Maggie's Breakfast (10 page)

I could tell my early return didn’t make her happy. I decided to tell her the truth and tell her I didn’t go to Confession because I had nothing to confess, that I hadn’t
committed any sins and I didn’t want to be telling the priest in the confessional box a lie. I hesitated and when my mother looked at me I knew what she was thinking.

“I wasn’t feelin’ well, Ma,” I answered and poured myself a cup of tea from the nearby teapot.

“You was supposed to be confessin’ your sins, wasn’t you?”

I didn’t know how to answer. I wanted to tell her I didn’t have any sins to confess.

“You ran away, didn’t ya? You ran away from the holy place. I know you did. That’s what you did.” My mother then stood up and reached for the broom that was leaning
against the wall.

I told her I went to the church to see if her wedding ring was still in the crown of the Virgin Mary and that I had prayed and prayed. “I said more than twenty prayers, Ma. I talked to the
nuns, the priests. I prayed to the statue. I didn’t go to Confession, Ma. I’m sorry. I wasn’t feeling good, Ma. I had a stomach ache.” I told her I was sorry for anything I
had done wrong.

Molly turned from me as if all her prayers had fallen out of Heaven and onto her head. She seemed smothered with anger. She looked at me and lowered her voice but it seemed louder than ever. For
a moment she seemed disconnected to it.

“
Ya won’t do what’s good for ya!
” she yelled. In a fit of anger she made a swipe at me with the broom.

The handle hit me across the arm. When I put up my hands to prevent another swipe from hitting me, my mother smacked me even harder with the broom-handle. I wanted to cry for my father but he
wasn’t home.

“You’re just like your father. There’s no changin’ you either. Not a bit!”

When my mother moved closer to me I closed my eyes, hoping she wouldn’t strike me again but she continued to pursue me around the room, laying into me with the broom. At first I hid under
the table but I was still hit by the broom handle.

“Ma, ma, don’t hit me! Don’t. You’re hurtin’ me. Don’t, Ma! Don’t!”

My mother was silent and that frightened me even more. She kept striking me until I began to faint and not know where I was.

Out of nowhere I heard our neighbour Mrs. Fortune yelling from outside our door. “Mrs. Walsh, leave him alone! Stop! Stop it!”

My mother immediately stopped and sat down on a nearby chair. She looked down at me and started to cry.

“I’m sorry, son. Forgive me. Forgive me.”

Mrs. Fortune then came into our house. “What in the name of God are you doing, Missus?” she yelled at my mother. She reached down to me and saw that my hands and arms were bleeding.
She turned back and stared at my mother but said nothing. My mother sat there in silence.

After a minute or two I heard a knock on the hall door. Another neighbour, Mrs. Waters from across the street, wanted to know what was going on as well. Mrs. Fortune put her finger to her lips
and Mrs. Waters left.

“I’m goin’ to take that boy down to the hospital,” Mrs. Fortune said to my mother.

“I don’t know what’s come over me, Missus,” my mother said. “I’m not feelin’ well lately. I don’t know what’s come over me. I don’t
know how I’m going to put a few crumbs on the table. There’s nothin’ in the house. I’ve pawned everythin’.”

As Mrs. Fortune took me by the hand and led me towards the door, my mother stood up and put on her coat. “I’ll take me boy to the hospital.”

Mrs. Fortune slowly walked back out the door. After I washed the blood from my arms and head, my mother took me to Stephen’s Hospital where I had my wrists stitched in two places. When the
doctor asked my mother what happened, she told him I fell down the stairs.

* * *

The next day the parish priest, Father Brady, came into the classroom. His face was red and he seemed to be in a hurry. He walked around the classroom with a small bamboo cane
in his hand that he kept tapping against his knee. His eyes met mine but I turned away and pretended I didn’t see him. He walked up to the front and whispered something into the
teacher’s ear. The teacher then looked back at me and I knew I was in trouble. I’d been spotted. Somebody had seen me skip the confessional line.

“Gabriel Walsh?”

“Yes. Father.”

“Come up here.”

I took the walk up the aisle and stood at the head of the class. The teacher turned his head away from me. That meant something. The priest looked down on me. Then, he turned his face to the
class and pursed his lips and, without saying a word to me, he landed his right hand on my face with the force of a boxer. I fell sideways. I was too hurt to cry and too afraid to say anything.

“That will teach you to cheat on God!” he said as the teacher, seemingly sympathetic, turned me back toward my seat.

My mind was buzzing and spinning and I didn’t know where I was. The entire class fell silent. In my frightened state I silently cried as the pain raced through my face. When I reached my
seat I could hear the voice of the priest calling after me. “Say an Act of Contrition!”

I couldn’t answer. His voice became louder and louder but I still couldn’t talk. I couldn’t move my jaw.

“Do you hear?”

I murmured back, “Yes, Father.”

“Say it while the sin is still in your mind.”

“Yes, Father.”

The other boys looked at each other and nervously shuffled their feet under the desks.

“
Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name
,” I began.

When I uttered my first word of the prayer the feet-shuffling stopped.

“That’s not an Act of Contrition, that’s the Lord’s Prayer!” Father Brady roared.

He rushed towards me, raised his hand again and hit me in the jaw. My teeth and brains began to shake and rattle and the light outside went on and off. I couldn’t remember the prayer but I
knew it was for saying sorry for committing sin. I felt sorry for everything. I felt sorry for everybody and I felt sorry for myself.

“Do you know what is meant by an Act of Contrition?” the priest demanded.

I didn’t answer. My jaw was hurting me and I thought I was swallowing my teeth. I looked up at Father Brady and hoped he’d see my fear and pain. I was hoping that the fear in my eyes
would convince him I was more than sorry for my sin.

