Thirteen
It takes a long time for things to come to Ireland. My father and mother are waiting every day for a big box to arrive from Germany. He sits at his desk in the front room and my mother is in the breakfast room typing. Then my father gets a letter to say that the box has arrived in Dublin, but the Irish government won’t let it go until he pays them lots of money, nearly as much as he already paid for what’s inside. Then he collects the box in a taxi. In the front room, we sit around and wait for him to open it. It’s full of party hats for policemen and sailors and firemen and doctors and nurses. There are German crackers, too, and lots of caramel walking sticks in all colours. My mother says they’re beautiful, but we can’t play with them because they have to be sold. They put on some music and drink cognac, because a little bit of Germany has come over to Ireland at last and my mother doesn’t feel so homesick. Maybe Germany is not so far away as we thought, she says. Then it’s time for my father to put some of the hats and caramel canes into a suitcase, so he can take them around to the shops the next day. It won’t take long before the whole box is sold. It won’t be long before these party hats will be seen in every shop all over the city and people will be fighting each other to get more.
Every night, we pray for luck in business. We pray for people in Germany and for people in Ireland, for Ta Maria and for Onkel Wilhelm and for Uncle Gerald who drinks to much in Skibbereen. Then we pray for the new baby, too. One at a time, my mother allows us to listen to her tummy, a little brother or sister kicking and playing football, she says. Then I lie awake listening to them whispering as they go into bed. Every night I can hear my mother saying that money doesn’t matter, that there are far more important things in life than money, because we’ll be rich once the new baby is born. Every night, I hear her washing her feet because your feet are your best friends.
Every morning, my father walks up to the station with the suitcase in one hand and his briefcase in the other. He stops halfway to swap over the briefcase and the suitcase, then he carries on. At lunchtime he leaves the office and walks around the city with the suitcase, going around to all the different toy shops and department stores. And every evening he comes home again and stops halfway to change over, because the suitcase is getting heavier all the time, not lighter, and the handle makes a mark on his hand. He has tried every shop in Dublin, but not one single hat has been sold. He starts going to all the hotels and pubs instead, even as far away as the airport on the other side of the city. And one night he came home so late on the bus that he could not even carry the suitcase up the road any more, it was so heavy. He was limping and the suitcase was left beside the bus stop, until my mother went down to collect it with the pram. Then it was my father who took off his shoes and socks one by one to wash his feet, because your feet can be your worst enemy, too.
There is nothing wrong with the party hats and crackers and caramel canes. Everybody says they’re just lovely. The people in the shops and pubs and hotels say they would love to buy them but they can’t. It has nothing to do with them being German or Germany losing the war or what the Nazis did. And it’s got nothing to do with the Irish famine either, or the people of Ireland not having the money to spend on themselves and celebrating and having parties. The problem is not the party hats and crackers. It’s the name, our family name. My father will not sell anything to anyone unless they say his name properly in Irish.
It’s the name that causes all the trouble. The Irish name: Ó hUrmoltaigh.
People jump back with a strange expression and ask you to say it again. They don’t really trust anything Irish yet.
‘What’s that in English?’ they ask.
But you can’t betray your family name. My father says we can’t give the English version, Hamilton, no matter how often they ask for it. We can’t even admit that an English version exists. If they call us Hamilton, we pretend it’s not us they’re talking to. Our name is proof of who we are and how Irish we are. We have to be able to make a sacrifice, even if they laugh at us. They can torture us and make martyrs of us and nail us to the cross and still we won’t give in. It would be a lot easier to let them have their way, to give the English name, just to be friendly and make it simple so they’ll buy things. But my father says there can be no compromise. It’s hard for business, but you can’t betray your own name, because if the cheque is made out to Hamilton, he will send it back and not accept it until it’s paid in Irish.
Your name is important. It’s like your face or your smile or your skin. There’s a song at school about a man in Donegal who once wrote his name in Irish on a donkey cart. It was the time when Ireland was still under the British and it was forbidden to write your name in Irish. Every cart had to have the name of the owner written on it in English. So when a policeman saw the name in Irish, the man was arrested and brought to court. The bobby argued that he saw no name on the cart, because Irish was not a language that he could read. It was a famous court case with Patrick Pearse as the lawyer for the cart owner. And even though the law was still British and the cart owner lost the case and had to pay a big fine, it was still a big victory for the Irish, because after that, all the cart owners in Donegal started putting their names in Irish on their carts and there was nothing the police could do because there were too many of them. So that’s why we have our name in Irish, too.
My mother said she would try and sell the party hats with a smaller suitcase. Every evening she went out to the local hotels and clubs, while my father stayed at home to look after us. The Royal Marine Hotel, the Royal Yacht Club, the Royal Irish Yacht Club, the Crofton Hotel, the Pierre Hotel, the Castle Hotel, the Salt Hill Hotel and the Khyber Pass Hotel. She walked so much that the new shoes were hurting. She went all the way up the hill a second time to meet the manager of the Shangri-La Hotel, the man who could not say no.
