“So it wasn’t her? I think you’re right.”
My mother then pulled the curtains across and stuck her face next to the pane of glass. She called out and tapped on the window at the same time.
“Come in out’a that, will ya? Your dinner’s on the table!”
I waved back, indicating I was on my way in.
Billy had a film magazine in his hand and he pointed to a photograph in it. “Look at this!”
“What?”
“Robert Taylor is comin’ here to make a film.”
“What’s it called?”
“Knights of the Round Table.”
“I read in the paper it was Quo Vadis.”
“What kind of a fuckin’ name is that?”
“It’s Latin. Listen to the priest and you’ll find out.”
Billy then added, “Elizabeth Taylor is in it as well.”
“Where did you get that magazine?”
“Shamie Finnerty gave it to me.”
“Shamie from Keogh Square?”
“Right.”
“Where’d he get it?”
“He stole it.”
“Can I borrow it?”
“Yeah.” Billy gave me the magazine.
I walked into the house.
Billy called after me, “Don’t forget to ask John Wayne for his autograph if he comes in!”
“Okay!” I called back as my mother slammed the door behind me.
I wasn’t in the house but a minute when I heard a knocking on the door. I went to open it and Billy was still standing there.
“I want me magazine back,” he said.
I walked back to the kitchen table and got it for him.
“Shamie will go bleedin’ nuts if I lose this. I’ll let you have it tomorrow,” he said and walked away.
* * *
Blister Dempsey was about two years older than I was. For most of the day we stood next to the lift and waited to be called by the hall porter. When either one of us wasn’t operating the lift we’d run messages or polish anything that needed polishing in the lobby. Blister didn’t like the fact that I was assigned the responsibility of operating the lift. He knew the customers who took the lift were the best tippers. Everybody knew that. Whoever operated the lift made the most money. The hall porter didn’t want Blister on the lift because he had a very pimply face. His face was filled with pimples and half the time they were boiling over and the yellow stuff would drip down his jaw. Nobody ever said that was the reason Blister wasn’t assigned the lift but it was obvious.
Blister and I often talked about leaving the hotel and going away to England or even some other more exotic place. It might have been because we had very little to do sometimes. On a slow day we would talk for hours. Blister had a great head of hair but it was so caked with oil the back of his neck looked like a wheel axle. Blister sometimes took over the lift when I went to lunch and supper. His mother worked in the hotel kitchen mopping up the gravy and soup that fell out of the large boiling pots. He wasn’t happy having charge of the lift part-time. He wanted to operate it all day. He was very hungry for the tips. When rich-looking customers entered the hallway he rushed to operate the lift, but I always beat him to it. I managed to get my hand on the handle that controlled it. He also knew the hall porter wanted me to do the operating.
One day he told me about a plan he had. He was going to go away on a ship. He said he had found out all the information from a friend of his. A shipping company in England, the Orient Line, was hiring waiters for service on board their ships that sailed all over the world. Blister said he had made arrangements to go to Tilbury in England to be hired as a waiter on one of the luxury liners. The ship was to sail to Trinidad and places like that. He told me I could go with him. At first I didn’t believe him, but then he told me to go down to the kitchen and check with his mother. If his mother knew about it I would believe him. I turned over the lift to him and went downstairs to the hot kitchen to see his mother.
I was very excited about the idea of leaving on a ship. Mrs. Dempsey was scrubbing the concrete kitchen floor when I got there. The smell of chicken soup was all over her. Somebody had knocked over one of the large cooking pots and spilled the soup. Mrs. Dempsey was mopping, and the sweat was flowing from her forehead. I walked up to her, avoiding stepping in the spilled soup.
“What d’ya want?”
“Can I ask you a question, Mrs. Dempsey?”
“What?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“What?”
“Is Blister going away on a ship?” I asked her.
She looked up at me and began to drink the beads of sweat that poured from her forehead into her mouth. “A ship?” she said, suspicious of my question. She squeezed the rag she was wiping the floor with into the bucket. “Blister said that?”
“Yes.”
“A ship?” she said again.
“Yes, he just told me he filled out the papers with the Orient Line, in Tilbury, England.”
“England?”
“Tilbury. It’s the docks near London.”
“Blister said them things?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“When did he say them things?”
“A few minutes ago. Is he goin’ away to work on the Orient Line?”
“He is. He’s goin’. Isn’t that what he told you?”
I nodded my head, turned away and let her continue with her work. Back up in the front hall I told Blister I believed him. We then talked and made plans. We were both to go to the hall porter and tell him we were finished with working. We decided to go together.
Blister stopped me as we were halfway across the floor.
“Look, why don’t we do it one at a time?” he said to me.
“Okay.”
“You go tell him first, I’ll follow you.”
He was bigger and older than I was and I wondered why I should be first. When I told him to go first, he reminded me that he was the one with the plan and papers. I finally got up my nerves and held them tight. I walked over to the head porter.
“I want to hand in my notice.”
Larry the hall porter looked down at me.
“Your what?”
“My notice. I’m not goin’ to be working here any longer.”
“Where you goin’?”
