Death and Nightingales

by Eugene McCabe

  The committee members in the lobby downstairs were becoming anxious. Two of them had been to the railway station. Mr French was expected on the six-thirty which he should have caught at Clones junction. He was not on that. They surmised he must be arriving by gig. This information was relayed to Mr Pringle upstairs, who could now see the Protestant Bishop of Clogher looking at his pocket-watch. Aware that Miss Egerton was moving to the concluding chords of ‘Carrickfergus’, he cleaned his spectacles, adjusted his bow-tie and walked through the high door onto the low platform. Acting-cashier with the Bank of Ireland on the main street, a producer and performer in amateur musicals, he was widely regarded in town and county as something of a wag and raconteur. Standing beside the podium he begged for silence with open hands:

  ‘What we hear about Mr Percy French is that he can be somewhat late but never disappoints. At the moment he is somewhat late. Can we in the meantime not entertain ourselves? I see both Bishops of Clogher here. One is a renowned traveller, a builder of cathedrals and to my certain knowledge has a fine singing voice.’

  There was much looking around, until William Armstrong the Protestant Bishop of Clogher, said in clear tones from the second row:

  ‘That is most certainly not me.’

  He had a cold, white face, almond eyes, and kept his mouth fixed in a kind of smile. Attention now moved from the second row to somewhere near the back where James Donnelly, the Catholic Bishop of Clogher, was heard to mutter:

  ‘My God, what a gaffe!’ He was seated between his sister and his Curate, Benny Cassidy, who now whispered:

  ‘You’ll have to sing now or be damned; you’ve no choice, he’ll torture you till you do.’

  Jimmy Donnelly stood and began walking towards the platform amidst tepid clapping from one half of the audience, warm applause from the other. The Earl of Enniskillen, blind grandmaster of the Orange Lodge, inclined his head towards his daughter and asked:

  ‘Can you describe him, dear?’

  ‘He’s tiny, Papa, smaller than me and pert with a pursed-up mouth, white hair and sort of a mincy walk. He’s got very good eyes and his suit looks a lot smarter than yours.’

  Through the hum of audience expectation Jimmy Donnelly was now consulting with Miss Egerton who had often seen priests in the streets of Enniskillen. Never in her life had she spoken to one. Here now, she was with a Catholic Bishop; her head averted, nodding, her lips moving, Yes she could manage that, yes she knew the song well, yes and that melody too. As her fingers automatically began to phrase a few bars, Jimmy Donnelly turned to the audience and said in a clear tenor voice which was unexpectedly rich and almost accentless:

  ‘The reason I sing occasionally in my garden is because of necessity, when I sing in the house my dog Solomon howls and howls and howls. I think my dog has good judgement.’ There was a share of scattered clapping, tolerant smiling and Miss Egerton was obliged to restart the introduction to ‘Kathleen Mavoorneen’, one of the Bishop’s two party pieces, the other being ‘Charlie is my darling’. Some said this was a cheeky tilt at his retired predecessor, Charles MacNally, who once said to him coldly at a clerical dinner:

  ‘You’re not just silly, Jimmy, you’re childish betimes.’

  Eight words which still hurt. Those more politically inclined thought it had more to do with his warm approval of the politics of Mr Charles Stewart Parnell.

  From the back of the hall an usher now beckoned to Gary Pringle. He went over, listened, nodding and smiling. As he left by the side door Jimmy Donnelly was beginning the first verse of ‘Kathleen Mavoorneen’.

  It took five minutes to establish that Mr Percy French was coming up the street.” By then Jimmy Donnelly was rising emotionally to the last line, his neck craned up as markedly as Miss Egerton’s was bent sideways and down towards the soft pedal and the concluding chords. The audience response was genuine and warm.

  Gary Pringle smiled, waiting for this to stop. Inclining his head towards Donnelly, he said: ‘From what I’ve just heard, your dog Solomon is a poor judge!’

  He waited until the Bishop had retaken his seat and then said:

  ‘I have just received the most agreeable confirmation. Mr Percy French is now in the town and is, as I speak, making his way here with all possible dispatch. He is not, may I hasten to add, as some have suggested, “travelling with Miss Brady in her private ass and cart”.’

