Maggie's Breakfast

by Gabriel Walsh

I continued to walk towards the front door.

  “You’re goin’ the wrong way!” he yelled at me.

  But it was too late. I had reached the swinging doors and walked out onto the street with the rest of the swanks, feeling a bit different already.

  In the dressing-room after a day’s work the waiters who were stiff and formal while on duty would soon descend into a mad ragtag group who talked about the customers they had just served.

  “That bitch! Did ya see her? She wanted more gravy! Her prick of a husband with his sun-baked face wanted more brandy!”

  “And who was the creep next to her who kept telling me to watch me elbow whenever I served him peas and carrots? I had to bend down to serve him, didn’t I? If I served him standing up I’da poured the mashed potatoes on his greasy head that smelled like a whorehouse. I was almost into a fit of sneezin’ by the smell of piss from his trousers. And the two who kept sending everything back because the beef was too hot or too much or they had changed their minds over and over!”

  “And what about that bastard with the big fat cigar stuck to his lips? He was a fuckin’ Arab or Egyptian. King Baldy Farouk. He’s no Farouk. Or maybe he was French. Fuck him whoever he was. He kept askin’ me for a light. I’m holdin’ two hot dishes of veg and he’s asking me for a light as well! I shoulda burnt his moustache. If he had come over to light up his cigar I’da been lagged in for murderin’ the bastard. He kept puffing and puffing the smoke in me eyes. I wanted to stick that stub of ash up his arse. Me feet was wore out runnin’ back and forth gettin’ him cigars and cigarettes. Every brand in the world he had on the table in front of him. The smell was horrible.”

  “And did ya see the English pisser dressed in his jodhpurs and the horse shite still on the heels of his boots? The white silk shirt with the brandy stains on it? He walked across the carpet and left a trail of dung that made the place smell like a stable. The fuckin’ Frenchman almost grew hair when he saw what was on the carpet. ‘Mon dieu, mon dieu, mon shite! Parlez-vous beaucoup?’ Monsieur Tripe doesn’t even speak English, or he won’t.”

  “And No Knickers Lizzie O’Rourke with her bleedin’ vacuum! Buzzin’ all over the place when she was told only to vacuum the spot near the door! She just came down to see who was eatin’ what and how we were all doin’ on the job. I think she’s been screwin’ too many old men up there on the fourth floor.”

  “What was the name of that film star that was here a coupla years ago?”

  “What film star?”

  “The big black-headed fella from Hollywood.”

  “They’re all from Hollywood. Rock Gibraltar Hudson?”

  “Was that him?”

  “The fella who was playin’ the part of Captain Lightfoot?”

  “Him? That was years ago!”

  “I know it was. He was a good tipper. I think he fancied you, Barney. Did you give him a bit of your Lightfoot?”

  “Ah, shut up and go off with yourself!”

  “And him a symbol of cockology the world over!”

  “Who’d want me anyway? Me own wife only wants me money.”

  “I’ve got lounge duty today! Tea and toast! Tea and biscuits! The brandy guys who sit around all day wearin’ out the newspaper with their eyes! Y’ever see them with the newspaper? They read it and they read it. Then they turn the page and then they turn it again and again. Then they bend the fuckin’ thing and soon it’s lookin’ like a small notebook. The whole fuckin’ paper vanishes right before your eyes. I think then they eat it. I swear to Jesus.”

  “Another brandy! Another pot of tea and more sliced tomato and cheese sandwiches, please! Lyin’ around all afternoon readin’ the newspaper! Are they not all duly elected officials we nominate to govern us down there in Parliament House on Kildare Street? Some are politicians. I know that. They’re all politicians. This is where they talk about the destiny of our beloved little nation. My past, present and future is spelled out and bothered up there in the lounge every day at four o’clock. Can you imagine? I’d a read ten fuckin’ books by the time they read the newspaper!”

  “I think they’re lookin’ to see if their pictures are in it. When they can’t find themselves they can’t believe it. They just go back and forth and almost eat the bleedin’ pages lookin’ for a snap of themselves standing next to somebody important.”

