by Peter Murphy
She thought about writing to Patrick, too, but she couldn’t bring herself around to it even though it was for the better—for her and Karl and for Patrick too. She would tell him when enough time had passed and he had gotten over his crush on her. Poor Patrick. She hoped that Rome was being good to him.
7
1983
Frank loaded the van while Jimmy and Danny lugged everything down from the third floor. Deirdre had packed the boxes and marked them. They were easy to move but Frank wanted the couch and the bed first.
“What’s it matter?” Danny asked when Frank chided him.
“Because you have to put the big stuff in first. Now fuck-off and get the couch. And the mattress and box spring.”
“Alright, alright, don’t get all fucking snarky.”
“I’m doing you a favor, ya bollocks. Do you think I like wasting a whole day on you? I could be out working and earning a few bucks.”
“I thought you said there was no work around.” Jimmy had been asking Frank for work—if any was going. Frank was a carpenter and Jimmy could carry wood and tools.
“Fuck-off the pair of you and do as you’re told. It’s my van and we’ll load it my way—the proper way.”
They ceded and fetched the bed. The mattress was awkward but at least it could be bent around the corners of the stairwell. The box spring required a rudimentary knowledge of geometry that was beyond Jimmy and Danny. They got stuck on the last turn until the super came out to help. But after a couple of hours or so, they got it all done and piled in to drive the few blocks over to Parliament and Winchester, in the heart of Cabbagetown, now almost half-renovated.
“You’re moving up in the world, Danny, I heard this is going to be the place to be.”
“He is like fuck. He’s just riding along on Deirdre’s skirts.”
“Leave him alone, Frank.”
They pulled up at the back of the renovated house that shared its parking space with the Beer Store, the government-run outlet where they slung the boxes of beer along the rollers like they were begrudged.
“You’ll be alright for beer anyway.”
The liquor store was just the other side of Winchester. There, all the bottles were kept hidden and customers had to write down their selection from the descriptions on the boards. Then hand them to a man who seemed unwilling to offer any assistance. ‘Toronto the Good’ suffered intemperance and the resulting tax contributions—but could not seem encouraging, for one reason or another.
Moving in was a lot easier. They just had to drag everything up to the second floor deck and shove it through the back door. The apartment was open with a large room with a working fireplace, a smaller room where they could eat and an even smaller but well equipped kitchen behind a bar-like counter. The bedrooms were small, too, and the washroom was little more than a closet but it was all tastefully finished.
“This place is alright,” Jimmy agreed as Deirdre showed him around.
“It is, isn’t it?”
“It used to be a roach-ridden flop house.”
“Thanks for sharing that, Frank.”
But Deirdre just laughed and directed the incoming boxes, depending on their markings.
When they were done, Danny brought them across the street for a few beers while Deirdre began to unpack.
The Winchester Hotel was typical of the older taverns in Toronto. “Watch yourself in here,” Frank said, nodding in a knowing way as he held the door and let Jimmy and Danny go before him.
“Why?”
“’Cos it’s Pogey Day.”
Frank smiled as the tray of draught arrived and each one of them was given two small glasses—the legally allowed allotment. But the waiter hovered by their elbows as they drained their glasses and quickly replaced them.
Built as a hotel, the Winchester once offered cheap rooms to travelling salesmen and others of the working class in transit. Never a place of beauty, it used to have a clean orderliness about it but salesmen now preferred the sameness offered by the low-end hotel chains and the Winchester’s rooms were rented on a monthly basis—welfare cheques exchanged for the surety of a bed and a place to wash and shave. It was the last fixed abode of those that life had passed by—East-Coasters and others who hadn’t risen on the tides of emigration. Old men now made older by years of grind, ending their days in musty little rooms, walking the streets until the end of the month when their cheques finally arrived.
After rent and board there was hardly enough left to be stretched until the next so they splashed it around like confetti in the men-only bar; another relic of when the city fathers frowned on such behavior—at least in public.
And when it was gone they would stand up and, acting on the prodding of some inner demon, flushed with alcohol, erupt against all the injustices cruel fate had visited upon them. Some sang lewd ditties and some called out all who tried to silence them. Some spoke of government plots, while the most succinct simply pulled their pants down and wagged at the world with their pale pinched arses.
They were ejected by the burliest waiters but it was better that way—leaving with a flourish before facing another long month asking for change and searching for butts along the street.
“So, Boyle, is this going to be your new local?”
“You never know. I kinda like it.”
“Are you fucking mad?” Jimmy gaped around in disbelief.
“We’ll all end up here sooner or later.” Frank laughed and lit a cigarette.
“Speak for yourself. This won’t be me.”
“Look around you. How many of them do you think said the same thing?”
“You’re so fucking morose.”
They drank their beer as the waiter stood over them, seeming to disapprove that they were drinking so slowly.
“We should do a gig here.”
