Emerald Germs of Ireland

by Patrick McCabe

  “Yes, Mary,” Pat replied, chokingly.

  He felt Mary tapping him briskly on the shoulder.

  “Now—go and make my bed for me like a good girl.”

  “Yes, Mary,” Pat replied, hopelessly, slouching toward the door.

  It was very late that night, the kitchen in silent semidarkness, when the strangest of smells materialized. At first Pat thought he was imagining it. It seemed that of freshest flowers, the fragrant breath of the voice he heard now, softly issuing from the chimney corner. Pat started.

  “Mammy!” he gasped. There was no mistaking the familiar crossover pinny, the distinctive zippered boots.

  There was litde emotion in his mother’s voice as she spoke.

  “She had to blame me, didn’t she? She couldn’t leave me out of it! Like them all, Pat!”

  It was hard for Pat to withhold the tears when he heard those words.

  “Yes, Mammy,” he said, “they’re always blaming you.”

  His mother took a step forward, toward him.

  “Pat?” she said softly.

  “Yes, Mammy,” Pat replied.

  “Come here, son,” she said. “I want you to do something for me.”

  Pat nodded as she took his hand in hers and, curving her other one around his neck, gently cradled his head on her shoulder.

  It was quite late, close to 12:30 A.M., in fact, as Pat busied himself in his overalls, shoveling manure with his graip, beads of perspiration glittering on his forehead. He heard some footsteps and looked up to see Mary in her nightgown standing by the gable end of the house.

  “I was looking for you,” she said, frostily, with her arms folded. “I thought I told you to do the cooker?”

  Pat did not immediately reply but continued in fact with his work.

  “No—I prefer doing this,” he said then.

  Mary pursed her lips.

  “Prefer doing that, do you? How about you give me the fork and let a real woman do the job!”

  Pat slowly raised his head. His words were measured and steady and considered.

  “You want it, do you? Is that what you want—the fork?”

  Mary stiffened, her reply attaining a new level of ungenerous acidity.

  “Why, yes—I believe I do!” she sneered.

  “Well then—here it is!” was Pat’s reply as he plunged the three prongs directly into the center of her abdomen. The moonlight swamped her face—liberally daubed with Pond’s Cold Cream—as she lay astride the cold unsteaming dung heap.

  There were those—as we have seen—who derided Pat as a “complete and utter oddity,” if not a “lunatic of the highest order.” But those making such comments—whether in Sullivan’s Select Bar or anywhere else—knew nothing of the personality of Pat McNab. They would never know of the emotional turmoil and deep, impenetrable hurt which had led him to commit what were, incontrovertibly, by “normal society” classified as “unspeakable acts.” Never know of the tenderness he was capable of displaying as he tended the anonymous resting places here and there arrayed throughout his garden. They were not to know of the thoughts that went through his mind as he moved some leaves with his foot and silently—chokingly—murmured the words: “What’s saddening is that it could have been so beautiful, Mary. We didn’t even have to be married. We could have all lived here, because I liked you, all three of you. Maybe in time even Mammy would have understood.”

  It was ironic that Jo and Ann should have ended up so close to their so-called “mortal enemy,” Mary (which she wasn’t really!), having come upon the scene only moments after Mary’s nocturnal altercation with Pat. But then, it was sad the way everything happened, wasn’t it, thought Pat McNab, as he forsook his laurel patch (a triumvirate of shrubs now fresh and tender!) and turned to go back inside, in his mind the sound of three gorgeous young girls singing, fragrant, and flower tender in their crisp print frocks, their tuneful melody of “Three Lovely Lassies in Bannion” as a posy of perfect pink cast out across the shining blue of a heart-lifting, shimmering summer’s day.

  The Little Drummer Boy

  Come, they told me, pa rup pup pum pum

  A new born king to see, pa rup pup pum pum

  Our finest gifts to bring, pa rup pup pum pum

  To lay before the king, pa rup pup pum pum

  Rup pup pum pum, rup pup pum pum

  So to honor him pa rup pup pum pum

  When we come.

