Maggie's Breakfast (24 page)

I was shaking in my shoes and didn’t know if I should turn and leave the room or not.

“What’s your name?”

“Gabriel,” I answered.

“Gabriel?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Gabriel what?”

“Walsh. Gabriel Walsh, ma’am.”

“My breakfast wasn’t left lying about this morning, was it?”

“No, ma’am. I brought it right away.”

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“What time do you come to work?”

“Six o’clock, ma’am.”

“That’s early.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What does your father do?”

“Nothin’.”

“Nothing? No job?”

“No, ma’am. He used to be in the British Army.”

“Poor man.” She then reached for a piece of toast on the plate in front of her and purposely mumbled loud enough for me to hear. “Life, it’s confusing when you
don’t understand it and it’s lonely when you do.”

What she meant by that I wasn’t sure and with nothing else to say I turned and retreated from the room.

* * *

Mrs. Ruth Houghton Axe, a small and slightly rotund woman, tapped on the door and entered Maggie’s room. I had just returned to retrieve the breakfast tray.

Mrs. Axe had a smile on her face and looked exceptionally well dressed, wearing an expensive-looking two-piece suit.

“Good morning, Margarita! Good morning!” she said as if she was addressing both Miss Sheridan and me at the same time.

I was holding the breakfast tray and was about to exit the room.

“The phones in the hotel are out of order this morning. So I couldn’t ring. Sorry!” Mrs. Axe said gleefully.

“Yes, yes!” Miss Sheridan responded with a joy in her voice I had not previously heard. “Have you heard from Emerson?” she added without missing a beat.

I stood awkwardly and looked towards Miss Sheridan as if to get permission to leave but she made a signal with her hand which I interpreted was for me to stay exactly where I was.

Mrs. Axe then walked towards the window and looked out towards Stephen’s Green.

“Emerson?” she said.

“Yes.”

“He called last night. Not happy that I extended my stay. I told him I’d be back on the weekend.”

In one of her rambling monologues Miss Sheridan had previously told me Emerson Axe was a descendant of the ninth Attorney General of the United States and a master chess player as well as a
fencing champion when he was at Harvard. The couple headed a large investment house in New York City and lived in a real castle in Tarrytown near New York. Miss Sheridan had spent many years with
the Axes touring Europe and America, attending opera festivals and operatic contests. Sometimes she served as a judge in certain parts of Europe and as often as not Mr. and Mrs. Axe would accompany
her on such artistic adventures. Most of the time they were in New York and all three of them rarely missed an opera season at the Metropolitan Opera house there. La Margarita, as Mrs. Axe called
Miss Sheridan, spent most winters in the huge castle that overlooked the Hudson River. The castle stood on top of a hill surrounded by sixty acres.

“How is Emerson?” Miss Sheridan asked.

“Oh, the truth about Emerson is he’s got more patience than understanding. I on the other hand have more understanding than patience. If you were to ask me which of the two concepts
I prefer, I’d have to say the person with the patience is better off.”

“You don’t say so, for God’s sakes!” Miss Sheridan responded as she looked over at me.

“You know why I think that, Margarita? If you don’t know, I’ll tell you.”

“Please do.”

“I’ll try anyway. The person with patience doesn’t need understanding. He or she can just as easily be contented waiting for things or someone to change. Whereas the person
with only understanding, I’m afraid to say, gets frustrated and even angry.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Miss Sheridan asked.

“Well, it’s my way of thinking that, if you only understand without having patience, you’re very likely to end up alone. And annoyed at everything most of the time. I’m
glad Emerson has patience. I really am.”

“Husbands are that way, I suppose,” Miss Sheridan said as she walked across the floor and entered the bathroom.

“Mine is anyway. But he’s not too happy about my trip,” Mrs. Axe called after her with a laugh.

I moved towards the door. Just as I did Miss Sheridan stuck her head out of the bathroom door and signalled again for me to stay where I was. I went back and put the tray down. My arms were
aching. Mrs. Axe remained at the window observing the grey Dublin morning. She then turned back to me as if she knew me.

“What’s the weather today?” she asked.

“Prepare for sunshine,” I said.

“Is that true?”

“I never think about it, to be honest with ya.” I was about to pick up the breakfast tray again when a yell came from the bathroom.

