I think the best account I can render of us is to give you a picture of a typical morning at home. Four of the children are out in the world, one of the boys and two girls married, and the fourth, Bob, apprenticed to an engineering firm, and living in. We are at the breakfast table, the time is a few minutes after eight, and the rest of the family and Roger the dog and the two cats and the kittens are scrapping around in the general chaos which happens whenever we take a meal. It is raining. There has just been a clatter at the door, and a wet postman in a shiny oilskin cape has grinned at us and handed in two letters, both for Mother. The fire has not been lit, and for the first ten minutes everyone has been arguing whether it shall be, half the family saying it’s cold, and what is a fire for, and the other half standing on tradition and saying you don’t have fires till October. The pièce de résistance is fat rashers and fried potatoes. I sit at the head of the table, and one of the cats, the black torn, has just jumped up on my shoulder. He is badly reared, and takes liberties. Mother spoils him, because he’s such a rake. Everyone is talking at once.
Billy: Will Bob be home today? Dad? Will he? Ay, Dad? Will Bob be home?
Moira: I was dreaming last night there were Red Indians hiding in the big cupboard at the butt of the stairs.
Patricia: Mother, sure, Moira needn’t go to school today, need she?
Me: Why is the sugar always at the far end of the table every time I want it?
Hilda: Today is my half day, and it’s raining as usual. It would.
Billy: I suppose you’ll go to the pictures with that soppy fella and sit holding his hand in the da-aaa-ark.
Hilda: That’ll do from you.
Mother (reading letter): … and Harry’s firm is bankrupt, and Uncle Bob says it’s no wonder. (Breathlessly.) Sam is with the Osram lamp people and they’re having in electric light and——
Billy: Any jam, Mutherrrrrr? (Billy is a convinced Gael.)
Patricia: And what did the Red Indians do then?
Hilda: If it’s raining when I come home, I’ll go to bed after dinner, and if that friend of Bob’s calls, you can tell him I’m dead.
Mother: … and Susie says that she and Jem are coming over next summer and that the little white pup is dead and that James has got a rise in the Post Office and that the girl Ned was courting is a bad lot and …
Moira: I needn’t go to school today, Mother, need I?
Me: Who is it keeps on offering me that blasted sugar? Billy— when you’ve quite done with it——
Billy: I haven’t yet. (He takes some more.)
Mother: Moira, if you don’t get your boots on this instant, I’ll give you something you won’t show the doctor.
Me: God, Mother, give me another cup o’ tea quick. These rashers must have been cut off of Lot’s wife.
Billy: Dad, what screw will Harry have, do you think? Will he always be on the Lady Roberts?
Mother: That little comedian fellow—you remember, Luke. He’s married, and has a baby, Susie says.
Me: He must have millions of babies. He’s a thousand years old to my certain knowledge. Billy—are you going to work today, or have they made you managing director?
Mother: … and Susie says Jem says he is damned if he is going to have electric light, but that she will have it, and young Doris wants to go to Eastbourne with her boy. Well.
Me: Those English kids have the devil’s own nerve.
Hilda: And why not? If you want anything, get it, that’s what I say.
Me: You say too much, like the rest of the women.
Mother: Not half as much as the men. For goodness’ sake don’t spill your tea.
Patricia: That red-faced ticket checker down at the station asked me yesterday could I get him an Airedale pup. Where would I get one, Daddy?
Me: Arrah for the Lord’s sake don’t go on blathering. Ask old Billy Horan. He has a lady Airedale.
Moira: Do only lady dogs have pups, Daddy?
Mother: Hush, everybody. Is that the baker?
Me: By the way, how does that baker’s book stand? Do we still owe him thousands?
Mother: You mind your own business. If I was depending on you to fix the baker, we’d be in gaol before this.
Me: You think so, do you. Moira—why the devil don’t you cut your bread in a civilised fashion? You’re not a Zulu, are you? Or a Hairy Ainu?
Mother: Don’t be disgusting, Dad.
Billy: I wish I was on the Lady Roberts. Do you think you could get me on one of them boats, Dad?
