Maggie's Breakfast (15 page)

“I’ve got to use me bladder.”

“Widdle by the lamppost.”

“Merciful God!”

“Ah, the rain will wash it away before the day’s done.”

Anything going off was sold for almost nothing. The character of Moore Street was more Dublin than anywhere. It might be the only street in the Western World where people could talk and listen
at the same time.

As I walked past a stall a big red-faced woman handed me a pig’s cheek and a cabbage. “Don’t forget to eat this before Frida’, son! I don’t think it’ll
last.” She sniffed at the bag. “Ah, it’s still with us but not for long.” The woman seemed to recognise me from one of my many visits to Moore Street with my mother when she
was looking for bargains. “Your poor mother is a saint. Holier than anyone I ever met in me life.”

* * *

My father was sitting by the fireplace when I came in. I was going to show him the pig’s cheek but he didn’t move his head. I went out into the back yard and put the
meat in a pot and left it on the windowsill for my mother. It was cold outside and it wouldn’t go off too quickly. Back inside I felt the teapot on the table. It was warm. I poured myself a
cup of tea. Two big logs were burning and making a noise as if they were talking or complaining. I sat down at the wooden table facing the back yard. I could see my father’s reflection in the
window. I was too sad to turn and face him. I sipped on my tea and continued to look out at the back yard.

Most of my life I wanted my father to sit down and have a conversation with me. I wanted to hear him talk about his time in the army and what he saw of the war and maybe even talk about what it
was about him that was like me. Everybody in the family said I was “the spittin’ image of Paddy”. My oldest sister Mary said I was “shell-shocked” like him as well. In
the past I was happy to hear that I was so much like my father.

Yet today for the first time in my life I was hoping he wouldn’t talk. The pimply face of Blister Dempsey was still in front of my eyes. I edged over to the fireplace, pretending I was too
preoccupied to talk and I was concentrating on something. I knew if I didn’t talk to my father he wouldn’t ask or question me much but I also knew when he was around his presence kept
my mother’s temper from boiling over.

My mother entered the house and was surprised to see me. “Why are you home so early?”

From the side I could see my father getting up from his chair and walking slowly about the room. He was looking for something. My mother turned around but didn’t say anything to him. After
a moment he found his hat, put it on his head and walked out the door. My mother, noticeably annoyed, walked over to the door and closed it as if to say, ‘Don’t come back’.

Then she sat down and poured herself a cup of tea.

I mumbled in as soft a voice as I could, “Ma, I’ve no work now, I’m not at Jury’s any more. I lost my job. It’s gone.

“What are ya talkin’ about ‘gone’?” She couldn’t believe it.

“The job’s gone. I’m outta work. I don’t work at Jury’s any more, Ma.”

“What’s that you said, son?”

“I’m outta work, Ma. I don’t have my job at Jury’s. I lost it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Ma. I made a mistake.”

Her face turned redder than a beetroot. She bit her bottom lip with her false teeth and I felt she wanted to slap me across the face. She threw her handbag down on the table.

“Ya can’t hold onto anything! You’ll rue this day!” she yelled at me.

I was sick and sorry for what I’d done to myself. In her mind I was definitely on the path of my father.

When I finally managed to tell her what happened she showed little sympathy. I became so frightened I began to think of going back to the hotel and begging the hall porter to take me back. I
would admit to him that I made a mistake. I would hit Blister Dempsey with a punch in the mouth. I would pour cold water over his mother’s dirty hair. I’d get into the lift and be
smiling and happy again.

My father returned from outside. He took off his hat and placed it on the mantelpiece. I was never so happy to see him. He not only surprised me, he shocked me. Had he come back to save me from
my mother’s anger? I wanted to believe he did.

“Go back and tell the hall porter you’re sorry,” my mother commanded.

The more I thought about going back to the hall porter, the more I felt I couldn’t. I had made too big a show of myself and I had bragged too much about where I was sailing off to. I had
made it too clear that I was able to tackle the world on my own. I was now licking the tears off my own face.

My mother walked up to me, “Go back there and tell them you’re sorry. Tell them you’re sorry!”

My voice trembled with fear. “Ah, he’s finished with me, Ma. He’s finished with me. I know he is. I let him down.”

