In the bar where he stood alone Morrissey sighed, thinking that it was always the same: no one could be trusted: to expect good of a person was to build the foundations of disappointment.
A soldier entered the bar and ordered a glass of Celebration Ale. ‘Will Privy Seal win?’ he enquired and Morrissey replied that it would, definitely. You’d think he’d have something better to say, he thought, examining the soldier’s pimpled face. In every public house it was the same. In every public house there were men coming up to you and attempting to talk to you about sporting events. In Morrissey’s view such events were a waste of time and energy, being organized by untrustworthy people for the purpose of extracting money from simple-minded onlookers like this spotted soldier.
He noted that the soldier’s tunic was smartly buttoned in the regulation manner and that there was a smell of violets coming from his hair. He wondered what it would be like to have the soldier as a friend. He looked at him again and for a moment he imagined that the soldier had come into the bar and that each had greeted the other in a comradely way. ‘That damn old Sergeant Farrell,’ the soldier might have said, and might have gone on to tell the latest ignominies he had suffered at the hands of his superior. Morrissey might have nodded in sympathy and might later have related the ignominies he had himself endured since the evening before, the last time the two comrades had conversed. Except for Miss Lambe, Morrissey had never had a friend. He had been scorned as a companion in the institution where he had spent his childhood, he had appealed to few in the world outside it. He was aware that Agnes Quin did not much care for him, nor, he guessed, did Beulah Flynn or Mrs Dargan or Mrs Kite. In all the world only Mrs Sinnott was a person he could consider as a friend, and Mrs Sinnott was a woman in her ninety-second year. He had often seen two companions walking together on the street, sometimes talking, sometimes respecting a silence that was an understood thing between them. He imagined games of cards or draughts that might continue for a few hours between two friends who shared this interest. Once he had met a man who told him he was a collector of postage stamps and had over a thousand stuck down in albums. The man promised that the following day he would bring the albums to the public house where they had met, but although Morrissey said that he had often considered collecting stamps himself and was greatly interested in the subject, he had never seen that man again.
‘Lester Piggott up,’ said the soldier. ‘I think he’ll walk it.
‘He is good certainly,’ agreed Morrissey.
‘Sandy Barclay beat him two weeks back.’
Morrissey nodded. He was thinking that the smell of violets coming from the soldier’s hair suggested that he was out to attract females, and he wondered if he’d be interested in meeting one of the four he was in a position to offer. Since it was his business to do so, he would bring the idea up, and if the suggestion was declined there was no reason why he and the soldier shouldn’t continue to have a talk together.
‘On Secret Ray,’ said the soldier, ‘which Sandy is riding again today. Isn’t the weather great?’
‘I was saying that to the wife,’ replied Morrissey, taking from the inside pocket of his jacket a photograph of Beulah Flynn. ‘I wonder you can stand it in the uniform.’
‘You get used to anything. Is that your wife?’
‘Isn’t she a great-looking woman?’
‘God, she is. She’s bigger than yourself.’
Morrissey nudged the soldier with his elbow. He winked at him. ‘Would you like to meet that woman?’ he said.
‘Your wife?’
‘Would you like to meet her?’
‘Is she coming in here?’
‘Not at all. Would you like to have carnal knowledge of that woman?’
The soldier, a trooper who was by nature and inclination a simple man, registered surprise. He looked at the photograph that Morrissey was still holding in his right hand and then he shifted his eyes to Morrissey’s countenance.
‘What did you say?’ he asked, suddenly struck by the notion that he had not heard properly, that this small man had said something different.
‘I could fix you up with that woman,’ said Morrissey, ‘if you were at all interested.’
‘Your wife?’
‘As a matter of fact, she’s no one’s wife at all, that one. I was misleading you there: I’m an unmarried man.’
Morrissey mentioned a sum of money. He said that Beulah Flynn was beautiful in all departments: men had gone to their graves for love of her, only she was down on her luck now, which was why he was at liberty to place her on offer to a stranger.
‘I’m a Catholic, mister,’ said the soldier. ‘I have Catholic morals.’