Mother: No such thing. It’s bad enough as it is, with the wind blowing these nights, without having to be worrying about you.
Me: Ah, blather.
Moira: Sure, Mother, I needn’t go to school today, on account of the rain, and anyway I haven’t done my copy. And Sister Domenica says——
Me: Blow Sister Domenica. You’re not going to get wet anyway. Will Sister Domenica pay for nursing the pneumonia, I’d like to know.
Hilda: Leigh’s have those blanket coats now marked at thirty-five shillings. I’m going to get one.
Me: God defend us, that will be your eleventh coat this year. What do you do with them—eat them?
Mother: Hilda is earning and is well able to look after herself, and if you think you’re improving the children’s manners by waving your fork that way, you’re much mistaken.
At this point the mail boat lets her first blast. A scene of appalling confusion follows, with everybody rushing about and shouting. I join in, though I haven’t to go for another six or seven minutes.
All: The mail boat! … Why the devil amn’t I called in time? … Where is my cufflinks, Mother? … The tooth powder’s nearly out … Someone eats the soap in this house … Blast these something cats … Now, now, no swearing … I want a penny for a new pencil … Must I go to school? Dad says I needn’t … That’s a lie … Get on now, you’ll all be late …
And they dwindle away, leaving me high and dry, and Mother, faint, distraught, and panting. You see? Whatever way we are, we’re a long way from Rathmines.
I never carry a watch. I magnetise them, and put them wrong. There are two clocks at home and three watches, and all of them register different times, either at their own whim or the whim of their owners. But there’s no need for me to rely on any sort of a time-piece. I go by the mail boat. When I come out of the house, I can see the mail boat’s masts sticking up over the top of the pier. If they’re in this position, I can walk along in a dignified manner. If they’re gone, I walk quickly, and then, as soon as I see her round the bend of the pier, I know where I am. She slides past Howth as regular as a clock dial, and I slacken or quicken my pace according to where she is. But I don’t have to stir till her second hoot—though sometimes I don’t hear it, for reasons I needn’t go into. Once the children are gone, and Kathie has got her breath again, she and I have a further conversation on our own. It takes on a different tinge. She’s not Mother any more, she’s Kathie. I expect our talk would be extremely puzzling to an outsider, since when a man and woman are living together a long time half the conversation proceeds by telepathic means, and is, from the logical point of view, hopelessly disjointed. For example:
Kathie: Well, I declare to God, those children! I’d get a rough grey, if I were you. I didn’t hear the Murrays’ car come home last night, did you?
Me: Maybe they never went out. Did you see if the car was in the garage? Damn this marmalade. It doesn’t drip. It climbs. Why must I always wear grey anyway?
Kathie: You’re too careless, you have the rug in the parlour ruined. Grey suits you best. You might look and see if the car is there, as you’re passing, and give me a wave if it is. I want to see that Napoleon picture today, if they are going into town. You should get one of those Raglan top coats the same as Dick Murray has. I’ll have to get my top teeth fixed, I think.
Me: I told you long ago about that plate. Why the hell don’t they put marmalade in a bucket or something? From this out I’m going to have my breakfast in t
he bathroom. I’ve heard tell the Napoleon picture is too sloppy, but Napoleon himself is good. I loathe a Raglan coat. I never wore a decent top coat in my life. It’s too late now. Why can’t we dress in leather?
Kathie: Maybe you wouldn’t wear it out so quick. How old was Napoleon anyway? I love Raglan top coats. It would be a good idea if you did have your breakfast in the bath: then you could plaster yourself and the dog from head to toe with marmalade. Ah, the poor fellow, the old dote. His coat is destroyed with it.
Me: Whose coat? Did I give you that elevenpence I owe you? I wish you’d decide where to put that plant.
Kathie: All right. The berries are all falling off it with your tobacco smoke. I hate queues, and that organ gives me a headache. Poor old Roger, the dote, and was his ears all clogged up with marmalade, and his unkind master always wiping his hands on him? I hope the milkman will come early: I want to be off.