  There was some good-natured laughing.

  Outside on the Diamond it was mild for early May, with happily no hint of late-spring sharpness. On account of this, a great many town and country people who could not afford tickets for the performance were waiting to see and welcome Mr French.

  Billy Winters and Mickey Dolphin had just come from stabling Punch at the Royal Hotel. As they arrived to the top of the stairs leading to the Town Hall there was a mix of clapping and laughter from lower down the main street. An usher shouted from the lobby:

  ‘He’s here! He’ll be up directly!’ And indeed, there he was, cheerfully doffing his boater to someone waving from a window, shaking hands genially, talking and laughing with people as he moved through the crowd towards the lobby; meeting yet again what he met everywhere: the barefoot world of street and field he wrote and sang about to entertain the booted world that crowded in to hear him in halls and theatres.

  After about a minute’s delay he emerged from the crowd, mounting the stone steps of the Town Hall, his straw boater in one hand and the other extended towards Billy Winters. Both spoke simultaneously:

  ‘My dear fellow.’

  ‘My dear Billy.’

  The embrace and handclasps were warm and mutual, but because of the press of people and officials they could not hear each other properly. Billy Winters’ invitation to Clonoula could not be accepted:

  ‘No, no, I wish I could . . .’

  He glanced back at his wife. She shook her head saying:

  ‘We’re booked into Irvinestown . . . We leave straight after.’

  Just then Billy Winters realised that Mickey Dolphin was calling him urgently.

  ‘Mr Billy Sorr! Mr Billy Sorr!’

  Turning he saw an usher in a bow-tie gripping Mickey’s arm above the elbow, escorting him towards the door.

  ‘What in the hell are you at?’ Billy called out.

  ‘This hoeboy has no ticket,’ the usher said over his shoulder, ‘and he’s drunk I’d swear.’

  ‘I’d swear he’s not, and he’s no “hoeboy”, he’s my friend Michael Dolphin, and this,’ Billy said, holding up a small docket, ‘is his ticket.’

  Percy French adjusted his own bow-tie, leaned towards Billy and said in a whisper:

  ‘One thing for sure I surely know,

  Trust no man in a dickie-bow.’

  Aloud he said:

  ‘If Michael Dolphin is a friend of my friend Billy Winters then he’s a friend of mine.’

  With his arm around Mickey Dolphin’s shoulder they moved as three from the lobby to the broad staircase leading to the upper hall and straight into the chamber and a tumult of exploding applause. The impression created was of a flamboyant circus performer with his arm around an Indian snake-charmer, with Billy Winters two paces behind . . . a smiling promoter.

  Half-way down the aisle, Percy French found a seat for Mickey Dolphin, then paused as a young girl proffered a songbook for his signature. He stooped, bargaining for a kiss which was given before signing. All the while Miss Egerton was playing ‘The Darlin’ Girl from Clare’, addressing the chords with great feeling and flourish, and a side-to-side shaking of her head.

  On the platform, Mr Gary Pringle stood beside the podium waiting to introduce Percy French, who now joined him. The response was so sustained that the singer became emotional, and tried once or twice with a wave of the left hand to make it stop. When it did, Gary Pringle moved forward and said:

  ‘It would be impertinent to introduce our guest. Only last week the London Times described him as a “phenomenon”, an Irishman of Planter stock equally
loved by all breeds and creeds of his fellow Irishmen. Ladies and gentlemen, we are all here this evening to welcome to the town of Enniskillen, that phenomenon in person, Mr Percy French, from Frenchpark in the county of Roscommon.

  During the applause the singer poured a glass of water from the decanter into the tumbler, drank a mouthful, and Welsh-combed his moustache and hair. When silence came he said, ‘I want to begin with a poem for a friend I haven’t seen for years. He will know why.’

  He then spoke the words ot ‘Gort-na-Mona’ in such a natural unforced voice that people thought at first that he was making a few introductory remarks. When the poem ended he said quickly, ‘A sad start, you see, allows me to have a happy ending and I believe in happy endings.’ He winked at the audience and began telling them about the West Clare Railway and the origin of the ballad ‘Are you right there Michael, are you right’, an account they found as hilarious as his eventual singing of the ballad itself.