The Shangri-La was an old hotel with long blue-velvet curtains hanging in the windows, full of old smoke. The man who couldn’t say no asked her to sit down in the lounge so he could look at what was in the suitcase properly. At first he shook his head from side to side and she thought she had come for nothing. But then he said they were absolutely beautiful. He praised them so much, my mother says, that she suddenly thought she had sold them all in one go, without even saying a word. She had dreams in her head of running home with an empty suitcase and ordering more and more of them to come over immediately. The problem was how fast they could get the Irish government to let go of the boxes when they arrived in future. The Shangri-La manager didn’t have to be told they were German-made, because anything that was really well made had to be German, he said. He knew that she was German, too, by her accent, but then he asked for her name and all the trouble started again.
‘Ó hUrmoltaigh,’ she said. Irmgard Ó hUrmoltaigh.
‘Good Lord, I’ll never remember that,’ he said.
He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered her one, but my mother doesn’t know how to smoke yet.
‘Would that be Hurley in English?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she smiled. He picked up one of the sailor hats to admire it and she waited for him to make up his mind, to say how many of the party hats he was going to take, how many of the caramel canes and crackers. The people in all the other hotels and shops would soon be kicking their own backsides for not taking them while they had the chance.
‘Hermon, Harmon? What about Harmon?’
My mother repeated her name in Irish, because you can’t betray your skin. He tried again and again to get it out of her in English. And when he ran out of guesses, he finally tried to pronounce it in Irish, but it was such hard work.
‘Ó Hermity, Ó Hamilty, Ó Hurmilly … Ó Himmel.’
My mother could not help laughing. It was her feet, she says. Her feet were tired and singing and begging to be washed and put to bed. So when the manager scratched his head and blew out smoke and called her ‘Ó Himmel’, she could not help laughing out loud.
Mrs O’Himmel – Mrs O’
Heaven.
Nobody had come up with that one before. The party hats and caramel sticks were lying all around and she was laughing at her own name. It was the hardest name in the world. Nobody in the whole of Ireland got it right, not even those who spoke fluent Irish. Most of the neighbours and people in the shops made a complete mess of it, so that after a long time, my mother didn’t mind what way they said it as long as it still proved how Irish she was and it didn’t get her in trouble with my father. The postman called her Mrs O’Hummity, and the man in the fish shop called her Mrs O’Hommilty, and the man with one arm in the vegetable shop did his best and called her Mrs O’Hervulty. If only they could have agreed on one version. But it was different every time. And there was always something funny about it, too, that made people smile, or try not to smile. Some people could only manage Mrs O’Hum. The butcher with the cigarette in his mouth just called her Mrs O … And sometimes she came home with no name at all and wished things were still as plain and simple as they once were long ago when her name was Irmgard Kaiser.
‘Ó hUrmoltaigh,’ she tried once more, because you can’t hate your own name. ‘It’s a Cork name. My husband is from County Cork.’
‘That explains everything,’ the manager said.
He wanted to know what brought her over to Ireland, and how she had married a man from Cork of all places. She said she loved the sea. She loved the smell of the sea and the sound of the waves crashing on the rocks. He asked her if she got homesick. He knew that she was only trying to sell these German things because she was so far away from home, because she could not go back to Germany herself and wanted instead to bring a bit of her country over here to Ireland. He asked her did she want a drink. He said she had a lovely accent and a lovely voice. He said he would love to hear her speaking a bit of German, anything at all, but then he wasn’t even looking at the hats any more, only at her and her shoes. He said he would love her to come back and have a drink some other time when she was not so busy. And when she asked him finally straight out about the hats and crackers, he threw out his arms and couldn’t say no. He couldn’t say yes and he couldn’t say no either. He said he would love to take them all, every last one of them, but he couldn’t.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
It was all for nothing. It was even harder putting them back into the suitcase. It looked like there were more than she started with. Instead of any of them being sold, my mother says it looked like they were starting to reproduce. On the bus home she fell asleep and only woke up after she had gone way past her stop. She walked back and when she arrived in the door she had to sit down with her coat still on and take off her shoes first because her feet were on fire. She had to close her eyes and wash her feet until they were friends with her again. She was very quiet. She could not speak and she would not let us listen to the baby in her tummy. She had no name any more.
One day, a man with a car came to take away the box with the party hats and crackers. We were allowed to choose one hat each, but the rest were sold off all around County Cork for nearly nothing and my father said it was a mistake to try and bring things over from Germany. He said it was better to produce things at home, so then my mother started a sweet factory instead. For weeks and weeks there was a smell of caramel and chocolate all over the house. Every night she was mixing and baking. Sometimes the sweets came out too hard or too soft, but my father said that’s the way any business started out, by experimenting. If they were not like shop sweets it was because they were far superior to shop sweets. My mother put them all in little jars with labels and ribbons. Soon there would be people queuing up outside our front door, my father said. But the problem was that nobody wanted home-made sweets. So the jars kept piling up, waiting and waiting on shelves under the stairs, until they eventually had to be given away or eaten by us. My mother laughed and said we were our own best customers, and when the last of the jars were gone we didn’t talk about the sweet factory any more either.