Me: Begod, it’s well for some people. Royal yesterday, Savoy today. Is that Pear’s soap you have up in the bathroom, or did you get it in a jumble sale?
Kathie: Were you tinkering at the alarm clock last night? I never heard it this morning.
Me: If some people went to bed at a rational hour—Tell me, did you feel this lump on the dog’s neck? Is it serious, do you think? I want half a bit more toast to finish up. Is Bob courting that girl with the long nose?
Kathie: She hasn’t. I remember the time when you used to stay up all night reading, and then read afterwards in bed. Bob never tells me anything now. I don’t know what’s coming to young fellas these times. You must get that grey stuff and a Raglan, but for God’s sake be careful of the cross roads, won’t you now?
Me: Aha! So you do love me.
Kathie: Dick Murray only gave four pounds for the Raglan.
Me: Four pounds! That’s a hell of a price. Are we all out of hankies?
Kathie: I don’t know what you do with your hankies, I’m sure. Give them to your little friend down the road, I suppose. What you men can see in that girl beats me. Go into Maxwell’s now, and get them to measure you.
Me: Begod, there’s the mail boat. I’ll miss my train. What the blazes do you keep me blathering here like this for? Good-bye, darling. Do you want half a crown for Miss Garbo?
Kathie: There. (She kisses me.) There’s a ton of marmalade all over you as usual. Bye bye.
The conversation is resumed when I come back for my tea in the evening, as if there’d been no break.
Kathie: Are you dead tired, you poor old pelthers?
Me: Flattened out. Upon my soul, I’d fire the whole thing to hell, if it wasn’t for the pension.
Kathie: Well, you’ve only a few months more of it, thank God. Did you go into Maxwell’s as I told you? I got the five o’clock. Napoleon’s wonderful. How old was he?
Me: When he died, or that time? That was before 1812. He was well on in his forties anyway.
Kathie: But did he love her really, or was he only pretending?
Me: I wasn’t in Maxwell’s. I forgot all about the damn thing. He was the same as any other man, when he was near her and not bothered with war and so on. I expect he loved her in his way. But that wasn’t his only affair.
Kathie: You’re telling me. I’ve read all about him. Josephine and that half-nigger girl. Ah, you’re all the same. You and the girl down the road, and that other one with the feather in her hat, and we poor women sitting at home all alone waiting on you.
Me: I like that. How the blazes do I know what you’re up to all day? Napoleon’s exploded for me anyway. A smart business man. His generals won most of his battles, and he pinched the praise. Will you bring in my old suit to Maxwell’s?
Kathie: I’ll do nothing of the sort. Had they a child, do you know? Moira is sick this evening, I think. I’d a letter from Jane.
Me: What do they make these sausages out of nowadays? Hedgehogs? Where’s the dog? Ah, bring in those old plus fours anyway, and get them to make a pair just the same. Where’s my Roger?
Kathie: He ran off this morning. All right. Jane says she gets headaches now.
Me: She must be breeding.
Kathie: Luke 1
Me: Ah well.
Kathie: Funny there’s no word from Miles. I wonder if he’s married or what.
Me: God knows.
Kathie: She’ll make a good wife. She can cook, and they say she’s a good housekeeper.
Me: Well, if he’s going to get married, he’ll get married, and there’s no use blathering about it. I’ll perform an illegal operation on that dog when I see him. I expect it’s that lady terrier above in Sally Noggin.
Kathie: Like master like man. Did you see about the man that wanted to buy that island up in Scotland? How you can stand that radio beats me.
Me: What are you talking about? You’ve been stewing in the cinema all the evening, and I’ve been working, and now when I come home——
Kathie: All right, all right, don’t get your rag out. Only it gives me a pain in my head.
Me: You get a headache in that rotten fug at the pictures, and then—Well, well. I’ll choke it off. Was that the dog barking?
Kathie: Hush, wait, I think——
Me: Why do they encourage him over there? He’ll get run over one of these days. Look, do bring in my old plus four breeches, there’s a pet. I loathe these damn shops.