  He then sang ‘Phil the Fluther’, clowning round the small stage, playing peek-a-boo with Miss Egerton using his banjo as a gun or club, pointing and winking at dignitaries and the audience who now clapped rhythmically as Miss Egerton worked overtime with fingers and pedals and the heels of her sensible shoes. When this piece was concluded, and during the response to it, he took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. He drank more water, waiting for silence:

  ‘Walking up your main street,’ he said, ‘I saw legends in a few shop windows: “Go to Canada for three pounds by Dominion Line” – and other advertisements for other companies promoting America, Australia, South Africa; shipping lines all competing to take us away from what should be paradise, and I thought: why do we always long to be elsewhere? Do we not belong here? What are we looking for? Glory or a grave? God? Cheap gin? A new world? For whatever reason we still leave in our thousands and thousands and this seems to me such heartbreak that I was forced to write a funny song about it.’

  Miss Egerton was introducing ‘The Mountains of Mourne’ again when a young bearded man stood up in the middle of the hall. He had a folded newspaper in one hand and waved it baton-like towards the stage. Percy French motioned with one hand towards the piano. Miss Egerton stopped playing. Billy Winters, two rows from the front, looked back at the interrupter. He had a monkish face and slight figure, probably one of Parnell’s Lieutenants or Davitt’s cronies: an agitator, a Land Leaguer, a Fenian crackpot. He could see Mr Gary Pringle urgendy beckoning ushers from the back. When the murmur of the audience stopped Percy French said quietly:

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  The young man said in a clear voice that everyone could hear: ‘Your Ireland, Sir, is all fun, no funerals; all questions and no answers.’

  Here and there people whispered, lips moving angrily. The young man waited for them to stop. Someone from the front shouted back: ‘Sit down or get out!’

  Realising he might be shouted down he raised his voice: “Why do we leave,” you ask, “what’s wrong here?” you ask and “The Mountains of Mourne” which you are about to sing is indeed a comic and affecting song, but . . .’

  From all over the hall people now began to murmur and mutter:

  ‘Idiot! Sit down! Get out! Damned crackpot!’

  Percy French, with upraised hands, waited for silence. Through the interruption he had smiled. Now he said, ‘I’m sure you have something serious to say, Sir, but these people, God help their wit, have travelled and paid money to hear me.’

  The hall broke out into a storm of clapping and more shouts of ‘Sit down,’ ‘Fenian’ and ‘Leaguer’ and ‘lout’. When someone shouted: ‘To hell with Parnell,’ the atmosphere became suddenly unpleasant.

  The interrupter stood unmoved, waiting for the noise and abuse to stop. When it did, he waved his newspaper again, ‘May I read one small item from your Impartial Reporter, published today Thursday, 3rd May, 1883?’

  There were more shouts of ‘come on’ and ‘we can read for ourselves’.

  ‘Is it a long item?’ Percy French asked.

  ‘It’s very short,’ the young man said.

  ‘Let’s hear it then.’

  The young man opened a newspaper and began:

  ‘The heading says: “Distress in Glencolumbkille”. A sub-heading: “Potatoes and meal exhausted”.’

  He had to wait through a hubbub of objections before he could continue:

  ‘“Extraordinary scenes greeted our Majesty’s government inspector Dr Woodhouse in the village of Glencolumbkille last weekend. Dr Woodhouse was besieged on arrival by 2,000 semi-starving people; men, women and children begging, kneeling, crying out. Visibly affected he could not make himself heard above the wailing until the Reverend Thomas Gallagher arrived to restore order.”’ The two ushers were now moving from the side aisles towards where he stood. Seeing them approach, the young man said:

  ‘Clearly, Sir, I’m not going to be permitted to read on.’

  ‘It looks a bit like that,’ Percy French said.

  ‘Then may I say that your comic song about exile makes me unwell every time I hear it.’

  From the back of the hall a voice shouted:

  ‘Blackguard!’ followed by more shouts of, ‘Fenian!’ ‘Villain!’ and ‘Murderer!’

  A young woman began to clap and shout support for the young man as he was led out. She was joined by other voices until gradually the audience became a cacophony of howling, shouting and clapping.

