Maggie's Breakfast

by Gabriel Walsh

  “I’m very good at that.”

  “Can you read and write?”

  “Course I can.”

  “How old are ya?”

  “Fourteen. My birthday was last week.”

  “Why don’t you work in the C.I.E. foundry?”

  “I couldn’t get a job there.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “I know the answer to that.”

  “You do?”

  “Because your father isn’t workin’ there. Am I right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you sure you don’t live in Keogh Square?”

  “I don’t.”

  “I heard that before. You look like you might.”

  “I don’t mind Keogh Square.”

  “You go there?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “For what?”

  “To swap comic books.”

  “Can you read?”

  “I told you. Course I can.”

  “You don’t live in Keogh Square?”

  “I live in Nash Street. Past it.”

  “How much do you know about hotel work?”

  “I don’t know much.”

  “How are you goin’ to talk to people if they ask you somethin’?”

  “Why would they ask me anythin’?”

  “People, hotel guests might ask you somethin’ and how are you goin’ to answer back?”

  “Ask me about what?”

  “About where you live. A lot of people who come here want to know if you know anything at all about your own bloody country.”

  “How am I supposed to know anythin’ about my country?”

  “Did you go to school?”

  “Course I did!”

  “What did they teach ya?”

  “Who?”

  “The fella who stood up front with the leather strap in his hand?”

  “The Christian Brother?”

  “Did ya go to the Brothers?”

  “At first I did. Bastards if you ask me.”

  “You learned nothin’? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I heard that Oliver Cromwell was the worst man ever made in the history of God. He was the man who said, ‘To Hell or to Connaught’. Oliver Plunkett was against Oliver Cromwell. Did you know that? Blessed Oliver Plunkett. The man whose skull is in a glass case in Drogheda. Did you know that?”

  “How do ya think I got this job here?”

  “You must’a went to the same school I went ta.”

  “Jaysus, everybody knows who Blessed Oliver Plunkett was!”

  “I was always gettin’ the two Olivers mixed up. The Christian Brother put bruises on the back of my head for sayin’ Oliver Plunkett was the man who said ‘To Hell or to Connaught’. I’ve never been as happy as the day I got out of that school.”

  “Are you sure you’re not a half-arsed knacker?”

  “No, I’m not. I got the Primary Certificate from the Model School. I used to go to Saint Michael’s up in Inchicore as well.”

  “Did you make your Communion and Confirmation?”

  “Course I did. You’re the only person in all of Ireland who would ask that question to a fella lookin’ for a job.”

  “What’s the name of your priest?”

  “There’s more than one.”

  “I’m referrin’ to the one who looks after you and your family the most.”

  “There’s Canon Doyle from St. Michael’s and then there’s the fella called Sheep Dog.”

  “Jesus, that’s no way to talk about a holy man.”

  “Well, some people call him that.”

  “What’s his real name?”

  “Father Devine from the Oblate Fathers.”

  “Who goes to your house in time of need?”

  “They all do,” I answered.

  “I’m happy to hear that. I don’t want no sinner boy workin’ here. This hotel is too respectful. I might go up and ask Father Devine about you.”

  “Father Devine came up to my house once in time of need. It was only in time of his need though. I could tell you a thing or two about Father Devine. You know that statue of Our Lady up at the Oblate Church, the one with the big crown?”

  “Of course I know it. I’m no pagan. I’ve been to Mass there a few times when I went up to visit a cousin of mine who’s buried in the Bluebell cemetery.”

  “Well, Father Devine took the wedding ring from my mother’s finger for that crown. I wouldn’t confess to Father Devine if you gave me this hotel.”

  “I don’t want any riff raff. That’s why I asked about you gettin’ and havin’ the sacraments. I’m happy to hear you’re confirmed.”

  For about five minutes I’d been involved in a conversation with the hall porter at Jury’s Hotel and I didn’t know what I was talking about. I think the man enjoyed asking me questions. He wasn’t finished yet. He inquired about my father and what county my mother came from. He wanted to know how long I’d lived in Inchicore. After asking me if I had hair oil to put in my hair, he said he’d hire me. He told me to go up to Callahan’s on Dame Street and have myself measured for a uniform.

  I was over the moon with excitement.

  The first thing I did was run to Billy’s house. I knocked on his door and his mother answered.

  “Is Billy in?” I asked.

  “No, he’s not. And when he comes in he’s stayin’ in.”

  “When he comes in will you tell him I got a job in Jury’s Hotel where American film stars stay.”

  As soon as I said that Billy stuck his head over his mother’s shoulder.

  “Will ya get John Wayne’s autograph when he comes in?” he asked with a recurrence of his old enthusiasm.

  “Course I will, Billy.”

  Billy retreated into his house. His mother quietly closed the door. I went home hoping John Wayne would show up at Jury’s.

  John Wayne didn’t show up.

  At work I operated the hotel lift, polished brass doorknobs, radiators, buckles, handles, bottle-tops and desk bells. Anything in the hotel made of brass, I polished. I called taxis and fetched newspapers. I became a walking loudspeaker when someone was wanted on the phone.