My father says the only way to make money in Ireland is not to spend it in the first place. So then he started switching off lights and using as little coal as possible. He made new rules. We would make our own bread and our own jam. He found a supermarket where groceries were cheaper than anywhere else, so he went there on the bus to bring home what was needed. When my mother ran out of butter one day and had to buy it in a local shop, he wanted to know why she was breaking the rules. She explained that to get the cheap butter, she would have to spend more money on the bus fare, so if you worked it out, the local butter was cheaper and quicker. She said you couldn’t save what you didn’t have in the first place. Anyway, there was nothing to worry about because we would be rich when the baby was born. But he frowned and slammed the door because everybody was breaking his rules.
After that my father sat at his desk in the front room on his own every night, until at last he came up with the right idea. Then he came running out, telling us that he had found it, what Ireland needed most. He was blinking again and talking very fast, trying to catch up with all the ideas in his head. How had he not seen it before? One Sunday afternoon when we were out walking he discovered that all street names were still in English. He stood by a sign that said Royal Terrace and wondered how any Irish speaker could walk around these streets without getting lost. So then he started writing letters to the government and to the corporation. The machine printed the address at the top of the page every time and my mother typed out the letters for him. Now things were working at last. Every morning he took a stack of letters with him to the post office. He had tried so many different things like crosses and hats and crackers and sweets and savings, but now he was in business, changing the names of the streets.
De Vesci Terrace, Albert Road, Silchester Road, Neptune Terrace, Nerano Road, Sorrento Road. He had them all changed into Irish, one by one. Royal Terrace became Ascal Ríoga, because money and profit were not everything, he said. On Sundays we walked everywhere to make sure that we covered them all. He told us about the great Irish poets and scholars who once lived in Munster where he came from, among them his own grandfather who was known as Tadhg Ó Donnabháin Dall, or Ted O’Donovan Blind. When the names of people and places all over Ireland were changed into English, all those poets and Irish speakers lost their way and suddenly found themselves in a foreign land. He told us how they all went blind overnight, stumbling around in the dark with no language. And now it was time to change the names back to Irish so the people knew where they were going again.
Then my mother was sick and had to stay in bed. We were allowed to go up to her room for a while and talk to her. Maria stroked her arm and I was the doctor. Until the real Dr Sheehan arrived and we had to wait outside the door. We could hear her crying because the baby had stopped playing football. It was still inside her tummy but it would not come out alive. I knew she was crying for other things, too, because Germany was so far away, because nobody in Ireland wanted party hats, and because she had no name any more, and no face and no feet in Ireland. Onkel Ted came and made the sign of the cross. There were shadows around her eyes when we were allowed back into the room, but she was trying to smile and she put her arms around us and said she was rich because she had three children.
Downstairs in the kitchen, my father tried to bake a cake. He wanted to help and make everything better again, so he put on the apron and mixed the ingredients the way my mother told him to. Now and again he sent us back up the stairs to ask her what to do next and my mother smiled and sent us back down again to tell him to switch on the oven. He did everything he was told, step by step. He held his hands up in the air, quietly counting to ten with cake mixture on his fingers, repeating all the German instructions from above in his Cork accent. And when he was finished he put the cake in the oven and there was a smell of baking all over the house and everyone went around on tiptoes. But when it came out it was all wrong. There was a frown on his forehead and he blinked quickly when he saw the cake had sunk down in the middle. My mother didn’t
laugh. She said it was fine. He had done his best, but there were some things that could not be translated into Irish.
Fourteen
There’s a man who comes to our house to see my father. His name is Gearóid and he’s not very tall, but he smiles a lot and has a strong voice, like the radio. In the hallway, he shakes my hand with both of his and then pats me on the shoulder and looks into my eyes in a very friendly way, because he likes hearing Irish. He is my father’s friend and when he comes to visit everything in the house changes. Everything is translated into Irish – the tables, the chairs, the curtains, even the teacups and saucers turn Irish. The music on the radio has to be Irish. We have to go and play and be happy and not fight in Irish. My mother has to sit down in the front room and listen, even though she doesn’t understand a word. There’s not much laughing either, or drinking cognac, only Gearóid and my father talking and foaming at the mouth about all the things that are not finished yet in Ireland.
Gearóid has a car, a blue Volkswagen full of newspapers on the back seat written in Irish and English. The newspaper is called Aiséirí, which is the Irish for resurrection, and there is a photograph of corporation men taking down an old English street sign and putting up a new bilingual one, with the Irish on top and the English below in second place. There’s an article in the paper, too, about my father and a letter from Mullingar. One day at work, my father refused to answer a letter because it was addressed to John Hamilton. He kept sending it back because that was not his name. He told them there was nobody by the name of John Hamilton working at the Electricity Supply Board in Dublin. He pretended there had been a big mistake and the letter was for somebody in a different organisation, maybe even in a different country, at the electricity board in England or America or South Africa maybe. There was a lot of trouble with this letter going back and forth for weeks and weeks, because the people of Mullingar had to wait all that time for their electricity masts to be repaired. My father didn’t care if the whole country was left in darkness. And in the end, the people of Mullingar got their electricity back only when they learned to respect his proper name. But then the boss at the ESB refused to give my father promotion because the Irish language was bad for business.
The Speckled People Page 10
