the Brahmin priest goes from his home to attend a gathering of the faithful and leaves behind his daughter Lakme and her slave girl Millika. The two maidens go off hand in hand towards a river in search of blue lotus flowers. As they approach the water they disrobe and Lakme removes her jewelry and leaves it on a bench.

  The music came again, sinful, sinuous, insinuating, sin through every orifice. She stood in front of me in diamond drop earrings, Jesus, diamond drop earrings and hot pants, nothing else, turquoise blue.

  The bed wasn’t the best and I was nervous. Understandable of course. I didn’t mind Maud lying one flight down in the corner of the kitchen up to her eyes in mass cards because she could hear nothing, her three hours were up and her soul gone west. An empty shell. No, it was the living I was thinking of, the reverent mother in there in the next room whispering away at her novenas, ear cocked, every sound in her sights. I knew I should be careful but time was short: the song only lasted five minutes, six minutes max depending who was performing. So caution to the winds I went for it, squeezing it all into the four and a half minutes or whatever it was, me and the bolster as if there was no tomorrow. Or rather, knowing there was tomorrow and tomorrow was the start of the dry season. Because the minute we’d parked Maud over at the head of the women’s aisle for the night and got through the prayers for the happy repose etcetera I’d be heading for wee Father Finucane behind the curtain and clearing out the clutter with him God help me as my go-between. Between me and my Maker. For I am resolved with the help of Thy
holy grace never more to offend Thee but to amend my life Amen. Oh yeah? Yeah, this time it’s for real. One last heave and that’s it. She wasn’t whispering the novenas anymore. No, when she got to Saint Jude patron of hopeless cases she was nearly shouting them.

  +++++

  This is the last will and testament of Maud Abilene Harrigan. I hereby revoke all previous wills and testamentary dispositions made by me. I appoint my good neighbor Veronica Coffey as executor of this will and direct her to pay my just debts, funeral and testamentary expenses.

  To his lordship Most Reverend Doctor Neil Farren, Bishop of Derry, I leave twenty-seven acres and three roods of land, my four local residences and the sum of £95,000.00 stg (ninety-five thousand pounds sterling). For the upkeep of the altar and future renovations to Saint Eugene’s cathedral I leave £750,000.00 stg (seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds sterling). To my good neighbor and executor Veronica Coffey I leave my terra-cotta Child of Prague, three ceramic wild ducks and all other wall furnishings in my Marlborough Terrace home.

  The residue and remainder of my properties of any nature and description and wherever situated I leave in five equal shares between the order of the Poor Sisters of Michael the Archangel and the four priests of the parish of Saint Eugene’s, viz., the Reverend Doctor Xavier Hourigan and Fathers Clarence Swindells, Benjamin Finucane and Frank Callanan.

  SIGNATORIES: Father Thaddeus Updegrave and Sister Henry Antony of the no longer Poor Sisters of Michael the Archangel.

  +++++

  Let me get this straight. She left every penny to the church and they don’t have to lift a finger except to sign the checks and rake in the readies. It’s not as if they’re short of a penny. Rolling in it. And lifted and laid too so they are. Well maybe not laid. Although you never know. That priest whatdoyoucallhim, Father Cullinan, or Callanan is it, never did get his name right, that wears the leather jacket and bronze bracelet and lands in at dances in the parish hall smiling all round him, hail fellow well met, chatting to the girls, casual crafty hand round the back when he’s leaving them, taking in all the close dancing that’s going on and him laughing and chatting letting on not to be looking, hard to believe he’s celibate. I’d say at the very least the same boy plays with his toys at night. And why wouldn’t he, says you.