  Baby Jesus, pa rup pup pum pum

  I’m a poor boy too, pa rup pup pum pum

  I have no gifts to bring, pa rup pup pum pum

  That’s fit to give our king, pa rup pum pum pum

  Shall I play for you, pa rup pum pum pum

  On my drum?

  There can be very little doubt, even on a December morning so hard and glassy, starched and invigorating, that there are very few people indeed who would be capable of evincing with any measure of accuracy the breathtakingly optimistic inner contentment which is evident at this moment on the face of Mr. Pat McNab as he breezes (whizzes, indeed, might be a more apposite verb!) about his kitchen—tastefully decorated, in honor of the Yuletide season, in dazzling primary colors. The heretofore unremarkable room is, in fact, now a veritable riot of color. As Pat—beads of sweat a-glinting on that old forehead which bears also a speck or two of dusty flour—flits hither and thither and roundabout, with “a hundred and one things to do,” as he gasps to himself, and no time in which to do them. Is it any wonder that he’d pause and sigh, run a flour-gloved paw through his excited hair, and go, “Phew! Is there ever any end to it—that’s what I’d like to know!” Then smile and reflect as he shook his head, and like many another across the world, remarked with affection, “Ah, but it’s for the kids really!”

  Which is why, with renewed zest sometime later, a party hat appears, in radiant crimson crepe. (“The very exact same as Captain Pugwash’s, I do declare!” Pat is to be heard observing in the quiet sitting room as onto his head it is placed.) Quite how many sponge cakes were completed in the space of three or four hours, it is impossible to say. Somewhere in the region of fifty-seven. Very close to the amount of confections which were consumed (illicitly!) by the preoccupied party-maker! Is it possible for a grown person to consume Cadbury’s Lucky Numbers in such quantities? It most certainly and definitely is! As it is for them to happily uncap and devour the contents of seventeen sparkling bottles of pop! Which the proud monarch of the McNab household sucked and gulped with impressive dedication through the funnel of a striped and seriously overworked straw!

  Then, of course, there was the turkey! Bird of celebration, seasonal feathered friend who euphoniously spat and roasted in the oven’s depths! Now with its wing in one fell swoop removed as—snap!—Pat, crunching indulgently on its mouth-watering crispiness, does loudly proclaim, “Yes! And down it goes, crackling wing of he who once had feathers, eminent friend of His Dukeship Turkey Turks!”

  And boy is he tasty! Rivaled only by old Pat, in fact! But not the one we know as Pat McNab! Which Pat, then? Why, old Pat Plum Pud, of course! Small currant-studded foothill of fruit! Without whom Christmas could not be complete!

  “Do you like him?” Pat enquired of the teapot’s spout, for no particular reason. “For I certainly do!”

  And, in order to add further emphasis, gave himself to directly addressing the regal, raisin-packed dome.

  “Do you hear that, pud?” he cried. “I like you! Pat likes you—O but yes he does! As a matter of fact, he loves you! Why, if you don’t believe me, I’ll prove it! Yes, prove it indeed I shall!”

  What a surprise that innocent little kitchen confection must have received when Pat’s entire hand came dunking down, with not the slightest hint of compromise, rotating right into the still-warm depth of its center as might into the bowels of the earth some out-of-control oil pump! After which Pat could—no difficulty whatsoever!—have changed his name and become thenceforward not Pat McNab at all but—the Redoubtable Mr. Currant Face! A sobriquet with whic
h he is clearly now at ease, shrilly declaring, “Now do you believe me! Believe me now, Mr. Pud? I’ll bet you do! Because it’s true! Old Pat here loves you more than you’ll ever know! Just thought you were a pile of ingredients topped with a sprig of holly? O but you see that’s where you’re wrong, my sweet plum-pudding friend!”

  There is something poignant about the inevitable impregnability of a plum pudding’s silence, accepting as it must such bountiful compliments. A strange mute glumness which may suggest as Pat further extends his magnanimity that it might be a tad excessive? Nay, for is it not the Xmas season of goodwill and cheeriness? And why it is more than acceptable at this time to heap one’s arms brimful of Christmas crackers and leap upon the kitchen table as to the world you do declare, “Yes, pud, I love you all right, mute and glum or no! As I do each and every one of these, my tried and trusted friends! What about this fellow, for example? Little Mr. Blue! Couldn’t forget him, could we? All right, Mr. Blue? Of course you are! And then, of course, we have old Red! Hello, old Red! Doing well, are we? Excellent! So why not all of us start cracking, then? Yes indeed, all you Christmas crackers! Let’s hear you crack! Crack crack crack crack crackity crack!”