He looked down at me and spoke in the slowest voice I had ever heard coming from a human mouth. “You’re sorry. You are sorry for what you did. You admit to God that you are sorry for
the sin you committed and you promise not to sin again. You beg and beseech God for forgiveness for committing sin. That’s paramount in God’s mind. He must know that you are truly
repentant. He must know that you are truly and sincerely sorry and that you have no intention of ever committing sin again for as long as you live your life on this earth. Go on now, say it. Say an
Act of Contrition.” He began to say the prayer himself: “
Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee . . .
”

I repeated the words: “
Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee.
” I stopped and was more frightened and confused and more awkward than before. I didn’t
know what I was saying. I was hoping I would remember the words to the prayer. I prayed to myself as Father Brady stood over me: Dear God, little Jesus in the crib with the ox and the animals
breathing on you, help me remember the Act of Contrition! I then began to mumble, “
O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee and I detest my sins above every other evil . .
.
”

As I continued with the prayer Father Brady turned away from me and walked to the head of the class. He looked over the entire class and slowly walked out.

At thirteen I was considered fit and able to seek gainful employment but finding work of any kind that would bring a few shillings into the house wasn’t simple or easy. It
was almost impossible. In order not to be thrown out of the house I’d make a few pennies by boiling water and making tea for the plasterers on building sites who were plastering the interiors
of new houses in what used to be considered ‘countryside’. This means of survival didn’t last long. Most of the plasterers were from Scotland and when they finished their work
they went back to Scotland. When that happened I was unemployed and sat around the house for weeks and months on end. This didn’t please my mother or other members of my family who were
working and making money. Three of my older sisters were in factories and my brother Michael was training as a house painter. Every day he’d come home covered with paint and smelling of
paint-thinner. Wherever he walked or sat in the house it smelled like he had just painted the place. When I complained about the smell, my mother said, “Shut up and get a job! If you
don’t get a decent job soon you’ll end up like Black Bart Joe Deegan!”

Joe Deegan who lived down the street was supposedly allergic to soap and water. He let the dirt pile up on his skin until he looked like the cowboy named Black Bart in the movies. Black Bart had
a black hat, a black suit, a black pair of boots and rode a black horse. Nobody ever saw his face because he wore a black mask. When my mother compared me to Joe Deegan I was convinced she
didn’t like me all over again. Joe was not only idle and dirty but he was considered mad as well. He ran up and down the street with a wooden rifle, shooting at anybody who passed him. I used
to pretend to shoot back at him with an imaginary revolver. He would fall down on the street moaning and groaning and stay there until someone came along and offered him assistance. Joe would lie
on the street rolling about in pain for an hour sometimes. His acting at dying was close to the real thing.

After being compared to Joe I was determined to find employment. Danny Dorgan’s shoe shop was across the street from the pub where the men from the foundry drank. Danny was often a
customer in the pub and he was very well known. I had heard that his last messenger-boy quit and went to England to work in a bicycle factory. Half the boys who were sixteen or older had left
Inchicore and gone to England to work. I was told that Danny needed a messenger boy so I went into Dorgan’s and asked for a job.

“Ya need anybody?”

“For what?” Danny Dorgan said without looking up at me. He was cutting the shape of a heel from a big swathe of cow leather. The place smelled but I liked it.

“For work.”

“Who sent you here?”

“Nobody.”

“How’d you know there was a job goin’?”

“Is there?”

“Can you ride a bike?”

“Yis.”

“D’ya have one?”

“I can get a loan of one from my sister.”

“What’s she goin’ to do?”

“She gettin’ married soon.”

“Yeah?”

“She’s going to live in the city.”

“You think you want to be a cobbler?”

“I like the smell of the place.”

“Good. That’s what you need first. You have to like the smell of glue and leather.”

* * *

“Need any boots or shoes mended, ma’am? Soles and heels mended cheap. Delivered free with a new pair of laces thrown in!”

I rode a bicycle around Inchicore and knocked at doors to see if anybody needed boots or shoes repaired. When they did, I took their footwear to Dorgan’s and he repaired them. During the
week I collected boots and shoes and sandals. On weekends I returned them repaired. I was delivering and collecting anything made of leather. Mostly boots and shoes but sometimes ladies’
handbags and straps and belts.

I met a girl one day after I knocked on the door asking if they had any shoes that needed repairing. She laughed at me and made me fall in love with her. She had red hair and an inviting smile.
She appeared to be happy. I couldn’t understand why she seemed to be so happy but she was. I wanted to be around her all day long even though I was only thirteen. She could make me happy if I
was with her long enough. I thought about her all day and all night long. Her name was Maureen Quinn. I prayed that her shoes would wear out so I could collect them from her. I wanted to kiss her
every time I saw her. I cycled up and down her street hoping I’d see her. Many times I pretended to be collecting shoes just to see her sitting outside her door. I used to get off the bike
and pretend it needed a patch for the tire. Every day I came to work I was hoping that Maureen would come by with her shoes.

Three weeks passed and I hadn’t seen Maureen. I was beginning to miss her so much I was forgetting pick-ups, deliveries and tagging. I’d be thinking of Maureen so much I’d put
brown polish on black shoes and after a while it began to drive Danny Dorgan mad.

“What in the name of Christ did ya do here?”

I pretended I didn’t hear him. “What?”

“What, me arse! Take a look at this!”

“What?”

“This shoe is brown and you’ve put black polish on the blasted thing!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Fuck bein’ sorry. Pay attention. What’s the matter with ya?”

“Nuthin’.”

“You must be sniffin’ too much glue here.”

“I’m not. I hate the smell of glue.”

“Are ya all right?”

“Am I mad, you mean? Is that what you’re askin’ me?”