“Say
you.
Not
ya
if you please!”

Mrs. Axe laughed out loud.

Miss Sheridan’s voice bellowed out again from the bathroom. “Gabriel has five sisters and three brothers but he’s as much of an orphan as I am if you ask me!”

“Is that so?” Mrs. Axe asked as she turned around as if to get a better look at me.

“Can’t you tell by looking at him, Ruth?”

Feeling a bit tortured, I turned with the breakfast tray and was about to leave the room when Miss Sheridan came out of the bathroom.

“Do you know how Gabriel got the job here?”

“No.”

I was now more embarrassed than ever before.

“He was walking by the hotel one day when he smelled the food cooking. He asked the hall porter if he could work here. Can you imagine? What was it? Chicken? Roast beef? He was drawn in
because of the odour that was pouring out onto the street. He smelled the food cooking and his nose brought him in to ask for a job! It must have been coming up from the grate on Kildare Street.
I’ve often walked into the whiffs myself.”

“Is that true, Gabriel?” Mrs. Axe asked me, holding back a laugh.

“Didn’t you tell me you’d never had chicken in your house, Gabriel?” said Miss Sheridan.

“I did.”

Mrs. Axe laughed a bit louder. “You smelled the chicken and you got the job?”

“Ah, somethin’ like that, ma’am.”

“If he doesn’t watch out he’ll end up like half of the poor fellows who walk around Dublin with weak legs and flat feet,” Miss Sheridan said.

“Who are you talking about, Maggie?” Mrs. Axe asked.

“The waiters who work in this hotel! Haven’t you seen them?”

“I haven’t noticed. They appear to be very nice.”

“Gosh, I wish I could say they were as nice as some of the waiters I’ve met in other parts of the world.”

“You only say that because they’re Irish and you’re Irish, Maggie.”

“I only say it because a lot of them are Dubliners who make fun of everyone they meet. They judge and complain as if they’re paying their own wages. Country people are not as fast
with the gab if you ask me. God almighty, they don’t know how well off they are here! Years ago half the servant girls who worked in Dublin came up from the countryside. They were treated so
harshly many of them became nuns and spent the rest of their lives in a convent. More than a few entered the convent for other reasons as well. Maybe it was better than marrying a –”
She stopped and looked at me. “I take that back. I’m only joking. They were all unfortunate. Gabriel, what do we call the Dubliners? What are they called by country people like myself
from Castlebar, County Mayo?”

“Jackeens,” I answered.

“Jackeens is right. That’s the name!” She laughed as if she was remembering something very personal. “
Jackeens!
” she said again, only louder as if to
underline the word. “They got the name because during the Troubles most Dubliners didn’t want to break with the English Crown. The English flag, the Union Jack as it is called, was a
comfortable symbol for the Dublin people. Being wrapped in the Union Jack was important in those days. It might have been, if you ask me. It might have been. Ruth, this lad here, his own father
signed up with the English army when he was still wet behind the ears and the same age. Off he went to France and nearly had his head blown off as well as a few other things. But what was he to do
at the time? I don’t know and I suppose I’ll never know. Do you know what I’m attempting to say, Ruth, my dear and beloved friend, American that you are?”

Mrs. Axe clapped her hands as if applauding Maggie’s performance. “Yes! Yes! Maggie from Mayo! You might have a point but if I don’t eat soon you might have to bury me in this
country.”

Both women laughed out loud and I sensed the time had at last come for me to leave the room. I firmly gripped the breakfast tray, turned and walked out the door.

* * *

The next morning when I came to retrieve Maggie’s breakfast tray I discovered she wasn’t in her room. It was the first time she had not been there when I came back
to collect the tray. As on every other morning, the light was still on in the bathroom and an opera of some sort was playing on her record player. The breakfast tray was on the side table near the
window and only half the breakfast was eaten. I was half-tempted to look under the bed in case Maggie had gone looking for something she might have dropped. Maybe by hiding under the bed, I thought
to myself, she is playing a part from one of the operas she has appeared in when she was younger. After instantly dismissing my errant imagination, I decided to grab the tray and leave the room. As
I walked towards the door it opened in front of me. I lost my balance and the contents of the breakfast tray went crashing to the floor.

As I instinctively bent down to gather the items, I was immediately assisted by Maggie.