  What a flurry of paper fragments there appears, in slow motion twirling lino-ward. For all the world like colored snow! As Pat leaps into the wastes of outer space! Crying, “Ho ho! Merry Xmas everybody!” but unfortunately landing with a bang on the north face of the table and loudly smacking his head off the side of the fridge. What a dazed man he now is as he realizes just what has transpired. “Oops!” he exclaims. “I don’t think I effected a very professional landing there, did I?” It is quite some time before he succeeds in relocating his bearings! But, as he remarks himself, clutching tightly on to the table’s side, “Who cares—it’s Christmas!”

  A sentiment which not so very long afterward he had no hesitation whatever in sharing with his neighbors and all who had found themselves in the vicinity of Gullytown and its hinterland for the season’s celebrations. His cry triple-echoing across the starched and frozen fields as he cupped his hands over his mouth and repeated, “Do you hear me, you bastards! It’s Christmas! Happy Yuletide and a merry New Year, you stupid silent neighbors! Do you hear me? I’m wishing you lots of fun and good cheer!” It was to be over fifteen minutes before exasperation set in and he violently set about a zinc bucket, kicking it forcefully and sending it with a musical ring across the other side of the yard. Smoothing his hair back with his hands (it was liberally lathered in hair oil) and remarking, to himself and no one else in particular at all, “Oh very well then! Be like that! I don’t care! Why—I’ll make my own fun! Yes! That’s what I’ll do! Make my own entertainment! How do you like that, you long-faced moaning bastards!”

  Some hours later, Pat was halfway through building his snowman in the field directly beyond the yard of the house. He was having the time of his life as he pulled his black coat around him and cried, “Yes! If all else fails, make your own fun! Be jolly by yourself! Make yourself a litde friend! A snowman! After all—who cares in the end if no friends call around to wish you a merry Xmas? You can still have jolly japes, by golly you can! All you have to do—yessir!—is build yourself a litde snowman, rustle up a nice turkey dinner, and in the evening have yourself a nice plate of hot mince pies and a nice warm glass of rum punch! And then what’s the word? The word is—hurray for Christmas! Do you hear that everyone? Hurray for Christmas!”

  It was just when he was about to issue forth another cry of appreciation for the season of goodwill that something happened. Time appeared to stand still as he felt the color draining from his face and, paradoxically, espied beneath him on the pale white snow a small scarlet map which was already extending its boundaries in a mass of irregularly shaped elongated tendrils. As the pain began to manifest itself deep in the tip of his index finger, Pat McNab fancied he heard the faint echo of a military tattoo resounding in the distance. It was then he saw the sudden sharp gleam of silver spring before his eyes like the trajectory of the tiniest star. “No! It can’t be!” he gasped, as he plunged his finger into the moist warm comforting depths of his mouth. “It simply cannot be!” His eagerness in clearing away the packed snow beneath him can only be described as frenzied. With the result that it was only a matter of a few short minutes before he had uncovered what he knew—instinctively—had been lodged there, a little tin soldier complete with decorated drum and upraised bayonet—now crimson-tipped, of course, having pricked his thumb, drawing a tiny bead of blood—and scarlet military tunic. The long-forgotten—but so familiar!—favorite toy of his childhood dreams! A wave of euphoria swept through Pat McNab as he exultantly clasped the small metal effigy with both hands and called out, “God has done this! God has done this—to remind me of those Christmases and those years long ago when Mammy was alive and everyone was so happy!”

  Intuitively, he shot to his feet and cried once more to all the world, or all within it prepared to hear, “So happy you’ll never know, all those Christmases ago! With him—my little friend!” He elevated the miniature drumstick wielder aloft in defiance: “My one and only best old pal!”