  “Paging Dudley Hornsby! Paging Major Winbeck! Lady Thompson!”

  Running through the halls and hearing husky and squeaky voices.

  “Oh, boy, this fire in the lounge is going out – do you think you could do something about it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good lad.”

  Down to the dark dirty smoky airless cellar for a bucket of coal. Back up to the lounge with the heavy black lumps.

  “Now, ma’am, the fire is full blaze again.”

  “Make sure you come back with more coal in thirty minutes.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Going out the door I’d mumbled under my breath, “You old bitch!”

  “Would you close the door tight?”

  The door banged behind me. Back to the coalhole where I left the dirty black bucket. Back again to the lift.

  A man from Kerry or Cork, a big farmer type with a tweed jacket and cap and big brown shoes, approached me. He’d been there yesterday and didn’t give me a penny.

  “Here’s a shilling, boy. You do a good job on this lift. Take me to Room 252.”

  Into the lift he stumbled as I closed the gate on his toe.

  “Ouch!”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “It’s this modern electric stuff they put into the motor.”

  “That’s hardly modern,” he replied.

  “Well, it is for this hotel, sir. A few years ago the porters used to carry the guests up on their backs.”

  “Quite a sense of humour you have, boy.”

  “Thank you, sir! What floor did you say again?”

  “Second floor!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  As I was putting my hand to the starter the hall porter, whose name was Larry, beck
oned to me from his desk in the hall. He had spotted one of his regular customers and wanted to show off his authority. I saw him approach the customer and hold his hand out to offer assistance and to let the customer know that it was time for his monthly gratuity.

  “This way, Mr. Taylor,” he said.

  I put the lock on the gate.

  “Page, page, wait a moment for Mr. Taylor!”

  I turned my head to the man in the lift and pretended not to hear the hall porter. “Up, sir?” As I pressed the starter the lift began to rise upwards and as I looked down I saw the porter with his hands going through the gates, calling, “Page, page, page!”

  When I came back down the porter was still waiting for me. His face was red and he was dying to say something to me but with Mr. Taylor beside him he held back. I could see his fists clenched.

  I took Mr. Taylor up in the lift and came back down again.

  The hall porter was still waiting for me, fuming.

  “Did you polish the radiators?” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, polish them again. Someone has spit on them since.”

  “I’ll do it in a minute, sir.”

  “Do it now and shake your arse!” His lips continued to move but he didn’t say any more.

  “I’m waiting for Mr. Thompson to come down. He said he’d ring in a minute.”

  “Never mind, I’ll wait for him. Go move your skinny rump for Christ’s sake!”

  Back down to the dirty cellar looking for a can of Brasso. More black dust on my face and hands and uniform. I hated polishing the dirty things. They were all green with dried spits burnt into them. My hands became smelly and sweaty. Why the hell didn’t the hotel get new radiators? But the brassy things had to be polished. I cleaned them and they shone until you could see your face gleaming. Back to the lift to continue with the ups and downs.

  Tea break at three o’clock. Back again for the slack period of sleeping inside the lift until the customers showed up around mealtime.

  “Wake up, boy, and take me to the fourth floor.”

  The lift shook and shuddered as I jumped from the chair. I closed the gates and pressed the handle for down so fast the man fell on his arse with shock and surprise. And so did the hall porter. The man grabbed me by the neck and pulled me to him.

  “What are you up to?”

  “Sorry, sir, I pressed the wrong way. Dozing around this time of day does that to my senses.”

  I pulled the handle forward and the lift flew upwards with a speed I never thought it had. As we went dashing by the main floor I almost took the hall porter’s fingers off as he was standing there gripping the gates, watching to find out what was wrong.

  “Fourth floor!”

  The man sneered at me as he stepped out.

  “Move, you Protestant bastard!” I called after him.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing, sir!”

  Down again to the main floor. The hall porter had gone back to his desk. The phone was ringing off the wall. He picked it up. Then looked over at me. I thought I had done something wrong. He started to wave his hand in the air.

  I didn’t know what he wanted or what he was doing. I thought he was telling me to sit down or go away or come over. I walked towards him. He began to shake his hand even faster. He still had the phone to his ear. He yelled at me, “Page! Page!”

  “What?”

  “Go back to the lift! Stay at the lift!”

  He put the phone down and ran out the front door. In a split second he was back in and running towards me. I thought he had seen an accident outside or something.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  His face was red and he was breaking out in a sweat. “Go back in the lift,” he said again.

  I stepped into the lift. He ran back to the front door, stood at attention and opened it. Three men then entered the hotel. One of them was a short chubby fellow who was dressed in a pinstripe suit. He had a black silk hat in his hand and a white scarf around his neck. The hall porter led him to the lift. One of the others got in with him.

  The hall porter stood outside. “Lower floor, page,” he said.

  The third man walked down the stairs to the lower lounge. I closed the gates and pressed the lever for the lower floor. I turned and looked at the small man. I thought he was going to a dance or something fancy.