  “How much did we make today?”

  “It was a good day. A lot of finance!”

  “We’ll have a good payday Friday when it’s all divvied up.”

  “What about these young goats from the breakfast shift? How much will they get?”

  “Ah, we’ll give ’em something. They’ve earned it. Jesus, they work fast. It’s all that quick breakfast-servin’ they do early in the mornin’s. They’ve done a day’s work while we’re still in bed. I’m glad I don’t have to ride that hard-arsed saddle on me son’s bicycle. Give me the bus any time!”

  “You’re too old to ride a bicycle.”

  “Piss off with yourself! You’re too old to ride your wife.”

  “Shut up! Keep me missus out of it. She’ll be happy when I tell her Friday’s pay is goin’ to be good. I’m always in the mood to throw a good ride into her when the pay packet is big. I get big like me pay packet.”

  “Stop boastin’.”

  “I’m not boastin’. I’m braggin’.”

  “Ha!”

  “Good Christ!”

  “What is it?”

  “Someone stole me fuckin’ white collar! I left it on the top of my locker this mornin’! Anybody see a white collar? I only got me laundry back before I went on duty. Who took it? Who took it? Check everybody’s hard neck! Laugh your arse off if you want but that collar was brand new. I bought the fuckin’ thing in Cleary’s.”

  “You went to the sale there on Saturday?”

  “I didn’t go, me sister did.”

  “Your sister?”

  “Yes, me sister.”

  “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

  “I got five sisters.”

  “Well, which one went to the sale for you?”

  “What the fuck do you care?”

  “I don’t care. I’m only askin’.”

  “Mind your own business. Y’can’t leave a damn thing around any more. What’s happenin’ to this hotel? Last week it was me shoes. Now it’s me white collar. It was a brand-new nylon collar.”

  “Why did ya’ leave that collar on the top of your locker anyway? Aren’t ya supposed to be lockin’ it up? Isn’t that why you got a fuckin’ lock? Isn’t it? Maybe somebody thought you threw it away.”

  “Who’d be that stupid?”

  “Look in the wastebasket. That’s where you throw your dirty stockings and shorts.”

  “Some of the new fellas can’t afford shite.”

  A silence for about a minute. Talk again.

  “Where in the name of Jesus does that poufter manager find these fellas?”

  “He advertises in the newspaper.”

  “That’s the parts the politicians skip when they read the papers.”

  “What would you do if you didn’t have a penny to buy yourself a white shirt?”

  “Don’t be askin’ me questions like that. I’m too old to be answering. I’m almost retired. I left a shirt out last week and the other day I saw one of them commis waiters from the breakfast shift wearing it.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothin’! What could I do? It was my own fault. I forgot to lock it up. Anyway I couldn’t really prove it was me white shirt. And by the way if you leave shoe polish out don’t be surprised if it goes too. Don’t forget how many people work here with black shoes. Me feet are killin’ me.”

  “What time does the laundry open?”

  “An hour before dinner. Pick up me clean laundry for me tomorrow, will ya?”

  “Who?”

  “You!”

  “Y’takin’ the day off?”

  “I’m not takin’ the day off – it is me day off.
I worked last Sunda’, remember?”

  “What’ll you do tomorrow?”

  “Fuck all. I’ll sleep. A few pints then I’ll sleep again. I wouldn’t mind takin’ Fifth Floor Mary home with me. Did ya see her?”

  “The one from Kerry? Is that where she’s from?”

  “Cork!”

  “I heard she’s from Kerry. Good Christ, she’s some heifer. She carries more milk than a herd of cows. I’d like to be the farmer who milks her. I’d love to get a ride off her. Has anybody got any from her yet? She’s up on the fifth floor. Ask one of the fellas from the breakfast shift.”

  “Hey, Twohig? Twohig?”

  “Twohig’s not here. The Welsh fella is here.”

  “Who?”

  “Welsh!”

  “Welsh?”