  The tiny crumbs of clay fell from the litde soldier’s face now as Pat tenderly brushed them away. He thought of all those long years he had lain buried in the earth, but knowing that one day the darkness would be banished and he would find himself once more safe in the company of the boy he had known for the duration of his short life. Lying close beside him, perhaps, knowing that this was the way it was destined to remain forever.

  It was hard to know whether it was just a trickle of melting snow falling from the soldier’s eye as Pat removed the final crumb, or whether it was a real tear, his owner hugging him one last time and tucking him snugly beneath his coat as he crunched homeward across the tufty field into the snug and waiting welcome of the toast-warm house.

  Pat put two more sods of turf on the roaring fire and smiled over at the short soldier reclining in the comfortable vastness of the library chesterfield. He thought—as the flames flickered and made interesting, irregular shadow shapes on the ceiling—that perhaps he had never been as happy before in his life. He was wearing his smoking jacket.

  “Little soldier,” he said, “do you think there’s a destiny that shapes our ends? I do! To think that all these years my heart was broken and you turn up in the snow to mend it again! It’s wonderful! So wonderful it almost erases the memory of that saddest day when I went and lost you, as I thought, for ever!”

  As Pat gave his full attention to the fire, those days now seemed to live all over again, deep within its heart so orange and wayward-flickering.

  It was 1962. Pat was seven years old. His mother was at her wits’ end, endeavoring to placate him as she feared asphyxiation, but effectively shaking the life out of him.

  “Do you hear me!” she snapped again. “Listen to me! What is wrong with you! What is wrong with you!”

  Pat made a trojan effort but again the words proved recalcitrant. He extended his index finger weakly in an aimless gesture.

  “He’s g-g-g-gone! My fr-fr-fr-friend! He’s gone!”

  His mother was perplexed. She shook him again.

  “Who? Paul? Liam? Who are you talking about? Petey Lynam?”

  “No!” choked Pat “They’re not my friends! I hate them! It is my only real friend in the wide world who’s gone!”

  His mother was exhausted. She ground her moist gums and tweaked his raw cheek.

  “Pat! Come on now!” she cried. “Do you hear me now? Stop this nonsense!”

  It was some moments after that statement had left her lips that the shadow fell. It was a shadow bearing the outline of a captain’s cap and a thick bushy moustache. An impassive expression hard as granite dramatically revealed itself. The voice that emerged from between the moving lips possessed the hostile timbre of a bass drum struck. It was black and full of foreboding as the interior of the darkest of cellars.

  “What’s going on here?” i
t said.

  Pat became aware that his mother had begun to stammer.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I was just going to make Pat his tea. I’ll just go and make it now—”

  She rose to her feet and began to make her way toward the doorway. A trunklike, hairy arm inside a military jacket uncompromisingly barred her way.

  “I said—what’s going on here? You—do you hear me? Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

  A clammy finger of fear traced a line all the way down the middle of Pat’s back as he realized his father was now addressing him. He too stammered fiercely.

  “I’ve lost—I’ve lost—,” he choked.

  “What have you lost?” boomed his father’s voice. “Have you lost your dolly? Lost your litde dolly, have you?”

  Suddenly his mother’s voice rang out.

  “Don’t say that to him, Victor!”

  Within seconds she had been leveled with a solid blow. The sound of her falling tore at Pat’s heart and he cried aloud, “No!”

  But it was to no avail. His father towered over him.

  “Do you hear me, you fool, you?” he barked. “I said—what have you lost?”

  At last the words came to Pat and he found himself crying out, “I’ve lost the only thing I loved in the world!”

  His father’s mouth contorted into a snarl.

  “What did you say?” his father began again. “What did you say to your father, you dirty litde botttle of perfume! Did I hear you say what I thought you said? Don’t talk like that! Don’t talk like that in front of your father! Talk like that and I’ll leave you so you can’t speak! That’s the way a woman talks! Do you understand that? Do you understand that?”

  Pat lowered his head shamefully.

  “Yes, Daddy,” he replied compliantly.

  His father sucked his teeth, the rasping sound filling the room.

  “Why, I don’t believe you do!” he continued. “I don’t believe you do at all! I believe you’re only saying it! I said—do you understand that—what I just said?”