  “Working late, young fella?” he asked me.

  “Ah, I’m almost off now, sir. I go home at seven.”

  “What time do you come in?”

  “Six, sir,” I answered.

  The other man said, “Long day!”

  Within a second or two the lift arrived on the lower floor. I opened the gates and the third man who had gone down the stairs was already standing in front of the lift. The short man dressed in the fancy suit got out and walked with the other fella to the lounge bar.

  I took the lift back to the ground floor where Larry the porter was waiting for me. He looked me over like he was about to buy me.

  “Do you know who that man is?” he asked me.

  I guessed he was asking me about the small one because of the suit he was wearing.

  “I don’t. Who is he?”

  “That’s Seán T. O’Kelly.”

  “Seán T. O’Kelly?”

  “He’s the President of Ireland in case you didn’t know or learn that in Inchicore!” Larry walked back to his little desk area at the front door.

  I sat back down on my small chair in the lift. I was reminded again that Larry didn’t like Inchicore even though he’d never been to it. The clock on the wall was turning to the number seven: the hour of my release.

  * * *

  Thursday again. Back at Jury’s Hotel. My brass buttons were shining. I’d enough hair oil in my hair to drown a crocodile. Larry the hall porter was walking about the lobby with his hands in his pockets. It wasn’t his favourite day of the week or the month for that matter.

  It was the day after the horse sales at Punchestown or Fairyhouse or some other place where they buy and sell horses.

  “Page, did you polish the doorknobs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there coal in the fireplace on the second floor?”

  “Yes. I just filled it up.”

  “Did you wash your hands?”

  “Yes.”

  The hotel was full of farmers from all over the country. Up from Cork! Across from Clare! Down from Monaghan! Men wearing big warm coats and looking very comfortable. Some wearing leather boots that reached to the knees. Others were wearing heavy clogs with steel studs on the soles of them. The smell of whiskey was everywhere. I had the duty on the lift. The big fat-faced whiskey-nosed farmers thundered into the lift and ordered a ride as if they were kicking the shit off a cow’s arse.

  “Up, boy!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They all sat around the fireplace in the lounge talking about the dealing and buying of animals. I never knew the size of a cow’s tit or the length of a bull’s bollocks until I heard the farmers talking that day. Some of them drank until the whiskey came out of their nostrils and when they sneezed the whole lounge was showered with whiskey raindrops.

  “Come on, boy, take me down to the lounge in a hurry!”

  “You’re only one flight up, sir.”

  “Never mind that, me bucko! If I put you on the farm it would take the potatoes out of your ears!”

  I hardly had to press the down-button with the weight of him.

  Another farmer, wanting to go up to the first floor.

  “Sir, would you like me to get you some cigarettes?” Trying to sift a tip from the bastard.

  “I’ve got all the cigarettes I want.”

  Arriving on the first floor.

  “First floor, sir. Watch your step, please.”

  The lift didn’t come in line with the landing. He hit his boot off the edge and about four pounds of horseshit fell off his sole into the lift.

  “Thank ya, boy.�
�

  “You’re very welcome, sir.” And a muttering under my breath, “And thank you for the horseshit you forgot to leave at the fair. I hope to Christ you fall off your wallet, you miserable country mug!”

  Down to the ground floor again. Gates open.

  The two other pages looked into the lift and saw the cow shit. “Are you shitting in the lift again?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “The porter won’t like that. He’ll put you to cleanin’ the spits off the brass radiators.”

  “Some vein-popping-faced mug was too damn lazy to lift his farm boots. How about giving me a hand with cleanin’ this dung?”

  “Clean it yourself, you got the tip.”

  I was as mad as the country maids that cleaned the lavatories. “Them lousy horse-traders wouldn’t give you the steam off their piss.”

  Out I go and get the shovel and broom to clean the lift. Seven o’clock.

  Time to go off duty.

  * * *

  Billy Whelan was waiting outside my door when I came home from a long day at work.

  “Any sign of John Wayne?” he asked me.

  “No.” I got off my bicycle and put it against the window-sill.

  “Any movie stars come in?”

  “I didn’t see any.”

  I could see my mother inside the window behind the curtains. She was cleaning the small statue of the Infant of Prague. There was something special about the statue. I think it was because it had a crown on its head and because of the robes it was wearing. It looked like a little rich person, maybe a prince or a princess.

  Billy’s voice called to me again. “You know what I think?”

  The sight of my mother in the window with the statue had made me forget what Billy was talking about. “What?”

  “I think they went to the other hotel.”

  “Who?”

  “The American film stars.”

  “What other hotel?”

  “The Gresham.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I was standin’ outside it today and I saw somebody go in.”

  “Who?”

  “I think she was an actress.”

  “Who?”

  “Dorothy Lamour. In The Hurricane with Jon Hall?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I think I’m sure. Looked just like her.”

  “Did she have black hair?”

  “No. Blondie.”

  “Blondie? Dorothy Lamour has black hair. She’s half-French and half something else.”