“I’m goin’ to England.”
“For what?”
“To work.”
“Where?”
“I’m gettin’ a job on the Orient Line.”
“Doin’ what?”
“A waiter. A steward. Servin’.”
“You’ve no experience.”
“Well, how’s it goin’ to matter? I’m able to do it.”
“Who told you all this?”
“Blister.”
“Blister?”
“Yes. He’s got all papers and info.”
“Blister?”
“Yes.”
“Does your mother know about this?”
“No.”
“You’re too young.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You have to be eighteen. Does your father know?”
“My father doesn’t talk to me.”
“You better tell him.”
“He won’t care.”
“Who knows about this?”
“Nobody knows about it. I’m going away. I’m leavin’ Dublin.”
The hall porter turned away as if to ignore me. Hoping that I’d leave him alone and go back to the lift.
I just stood there.
“What?” he asked me impatiently.
“I’m givin’ in me notice. I’m goin’ away.”
“You’re talkin’ through your arse, Walsh. Go back to the lift.”
“I’m leavin’. It’s the truth.”
“You the same fella who didn’t know if Inchicore is up or down? You don’t have a trade and your father doesn’t have a trade.”
“Leave my father out of it!”
“I’m sayin’ if your father doesn’t have a trade the likelihood is that you’ll be down on the balls of your feet walkin’ around Dublin lookin’ for a job.”
“I’m gettin’ a job on the Orient Line in England. I don’t want to be standin’ up against the wall over there all my life.”
“Listen to me, will ya? As long as your arsehole faces the ground you won’t do better than what you’ve got here. I’m tellin’ you.”
“I’m leavin’. And this is my week’s notice,” I said back.
“Well, get outta me sight. Go away with yourself. Go down to the office and tell the pay clerk.”
“So it’s official?” I asked.
“Yes, it’s very official. And if you ask me you’re a bit of a nut case. I think you left your brains in the skull of Oliver Plunkett when you went up there to Drogheda.”
“I never went up to Drogheda!”
“Well, you shoulda. All I can say is, I hope your poor mother knows what you’re up to.”
I turned from the hall porter’s area and went back to Blister.
“I’ve done it, I’m outta here! Go on over! He’s in a good mood.”
Blister was silent. He looked at me, then turned his face the other way. I kept telling him about the good mood the hall porter was in but Blister wasn’t listening. It dawned on me after a minute that Blister had played a trick on me. His mother had played a trick. I had left my job and now Blister wasn’t going to leave with me. I asked him about the ship and travel plans and he admitted it was all a joke, just to get me out of the lift. He said his mother needed all the pennies he could get his hands on. He wasn’t making enough tips standing in the hall running for papers and taxis. For a few seconds I thought about going back to the hall porter and telling him it was a joke but, as I stood there without the sense of having to stay, I kept thinking. I looked at Blister with all the greasy pimples on his face. He was half-crying.
I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid to back down and tell the hall porter I didn’t know what I was doing. For a minute I wanted to hit Blister in the face but I held back. I had just pulled the world down on myself and I was getting more frightened by the second.
I was out of the job I loved. I decided that I would leave anyway. I would stick with my plans to go and work on the Orient Line and sail away to Trinidad and Fiji. The thought of travelling so far away made more and more sense to me. I was feeling freer, even though I knew it would only last till I spent my wages. I turned away from the lift and Blister walked into it. He sat down on my chair. His face was red. The oil he had in his hair was dripping down on his forehead just like the sweat from his mother’s head.
I passed through the hotel, telling everybody I had finished with my job. Most of them didn’t believe me. I was off to work on the Orient Line. When I passed everybody and faced the gate of the hotel I realised I was walking out for the last time. I would never be able to get John Wayne’s autograph for Billy Whelan. I felt bad and sorry for myself and was feeling lonely again. I was already missing my friends and unhappy with what I’d done, but I just wasn’t able to turn back and tell the hall porter I’d made a mistake. Tears came to my eyes. I began to cry out loud.
I walked out the gate of Jury’s, stepping over sacks of onions, carrots and potatoes. It was raining outside. My brass buttons were gone. No more coal buckets, no more farmers’ horseshit. No more spits on brass radiators. I could see Blister sitting in my chair in the lift. I had allowed my fantasies to take me away from the world I was happy in. I had never thought Blister Dempsey was smart but he outsmarted me because he knew I would want to sail away to a distant place. I wished I hadn’t been such a fool. I started to walk away and didn’t know what direction I was going in and I didn’t care. I walked towards O’Connell Street and nearly got run over by a car and a hundred bicycles. I wandered about for hours wondering what my mother and father would say when they found out about me.