Kathie: All right. I said I would. Wait—you’re right- I’ll let him in.
In comes Roger, panting, slavering, and grinning, sure of his welcome. We both fall on him and make much of him and curse him.
Both of us: Well, Mister, and where have you been? No supper for you. Divil a bit. No. Phew—what a smell. Where were you, you awful blackguard? We must take him down to the shore and give him a swim.
I retired in December last, but, before that day, came the day when I decided to write this story, lying on my back in the middle of Killiney Bay at the end of the last Bank Holiday I had off my work. It is both my beginning and my end.
I woke at seven forty-five a.m., this being my normal hour of rising. Looking at the clock, I remembered I hadn’t to go to work, and turned over to sleep again.
When I next awoke to consciousness, I saw it was ten past nine. I got up, scratched myself, and leaned out of the window. It was a grand morning, with the sun shining soft, and a noble sniff on the air: Hennessey’s little meadow was all smoky with dew. I manoeuvred my head in again—the window has hell’s own trick of coming down noiselessly, and many’s the time I’ve half scalped myself—took a pinch of snuff, sneezed, washed my neck, and dressed. Roger came scratching at the door. I let him in, and he made the round of the room, sniffing at everything to make sure it was all there. I asked him did he think it would be a good morning for a bathe. He replied in the affirmative.
I then took my morning pint of warm water and pinch of Glauber, stropped my razor, and evoked an adequate but not superlative edge to same. I went down to the kitchen, drew a jug of boiling water out of the kettle, and took my tackle into the yard, to shave in the sunlight. The wall at the end has a perfect place for propping my little mirror: I shove the handle thing at the back into a chink between two loose stones: but it’s hell to find a level place for standing my jug of water. A good many of the stones look flat on top, to the naked eye. It’s only when you come to stand a jug on them you find they aren’t.
Having at last poised the jug, I got to work. Operations were complicated by three kittens, two of ours and one from next door, which first of all ran over to me mewing with their tails in the air, and then began to climb my trouser-legs. Just as I was finishing, I suddenly caught sight of the jug tipping over. I managed to catch it, but lost the water. By the mercy of God it missed me and the kittens. The leap I gave scared one of them, and it ran away round the corner and under the tub. I spent a minute or two trying to coax it out, then gave up, and went in to my breakfast.
Sitting down expectantly, I was confronted with a plate of odd-looking stuff, like outsize ants’ eggs. Kate, my
second daughter, was in charge while her mother was away, and I was afraid to ask her what the hell it was for fear of hurting her feelings. So I poured milk over it and hoped for the best. It tasted good, anyway. I followed it up with toast and marmalade, then pulled my chair over and turned on Radio Normandie, from which source a Prophet, speaking on behalf of a well-known purgative, urged me to avoid dark, slim women and to back favourites.
In receipt of this advice, I cut up Walnut Plug, and began to smoke. At 10.30 precisely my grandson arrived in his go-car. I played with him. He had a new tooth, a considerable reinforcement to the three he had already; he damn near drew blood on me. I decided that he’d marry young and be fond of his nonsense, and made a heroic resolve to insure him for his schooling. Then I remembered making the same resolve for my own children, and never carrying it out.
Presently Eileen came in, the child’s mother. I turned off the radio, she having one of those voices that are stimulated by competition. A pretty girl, though not so pretty as her mother was at the same age. She has some of her mother’s tricks, in particular a way of tilting her head back while you’re speaking, whereby you know that she’s going to disagree with you the minute you stop. Sometimes I find myself jumping in recognition of this and other tricks; other times they offend me as parodies. But she’s a good girl, and I’m fond of her.
Kate came in, and the two started talking, so I went out. I found Bob in the yard, polishing his best pair of boots, and suggested to him he accompany me and Roger to the village. He agreed. He’s a nice boy; we have a good understanding which I’m careful not to butt into. The invitation to accompany me got half way out of my mouth before I had time to think. He’d feel much more awkward refusing than I being refused, so I was glad when he said Yes.
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