My father got up from the table and walked towards the window. “Maybe it’s a strain in the MacDonalds,” he said.

My mother jumped up. “You’re not just a drop-out, you’re a left-out! A man hardly wanted in his own country!”

All of a sudden everything became very silent. Even the hens in the back yard seemed to go quiet.

My mother turned her eyes from me and looked out to the small garden at the back of the house. “I could sow a few potatoes and a bit of rhubarb out there, couldn’t I?”

“You could, Ma,” I answered.

“I had a bit of cabbage last year. Do you remember?”

“I don’t, Ma,” I said.

“You ate it, didn’t ya?”

“I suppose I did.”

“What about Mick’s hens? I wish he’d let me cook one of them,” she said, continuing to look at the two birds in the back yard. “There’s a bit of bacon in the
oven – will you bring it to me?”

I went to the kitchen, opened the oven door and took out a plate that had a thick slice of bacon on it. My mother took out her false teeth and put them into her cup of tea. She bit into the
bacon with her gums but she couldn’t get a grip on it. The bacon slipped from her mouth. She picked it up again and held it with her fingers. She struggled with the piece of bacon like a dog
chewing and snapping when it’s been fed too big a piece of meat. Paddy then walked upstairs to cover his head with the bed-sheet.

My mother walked over to the small colourful statue of the Infant of Prague. Its little painted blue eyes seemed to be glaring at me, telling me that everything was fine and not to worry.

After a moment Molly began to mumble. “Child of Prague, open your holy eyes to show me son the way. This son of mine doesn’t know any better. He’d just as soon hang around with
loafers and sit on the street corner listening to the Devil talk, with all them no-good whelps who don’t want to pray, work or find a job. Child of Prague, guide his way to finding the light
of our beloved Jesus the Son of God Almighty. Wouldn’t he be better off in that nice little job than idling about on the street? Child of Prague, help this son of mine find his way!”
Molly then turned away from the statue and faced me. “You must have done something wrong. You got cheeky with the hall porter, didn’t you?”

I turned around from the fireplace and looked at my mother. “I’m sorry, Ma. I am sorry for what’s happened. I made a mistake.”

As I was attempting to defend myself my father came downstairs again, reached out to me and shook my hand.

“Welcome to the Land of Unemployment,” he said.

I held on to his hand for as long as I could and then let it go.

“Don’t be bothered, son. You have the rest of your life to find another job.”

My mother took her hat and walked towards the front door. She stopped, turned around and called out to me, “I’m goin’ to say a few prayers!”

I could see the deep look of disappointment in her eyes.

After a few moments of silence my father retreated upstairs to the bedroom. I remained alone staring into the fireplace.

In 1953 my brother Michael, who had turned sixteen, decided he’d had enough of Dublin. The place was “too bleedin’ small” for him, he said repeatedly.
Several of Michael’s friends had gone to England and had jobs in factories and were earning money. When they were in Dublin they hung around street corners and gambled the few pennies they
got from the Dole by playing cards or ‘pitch and toss’. The Dole was public assistance and enough to keep you from dying. When Michael’s friends came back from England for a visit
they had suede shoes and silk shirts with colourful ties and talked about the money that could be made working in the factories in Manchester and Birmingham. Billy Breen and Seán Doyle came
back and said it was like having landed on the Moon or someplace in Hollywood. Seán told Michael how easy the women were and that the Catholic Church wasn’t on every corner keeping an
eye on you. The stories convinced my brother to give up his job as a house painter and set out for England.

Michael had only one problem – he didn’t want to go alone – so he convinced me to accompany him. I didn’t tell my parents.

“What time is the boat?” I called from the kitchen.

“The boat leaves at seven,” he called from the toilet. “We have to be there half an hour early.”

I turned on the tap to drink some water. Michael came in, fastening up his trousers.

“Are ya ready yet?”

“I’m ready,” I said.

Down at the North Wall dock a herd of cows were led onto the boat. As they ran across the gangplank the frightened animals began to scutter. The smell of the cow shite was everywhere.