I wandered over to the outdoor stalls on Moore Street. The stalls were laden down with every imaginable kind of meat, fruit, and fish, including fly-covered tripe, cows’ tongues and pigs’ cheeks. Every once in a while a dog or a cat managed to get hold of the cow’s tongue or the nose of the pig and run away towards Henry Street. If the anxious animal was lucky it escaped with the food. Usually it was grabbed by the tail and its head ended up with the fish-heads under the stall. Anyone walking on Moore Street got called and coddled into purchasing something. Even if they didn’t want what they were talked into buying. Often passers-by found a head of cabbage or half a pig’s cheek in their hands when they walked by a stall. The chesty vendors with charm and determination convinced reluctant customers to buy the food and only asked for whatever they could cadge out of the person who didn’t like cabbage and who couldn’t stand the sight of half a pig’s head in their hands. The vendors’ voices on Moore Street could be heard streets away. A ‘secret’ on Moore Street would be as rare as an undamaged apple.
“I’ve got to use me bladder.”
“Widdle by the lamppost.”
“Merciful God!”
“Ah, the rain will wash it away before the day’s done.”
Anything going off was sold for almost nothing. The character of Moore Street was more Dublin than anywhere. It might be the only street in the Western World where people could talk and listen at the same time.
As I walked past a stall a big red-faced woman handed me a pig’s cheek and a cabbage. “Don’t forget to eat this before Frida’, son! I don’t think it’ll last.” She sniffed at the bag. “Ah, it’s still with us but not for long.” The woman seemed to recognise me from one of my many visits to Moore Street with my mother when she was looking for bargains. “Your poor mother is a saint. Holier than anyone I ever met in me life.”
* * *
My father was sitting by the fireplace when I came in. I was going to show him the pig’s cheek but he didn’t move his head. I went out into the back yard and put the meat in a pot and left it on the windowsill for my mother. It was cold outside and it wouldn’t go off too quickly. Back inside I felt the teapot on the table. It was warm. I poured myself a cup of tea. Two big logs were burning and making a noise as if they were talking or complaining. I sat down at the wooden table facing the back yard. I could see my father’s reflection in the window. I was too sad to turn and face him. I sipped on my tea and continued to look out at the back yard.
Most of my life I wanted my father to sit down and have a conversation with me. I wanted to hear him talk about his time in the army and what he saw of the war and maybe even talk about what it was about him that was like me. Everybody in the family said I was “the spittin’ image of Paddy”. My oldest sister Mary said I was “shell-shocked” like him as well. In the past I was happy to hear that I was so much like my father.
Yet today for the first time in my life I was hoping he wouldn’t talk. The pimply face of Blister Dempsey was still in front of my eyes. I edged over to the fireplace, pretending I was too preoccupied to talk and I was concentrating on something. I knew if I didn’t talk to my father he wouldn’t ask or question me much but I also knew when he was around his presence kept my mother’s temper from boiling over.
My mother entered the house and was surprised to see me. “Why are you home so early?”
From the side I could see my father getting up from his chair and walking slowly about the room. He was looking for something. My mother turned around but didn’t say anything to him. After a moment he found his hat, put it on his head and walked out the door. My mother, noticeably annoyed, walked over to the door and closed it as if to say, ‘Don’t come back’.
Then she sat down and poured herself a cup of tea.
I mumbled in as soft a voice as I could, “Ma, I’ve no work now, I’m not at Jury’s any more. I lost my job. It’s gone.
“What are ya talkin’ about ‘gone’?” She couldn’t believe it.
“The job’s gone. I’m outta work. I don’t work at Jury
’s any more, Ma.”
“What’s that you said, son?”
“I’m outta work, Ma. I don’t have my job at Jury’s. I lost it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Ma. I made a mistake.”
Her face turned redder than a beetroot. She bit her bottom lip with her false teeth and I felt she wanted to slap me across the face. She threw her handbag down on the table.
“Ya can’t hold onto anything! You’ll rue this day!” she yelled at me.
I was sick and sorry for what I’d done to myself. In her mind I was definitely on the path of my father.
When I finally managed to tell her what happened she showed little sympathy. I became so frightened I began to think of going back to the hotel and begging the hall porter to take me back. I would admit to him that I made a mistake. I would hit Blister Dempsey with a punch in the mouth. I would pour cold water over his mother’s dirty hair. I’d get into the lift and be smiling and happy again.
My father returned from outside. He took off his hat and placed it on the mantelpiece. I was never so happy to see him. He not only surprised me, he shocked me. Had he come back to save me from my mother’s anger? I wanted to believe he did.
“Go back and tell the hall porter you’re sorry,” my mother commanded.
The more I thought about going back to the hall porter, the more I felt I couldn’t. I had made too big a show of myself and I had bragged too much about where I was sailing off to. I had made it too clear that I was able to tackle the world on my own. I was now licking the tears off my own face.
My mother walked up to me, “Go back there and tell them you’re sorry. Tell them you’re sorry!”
My voice trembled with fear. “Ah, he’s finished with me, Ma. He’s finished with me. I know he is. I let him down.”
My father got up from the table and walked towards the window. “Maybe it’s a strain in the MacDonalds,” he said.
My mother jumped up. “You’re not just a drop-out, you’re a left-out! A man hardly wanted in his own country!”
All of a sudden everything became very silent. Even the hens in the back yard seemed to go quiet.
My mother turned her eyes from me and looked out to the small garden at the back of the house. “I could sow a few potatoes and a bit of rhubarb out there, couldn’t I?”
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