“A good thing I’m not hungry this morning, isn’t it?” she said as she placed the teapot on the tray.

I didn’t have a chance to apologise before Fifth Floor Mary came rushing to the door. “Are ye all right there?” she said as she got down on her hands and knees and began wiping
everything with a large hand-towel.

As Mary was tidying up the mess Maggie put her hand to her shoulder. “Go back to Kerry, Mary! Everything’s fine! Come back later when I’m out for the day.”

Mary secured her glasses on her nose and departed in a hurry.

As I was about to leave with the tray, Maggie called to me. “I left to go to early Mass this morning. The priest, who is a close friend of mine, was saying his last Mass here. He’s
off to America. A parish in New Jersey! I don’t go to church as often I should. I confess to him every so often and he’s been generous with absolution. Should you ever leave Ireland,
Gabriel, make sure you remember everything the Holy Church taught you.” She then went to her record player and turned it off. “I leave this thing on most of time so that Mary from Kerry
doesn’t come in and rummage about in my things.”

I took that as a signal to leave the room.

* * *

On Grafton Street outside Bewley’s coffee shop I saw her reflection in the window. A big black hat with a feather sticking out of it appeared and descended on the window
like a large bird coming out of the sky. She was standing behind me, holding the arm of another woman. I felt a mixture of shock and embarrassment and wondered if she’d recognise me out of my
waiter’s outfit. Without the breakfast tray I felt naked. I closed my eyes and hoped she hadn’t seen me. I didn’t know what to say or do or which way to turn. I bent my head down
and tried to sneak away. As I stepped away from the other onlookers who were also admiring the big coffee machine and the man in white making the coffee, I heard my name.

“Gabriel!” Her voice was clear and unmistakable.

I was spotted. It was embarrassing. I turned around to face Miss Sheridan and Mrs. Axe. “Goodness gracious!” she said, looking pleasantly surprised.

“Pleased to meet you again, Gabriel,” Mrs. Axe said with an even broader smile.

Both women seemed to be enjoying their time on Grafton Street.

“Your day off?” Mrs. Axe asked me.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m off every second Saturday.”

“That’s why we had cold tea and toast this morning, Ruth,” Margaret Sheridan said with half a laugh in her voice.

“Mine wasn’t so bad,” Mrs. Axe said. “You live around here, Gabriel?” she added with the curiosity of a tourist.

“About three miles away,” I said.

“He lives up near Kilmainham Gaol,” Miss Sheridan said.

“Kilmainham Gaol?”

“Now I only said he lives near it. Not in it!”

“I’m sure he doesn’t live in it!” Mrs. Axe said, laughing almost out loud.

“It was where they put the patriots and tortured and killed them,” Miss Sheridan volunteered.

As I turned to move away from Bewley’s window, Miss Sheridan put her hand to my jacket collar. “Doesn’t your poor mother have a needle and thread?” she asked, as she
looked me over.

“It’s just a bit worn,” Mrs. Axe said, doing her best to hold back a laugh. “He looks fine if you ask me!”

Miss Sheridan wouldn’t let go. “My God, how can you possibly walk straight in those shoes?” she asked me, tapping the toe of my foot with hers.

I wanted to fall back into Bewley’s window and be ground up with the coffee beans that were rolling about in the grinder.

“That shirt you’re wearing must have belonged to your grandfather, Gabriel. Am I right about that?”

The shirt I was wearing had belonged to someone but I didn’t know who. Most likely it had a few owners before me. My mother picked it up in the Iveagh market on Francis Street a week
earlier. The Iveagh market opposite the Tivo cinema was a huge open arena where, among other things, the clothes from Dublin’s dead were sold third hand. Sometimes the smell of death lingered
in the clothing.

“Goodbye, ma’am,” I said and turned to go.

But as I walked on the women walked with me.

The doors of the shops on Grafton Street were beautifully painted and the displays in the windows offered glimpses into a world of fantasy without charging admission. To be noticed on Grafton
Street was almost as important as being seen at Mass on a Sunday morning. The street smelled expensive. The latest fashions – clothes, jewellery and shoes – were on display in the shop
windows. Some of the shops had uniformed doormen who were quick to open the doors when customers were entering or exiting the premises. They also signalled to anyone who looked poor to keep
walking.