  When the interrupter was gone Percy French waited for silence, looking very closely at the nails on his right hand and then on his left and all the time smiling to himself. When he said, ‘Well!’ there was an uneasy response. When he said, ‘Well and apparently unwell,’ the uneasy response became uneasy laughter. He waited for it to fade:

  ‘If you happen to ask what’s wrong in this country,’ he began, ‘the knife-grinders go to work. Yes, Glencolumbkille is terrible, and so is Calcutta and the Gorbals and all the poor ends of a thousand cities the world over. Today, yesterday, tomorrow, it’s all heartbreaking, and all of us who live on this little island and love it probably imagine we know it well till some fine morning or evening like this, we discover suddenly that we’re strangers in a strange place, where terrible things happen and you feel maybe the ship is going down. Now if you know the ship is sinking you can bail out till it goes down or you can sing funny songs. I favour the latter course. A high-falutin’ “gent” in the Irish Times once described what I do as “a type of bucolic burlesque”; I wasn’t sure if I was being commended or condemned so I went to the dictionary. It means country fun of a low kind, the opposite it would seem to city fun of a high kind. The last time I was in the Rotunda Theatre a young lad in pantaloons was singing his heart out for a lady who must have weighed in at around twenty stones. May God preserve me forever from such weighty works of art.’

  Billy Winters listened fascinated as his old college comrade winked, grinned, and with gentle mockery and self-mockery, talked, clowned, sang and recited his way back into the heart of the audience. Gradually the darkness of anger was replaced by the brightness of comedy. When he ended very deliberately with ‘The Mountains of Mourne’ the entire hall erupted into a cheering pandemonium. It went on and on, with shouts of, ‘More, more, more;’ so much so that he was forced to take out a pocket-watch. He dangled it with one hand pointing at the face with his left forefinger then pointing off-stage to indicate that he had to go. Finally he left, waving, smiling like a child at an elated, enraptured, cheering audience. Minutes later his trap was at the front of the Town Hall, his wife standing on the pavement holding the door open.

  Half-way to the hollow of the town, as he returned greetings from window and street, from public house and private doorway, he could still hear Miss Egerton on the piano as she accompanied most of the audience singing in loyal chorus: ‘God save the Queen’.

  11

  The Percy French Appreciation Committee had notified in writing those notables who could, if they so wished, avail of refreshments downstairs
in the Council Chambers after the performance. Hopefully, there they would have an opportunity to meet and greet in person one of the most celebrated and probably best loved Irishmen of this or any other century. That is what the invitation said.

  Committee funds and private donations had been given to stock the long table used for Council meetings with a show of wines, spirits and sandwiches. Smartly dressed staff on loan from the Royal Hotel dispensed from plate and tray. The chamber was thrumming warmly when Billy Winters entered. He had been down to the lobby to see off Mickey Dolphin, warning him to stay sober and to have Punch in the gig and the lamps lit ready for leaving at ten o’clock. From across the street, Alfie Gregg had waved and come over, a great hulk of a neighbour with baggy eyes in a mournful face still overwhelmed by the death of his son in a hunting accident. He wanted to talk tombs and memorials. Billy Winters had been obliged to listen, sympathise and again hear out his grief. Twelve years ago, he, too, had suffered inconsolably, losing his wife, Cathy, and their unborn son in that terrible accident . . . ‘All part, maybe,’ Alfie said, ‘of God’s plan.’ ‘If that’s the way it is,’ Billy said, ‘then God is very odd!’

  Now as he crossed the high-ceilinged Council Chamber, he could see Jimmy Donnelly talking with R.I.C. Inspector Joseph Quinn. Quinn was in civilian clothes that managed the stiff look of a uniform. Billy could tell from an eye-flick less than a glance that Quinn had noted his arrival and conveyed this verbally to Jimmy Donnelly. Neither looked over. Brother officers, holy and hamfist, Mister Fairbrother’s friends . . . damn little they don’t know between them. All that sideways talk and silence and yet in a way they like me, trust me, and I them, I think . . . Do I? Does anyone trust anyone since the Phoenix Park? A blind, bloody island. No trust. Parnell stirring the crazy pot.