My brother and I stood back a bit from the crowd and watched. I put my brown suitcase with an old necktie of my father’s tied around it near my feet. A man was talking to a young girl and
I heard him saying, “Did ya bring yourself any toothpaste?” Why would anyone who could afford toothpaste be going to England on the cattle boat? The dockside was full of fathers and
mothers and wailing girls all kissing goodbye and hugging each other. Most of them were in tears. Where did they find the love they had for each other and what was it that caused them to have it?
My brother and I didn’t have anyone to hug and cry and say goodbye to. We hardly even talked to each other. I began to imagine what my mother and father would say when they saw that my little
bed was empty. In the back of my mind I hoped my mother wouldn’t throw away my old blanket. It had covered me for the last ten years. I was so used to it I could hardly fall asleep without it
being next to me.

Somebody across the street was singing ‘The Girl from Donegal’ to an accordion, about the girl’s heart being broken when her boyfriend sailed away to foreign lands. It was an
odd song to be singing to people who were going off to England. The moans and the noise from the confused cows and horses blocked out the accordion player on the dock. After all the animals were in
place the ship’s horn blasted the signal for everybody to board. We picked up our luggage and joined the queue.

The boat pulled away and Dublin became dimmer and dimmer and dimmer. Very soon I was sailing across the Irish Sea to England. The place my father had gone to join the army many years earlier.
Looking around me I knew things couldn’t have changed too much since his time. A man came around selling tickets for bunks to sleep in for two-and-sixpence extra. Some of the passengers
rushed to buy a bunk. I was glad because it left the deck with a bit more space to sit down on. Most of the people were standing up to save money till they landed. Later the smell of tea came from
the cabin and everyone rushed down to buy a cup. We went down and bought a cup of tea for a tanner and a biscuit.

The room was crowded with people sitting on the floor, babies running up and down everybody’s legs. Some of the passengers were Travellers. That’s what they called themselves but my
mother and father and everybody else who lived in my neighbourhood and on my street called them gypsies because they lived in caravans and wandered from town to town all over Ireland without having
any one place to live or stay. They were also known as tinkers or knackers. They wouldn’t stay long in any one place. Their address was always the next town. They had wild-looking horses that
roamed into gardens and ate the grass, and dogs that were scraggly and starving half the time. Because they begged from poor people they were considered stupid as well. Whenever they came wandering
in our neighbourhood, me and everybody I knew hid away. They knocked on doors and asked for money or food. The men in the caravans used to mend pots and pans. If they got enough old pots and pans
to repair they’d start a big fire and melt down tin to repair them – that’s why they were called tinkers. Sometimes the fires got out of control and the fire brigade had to be
called to put out the flames. What would they be going to? Who would be waiting on the other end of the journey?

They sat on the floor, drank as much porter as they could, sang songs and begged for money. After they finished singing the mothers sent their rag-wrapped and shoeless children around the crowd
of other passengers to see if they could cadge or shake any money out of them. A few tried to pick pockets but were caught and sent away with a slap on the face or a kick in the arse.

Most of the passengers didn’t have a penny to spare. Practically everybody on board was making the journey to England to find employment. Half of them had to borrow the fare. Few even had
luggage or suitcases. Brown-paper bags and sacks held all their worldly goods. The possessions generally consisted of a pair of hobnailed boots and a shirt as well as heavy tweed trousers. Some who
had made the journey before talked about England and what it was like there. The younger fellas who had been to England wore fancy clothes. Thick-soled suede shoes and stovepipe trousers, blue
jackets with black velvet collars. Everybody called them ‘Teddy Boys’. The Teddy Boys liked to dress up. They were more interested in looking fancy than anything else. The first thing
they bought when they got money in England was a shiny blue suit with a black velvet collar. Having a Teddy Boy suit was a mark of success. The fancier the clothes and shoes the more it reflected
success in England. If they had a white silk shirt it meant they earned more money. Every so often I’d see older boys from my neighbourhood back from England and they’d all be wearing
the Teddy Boy suit and crepe-soled shoes. Once you saw them you knew they’d been to Birmingham or Manchester or Liverpool. My brother Michael wanted to be a Teddy Boy. He talked a lot about
getting a blue suit with a velvet collar and a black shirt with a white tie.