  “Who’s been clearin’ away your station all day?”

  “That little fella?”

  “Him.”

  “Holy Christ, I’m sorry. I forgot to ask him his name. Hey, young fella, what’s your name?”

  “Walsh.”

  “What your first name?”

  “Gabriel.”

  “Gabriel? That’s a girl’s name.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “It’s a fuckin’ angel’s name if you ask me.”

  “Nobody asked you.”

  “No kidding. Is that your real name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Inchicore.”

  “Inchicore? ‘Sure there’s nothin’ like the Pride of Inchicore!’ Isn’t that the song?”

  “No.”

  “It goes somethin’ like that. Where’s Inchicore?”

  “If you knew anybody who worked in the C.I.E. you’d know where bleedin’ Inchicore is.”

  “Up by Kilmainham? Saint Pat’s? They play up there, don’t they? You ever see Shay Gibbons play? He played for Ireland an’ I heard he always had a few pints before he walked onto the pitch. I only heard that now, mind ya. I don’t know how true it is. What does your father do?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Unemployed?”

  “Yes.”

  “You like this hotel?”

  “I do.”

  “Don’t mind all the blabber you hear here.”

  “I don’t mind it. They don’t talk that much when they’re workin’.”

  “You were so good today I didn’t notice you. I didn’t have to tell you anything. That’s a good sign. You kept the station clean and neat an’ you took them dishes away in a hurry.” He then turned back to the other older waiter. “I know who has your collar.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “Me.”

  “You?”

  “I saw it on top of the locker and I thought it was thrown out. I’m wearin’ it now. I didn’t know you wanted it. Y’can have it back. I’m sorry.”

  “No. Never mind. It’s yours – you can have it. I shouldn’t have left it up there. It’s yours. I mean that. Keep the damn thing. Thanks for tellin’ me.”

  A voice called from the door. “There’s a union meetin’ on Tuesday! Make sure you’re all there. I hear’ there’s strike talk.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I heard it.”

  “Is it true?”

  “They want to strike at the Gresham and the Hibernian hotels but not here. If you don’t speculate you won’t accumulate. If you don’t court you’ll never marry.”

  The old man turned back to me. “Christ, I’m glad to be out of this stiff collar. I’ve a fuckin’ rash around me neck from wearin’ it.”

  “Go to the doctor?”

  “Welsh? I mean Walsh?”

  “What?”

  “Are ya happy at your work?”

  “I am.”

  “That’s the lad. Keep it up and you’ll be in the union before long. How long have you been here now?”

  “A month.”

  “Good Christ, time goes fast, doesn’t it?”

  Other voices flying about the place.

  “Don’t leave dirty dishes lyin’ about. The bleedin’ things stack up and fall all over the fuckin’ floor.”

  “Make sure the station is always clear and clean. No pots, pans or dishes. Get them on the tray and back into the kitchen in a hurry.”

  “All we need is that Frenchman to come over and inspect our station. Out you’d go in a flash. He wouldn’t waste a sneeze in firing you.”

  “Who?”

  “Him! Louis, the head waiter! Fuck him! Everybody who works here! Fuck ’em all!”

  “What are you doin’, Walsh?”

  “Changing. I’m off work till tomorrow.”