“Only if they have chicken wire.”
“I forgot to tell you,” Danny interrupted them. “Deirdre got us a gig at the university.”
“Great. Can we do some Moving Hearts?”
“We can’t play stuff like that. We should do something intellectual.”
“Like what?”
“I’ve been working on some stuff of my own.”
“I don’t know,” Danny interrupted them, “Deirdre told them we were Celtic.”
“What’s that even mean?”
“It means we have to sing the ‘Black Velvet Band’ in Scottish accents.”
“Hey, I know someone who plays the bagpipes.”
“Why don’t we just kick you in the bollocks while you’re singing? It’ll sound the same.”
*
“He doesn’t want Danny to know. At least not yet—not until we know for sure.”
David was worried. His broad smile was gone and his eyes were haunted. Deirdre reached out and touched his hand but David pulled it away. She knew what hung over him. There had been talk of a ‘gay cancer’ for almost two years, of a plague passing among them. “God’s retribution,” the righteous scorned, and seemed to take delight in the tragedy.
“I won’t say anything, for now, but we will have to tell him.”
Danny hadn’t seen much of his uncle recently. He’d been busy, working all day, and the band was gigging four or five nights a week. The other nights, he’d sit on the couch watching the hockey game and drinking beer. Sometimes Deirdre got a bit frustrated with him but she didn’t complain. He was bringing home enough money for her to study in comfort. Some Saturdays he even insisted on taking her shopping and waited patiently while she tried everything on. Sometimes, she wished he wasn’t so busy so they could do more together, but for now she let it pass.
She saw Martin and David regularly and had often chided Martin for not taking better care of himself. Since he had come back from Ireland he seemed to be wasting away. It all made perfect sense now. Perfect in the most horrible way.
“And what about you? How are you doing?”
David almost seemed embarrassed. “I’m fine, gir
l.”
“David. You are the world’s worst liar.”
He looked cornered for a moment before he began to cry and Deirdre couldn’t help herself and took him in her arms, ignoring those sitting around them. They often met in The Senator. David worked nearby and Deirdre loved its nostalgia. Too much of Toronto was rushing into change.
“I’m scared, Deer-dree.” He always had difficulty with her name. “I’m scared for myself and for Martin. I’m also afraid that I might have given it to him.”
“But that’s ridiculous.”
“I really wish it was but I was Martin’s only.”
“But you’re showing no signs of anything wrong.”
“Maybe I’m a carrier. Not everybody gets infected.”
“But you have been with Martin for so long. How . . .” She stopped as he hung his head in shame.
“It was just once. Just a stupid little fling one night when Martin and I had a big fight. Only, after we got back together I lied and now . . . how can I tell him now?”
*
“Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty?” Frank sang and silenced the room full of men in tartan skirts, groomed beards, and sporrans dangling between their thighs, while their wives stood primly in lace-edged linens beneath their tartan sashes.
“How he fell with a roll and a rumble?”
Even the caterers paused their dashing between the tables and the younger professors nodded and smiled to each other.
“Curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple.”
Frank was on a roll and closed his eyes while clutching his whistle in his hand. They would do an instrumental verse if he hesitated on the words. It was all very well rehearsed. “At the butt of the Magazine Wall.”
“The Magazine Wall, hump, helmet and all.” Danny and Jimmy joined in on the chorus.
“They’re doing James Joyce,” the crowd acknowledged and edged a little closer. Earlie,r when the band first arrived, they had looked disappointed and somewhat alarmed that Danny and the lads looked more like a rock band or drug dealers.
He was one time our King of the Castle,
Now he’s kicked about like a rotten old parsnip.
And from Green Street he’ll be sent by order of His Worship
To the penal jail of Mountjoy,
To the jail of Mountjoy! Jail him and joy.
Deirdre’s friends flocked around her and whispered. “They are great, Dee,” but Deirdre had to force herself to smile. She would have to tell Danny about Martin—when they got home.
“He was fa fa father of all schemes for to bother us,” Frank stammered as Ronnie Drew had done.
Slow coaches and immaculate contraceptives for the populace,
Mare’s milk for the sick, seven dry Sundays a week,
Open air love and religion’s reform,
“And religious reform, hideous in form.” Danny and Jimmy were beginning to make it sound like a Gregorian chant.
Arrah, why, says you, couldn’t he manage it?
I’ll go bail, me fine dairyman darling,
Like the bumping bull of the Cassidys
All your butter is in your horns.
His butter is in his horns. Butter his horns!
Sweet bad luck on the waves washed to our island
The hooker of that hammerfast Viking
And Gall’s curse on the day when Eblana bay
Saw his black and tan man-o’-war , saw his man-o’-war, on the harbour bar.
By now the professors were joining on the chorus, puffing up like baritones while their wives checked to see how much they had drunk. They weren’t a bad lot. Most of them were only Celtic by ancestry but they would not be denied the opportunity to sing along with the real thing.