  * * *

  I loved my job. It felt as if I now at last had a family, the members of which took the time to talk to each other. What’s more, we laughed and joked together. Without being fully aware of how to live a normal life of reasonable contentment, most everyone in my family, knowingly or not, did their best to make each other unhappy. My five sisters, three remaining brothers and me were soaked in my mother’s perception of living when it came to accepting and liking each other, and any suggestion or impulse that led to a sense of mutual happiness was ignored as if it was some kind of ailment or illness or a threat to what lay ahead in the afterlife. With the exception of my sister Rita who had a natural kindness about her, we begrudged each other very conceivable friendly positive thing that might result in anyone being happy or comfortable for five minutes. Happiness only happened to other people who had strayed away from the teachings of the Church. In my house, for the most part, happiness meant that one was not living up to the religious standards set by my mother. Any kind of human emotion or caring for one another was likely to remind us that it was the wrong road to Heaven. The deep belief that pleasure was an enemy permeated almost everything we did and thought. It kept us from knowing and supporting each other. It excluded us from just about everything that was collectively comfortable. We all had a full-time job in disassociating ourselves from any kind of gratification, contentment and joy. Affection was a foreign concept. Even the air in the household was filled with distrust. My brothers and sisters were so alienated from each other that they lost their ability to share the personal and private pain they were suffering. Wanting and wishing for any kind of mutual affection were thoughts that led to the plucking of the feathers of the wings we all thought we had growing out of our shoulder blades. With feathered wings we could all fly away to eternal paradise when life on earth ceased. Without wings we were all condemned to Hell where we’d be roasted like chestnuts in a never-ending inferno. In a strange and almost incomprehensible way the alienation in my family gave my mother hope. She believed that her way of bringing up her children was the way God and the clergy wanted it and as such she felt she had contributed to the creation of a new sacrament.

  * * *

  “Garçon, garçon! Ici! Ici!” Louis the French maitre ’d ran out of the tea lounge.

  I was about to turn the pastry dolly into the dining room when the Frenchman grabbed me by the back of the neck.

  “Where you go?” he asked me.

  “The dining room,” I answered.

  “Allez-vous back to the tea lounge!” He turned the dolly and pushed me towards the tea lounge.

  A group of people were sitting next to the big window. A few of the men were wearing turbans and several of the women were dressed in long flowing robes. I was reminded of the film Gunga Din. As I stood staring at the group, Louis tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Serve! Go! Show the pastries, please!”

  I moved forward with the pastry trolley.

  A very dignified woman remarked, “My, look at all of this! Do you bake them all here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I didn’t want to tell her the bakery oven in the hotel had broken down and the pastries were shipped in from Bewley’s Bakery on Grafton Street.

  “Oh, I love these!” She reached forward and took o
ne of the almond ones.

  At that a man with a yellow turban on his head reached over and grabbed the remaining almond pastries.

  “I’ll get more,” I said to the lady.

  I was about to rush back to the kitchen to replenish them when the woman in question quietly took hold of my arm. “Not to bother. No need to.”

  I was glad she said that because I didn’t want to tell her about the broken-down oven.

  The man who’d swiped all the almond pastries placed one in front of the woman. “Here you are, Indira.”

  The woman smiled at him and smiled at me. She then placed a pound note in the palm of my hand.

  When I returned to the dining room I was met by Louis.

  “Everything good?” he asked.

  “Yes. I got a pound from the woman with her back to the door.”

  “That woman is Indira Gandhi, the daughter of the Indian Prime Minister,” Louis said and walked away from me.

  * * *

  I had barely unclasped my bow tie from around my shirt collar when a tray with a bottle of whiskey was put in my hands. I was told to rush it up to the large meeting room on the second floor. After a few leaps and a dash I knocked on the door and stuck my head into the room.

  A man sitting at the head of the table, smoking a cigar, called to me. “There you are, lad! Come in.”

  I stepped into the room and noticed everyone had a note pad in front of them. There was a woman, quite short, sitting in front of the big window holding a young girl.

  I put the whiskey bottle down on the sideboard where there already were glasses and a big jug of water.

  The man turned to the woman. “What’ll you have, sweetheart?” he asked.

  The woman responded, “Lemonade for both of us.”

  The man took the cigar out of his mouth and turned to me. “You got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Good. Okay. Now along with that whiskey we’re going to have two gin and tonics. Can you get me that, lad?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “It’s decided we’ll film in Cork,” the man with the cigar said.

  For a moment I thought he was talking to me but he obviously wasn’t. I was so excited to hear this man talk about making a film in Cork I rushed back down the stairs and almost fell over myself. The barman told me John Huston was the man in charge upstairs and if I hurried back up I might bump into Gregory Peck. Within minutes I was back in the big room, serving everybody around the table.