“He was joulting by Wellinton’s monument,” Frank sang on with one hand cupped to his ear, his accent becoming more pronounced until it almost sounded guttural.
Our rotorious hipppopopotamuns
When some bugger let down the back strap of his omnibus
And he caught his death of fusiliers, with his rent in his rears. Give him six years.
Jimmy added a stifled strum on the bass for effect, sounding almost like a snare drum.
Then we’ll have a free trade Gaels’ band and mass meeting,
For to sod the brave son of Scandiknavery,
And we’ll bury him down in Oxmanstown,
Along with the devil and Danes, with the deaf and dumb Danes, and all their remains.
By now, the professors were mouthing the phrases to each other in total communion with the playful words of one of the greatest writers, the one they all offered courses on, explaining and deciphering all that Joyce had put there to keep them busy for years.
“Will ya look at them,” Frank whispered aside. “You’d think they were at a fucking rock concert.” And turning back to the mic, he hushed them before continuing.
And not all the king’s men nor his horses,
Will resurrect his corpus.
For there’s no true spell in Connacht or hell,
He paused as Jimmy’s snare drumming rose to a crescendo and came to a sudden shocking halt.
That’s able to raise a Cain.
*
Deirdre knew he would take it badly and debated waiting until the morning.
Danny was high as a kite all the way home, on adoration and some strong smelling dope. The band went on from high to high, even surviving the moments when Frank stopped in the middle of The Irish Rover to tell the audience how great they were. “You’se are the best crowd we’ve ever played to. Even the bars we normally play don’t get this wild. And you,” he had turned from the mic and whispered across to Jimmy, his whispering leaking out into the room. “Said that they’d be a pretentious bunch of stuck-up bastards. All liver-spotted—and their hatchety old wives.”
After a moment of hesitation, the crowd roared back to life, laughing and shaking their heads. Even some of the wives laughed too, at least the ones who had been drinking.
“Did you see the looks on their faces? They fucking loved us, man! They fucking loved us.”
“They did, Danny.”
“Is that all?”
“You guys were brilliant.”
“Brilliant?” He stepped across in front of her, his face right before hers. His eyes searching deep inside her. “We were far more than that. It’s like those old farts got to see the real thing for the first time. We were more than brilliant.”
He turned his head slightly to one side, casting a shadow across his face, making one side look so dark. And it made him look like he was sneering, the way he once did.
“Can’t you admit? All the times you complained about me going over to Frank’s. Admit it, you thought we were just getting wasted. Didn’t you?”
“Danny. Stop a minute. I got to tell you something. Something serious.”
“What! Just tell me that you were wrong.” He reached out and lifted her in his arms, up against him, hugging her with sheer delight.
“Danny!”
“Go on. Admit it, you were impressed. Eh? Admit it!”
“Danny, please listen to me.”
“Not until you tell me how great we were.” He began to squeeze her a little.
“Danny, please. It’s about Martin.”
“Martin?” He blinked at her and lowered her gently until she was looking up into his face. “You mean my uncle and best friend who wasn’t even there tonight?”
“He’s in the hospital. It’s serious.”
He got caught between his feelings for a moment and looked lost.
“He’s very, very sick, Danny.”
“Is it . . . you know?”
“We don’t know. They are running all kinds of tests and won’t know for a few more days.”
“When did he go in?”
“Last week.”
“Last week! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want you thinking about it before the gig.”
It took a mo
ment for it to sink in but it did. He blinked some more, like he was holding in his tears.
“I love you, Danny boy. Martin loves you. Even David loves you and we all agreed to wait.” She kissed him more sweetly than she had ever done before, letting her lips brush across his. “And yes, I admit that I thought you guys were getting wasted. And I admit that you guys were great.”
She linked her arm in his and steered him toward home.
“Thanks,” he muttered after she had left him alone with his thoughts for a while. “Thanks for telling me. And thanks for waiting to tell me.”
She rested her head against him as they walked, buffing up against him from one side while his guitar buffed against his legs on the other. “Danny. When I was watching you tonight, I felt so great. All my friends were jealous because I’m the one who gets to go home with you.”
But he wasn’t in the mood. As soon as he got home and got a beer from the fridge, he sat on the couch staring off somewhere she couldn’t see. He’d stare and swig from his beer and no matter what she asked him, she couldn’t distract him.
He’d acknowledge her but never knew what she was talking about. He apologized for getting so dark but he couldn’t help it; he was thinking about Martin. He said it so often she finally realized that she was intruding, trying to force herself onto him when he needed time alone.
“Good night.” She decided to go to bed and leaned forward to kiss him but he hardly lingered and rose to get another beer.
“You’re not going to stay up too late?”
“Me? No. I just need to sort the evening out. It’s been a bit of a wild ride.”