Even though it meant a loss of possible earnings, Morrissey was always pleased when he received such a reply. With business out of the way, he felt free to engage in a purely friendly association. ‘Isn’t that a great woman for you?’ he had remarked to the stamp-collector, displaying the photograph of Beulah Flynn, and when the stamp-collector had shown no interest and had registered a similar lack of excitement about photographs of Agnes Quin, Mrs Dargan and Mrs Kite, Morrissey had ordered two drinks and had listened for a long time to information about stamps. He had attempted to establish with the man when his birthday was, being keen to offer him in return a reading from the stars. It was then that the man had gone away.
‘We’ll say no more,’ said Morrissey to the soldier. He replaced the photograph in his pocket.
‘I’m not in need of any of that,’ muttered the soldier. ‘I wouldn’t touch a woman of that nature.’
‘I was only codding you. Will we go and sit down?’
The soldier shook his head, but Morrissey, having bought further drinks, in the end succeeded in persuading him that the attempted retailing of Beulah Flynn had not been in earnest. When eventually he carried two full glasses to a table in a corner the soldier followed him.
‘I have these little books with me,’ said Morrissey, taking his paper-backed volumes from several pockets, ‘that tell us about the universe. Do you know when your birthday is?’
The soldier said his birthday was February the twenty-third, and Morrissey said February the twenty-third came under Pisces, the sign of the fish. ‘You’re in with a decent crowd,’ he said. He read from one of his books. He said:
‘Be alert now for any chance to improve your appearance. Courtesy will help you.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Saturn is in your house of earnings and income. What it means about appearance could be a reference to the skin. D’you mind me mentioning that to you?’
‘What?’
‘You have a few little spots on your face. What it means is that this is a good time to try and fix them with an ointment. You can get stuff that you could apply before you go to bed in the barracks. In a day or two those few spots could have vanished for good.’
The fingers of the soldier’s left hand touched his chin, moving slowly from one blemish to the next.
‘Don’t worry them,’ said Morrissey. ‘Go into a chemist’s before the end of the month and ask the man for a tube of something. Explain the whole thing to him, how you have a friend who has a knowledge of the signs. Tell him it’s a favourable time for dealing with the little ailment.’
The soldier drank hard at his Celebration Ale, wondering why this man was giving him advice about his face.
‘There’s some good ointments these days,’ Morrissey said, ‘for a condition like that.’
‘I think it’s the razor I have.’
Morrissey shook his head. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. He put his eyes close to the soldier’s chin. ‘That’s a nervous complaint,’ he said.
‘Ah, no, no –’
‘That’s easily curable with an ointment. Only the root of the trouble is mental. Have you much on your mind?’
The soldier said he hadn’t a worry in the world. He was free and easy, he said. He slept like a top. He continued to speak about the ease with which he sl
ept and then, abruptly changing the subject, he referred again to horse-racing. Ignoring the reference, Morrissey said:
‘Did you wonder what it meant when it said Saturn was in your house of earnings and income? Did you understand that?’
‘Ah, no, no –’
‘It means there’ll be opportunities this month for gain.’
‘Money?’
‘For an individual born on February the twenty-third there’ll be good opportunities,’ said Morrissey, ‘through mines, metals, steel, elderly persons, publishing, advertising, law, dentistry and established firms. What d’you think of that?’
The soldier said you wouldn’t know what to think.
‘I have studied the whole thing,’ explained Morrissey. ‘The writings of John Pendragon, Old Moore, whatever you like. I could teach you the subject inside out. I could give you an aptitude analysis. I could teach you to read the Tarot.’
‘The Tarot?’
‘The subject’s a hobby I have, to tell you the truth, like another person might make a hobby out of another subject. There’s people going about that don’t use their minds at all. Would you agree with that?’
The soldier moved his head back and forth, indicating either a negative or an affirmative reply. Morrissey said:
‘Would you care for me to teach you? The Tarot?’
‘Ah, no, no –’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not interested in that thing, mister. They’d have a bit of a laugh up at the barracks –’
‘The undereducated would laugh, definitely they would.’
Morrissey picked up their glasses and went to the bar with them, thinking to himself that he didn’t know why he bothered with soldiers who weren’t equipped to hold a conversation except about sporting events. The soldier could drink the beer all right, there was no question about that. He could lap up beer he didn’t pay for and all he could think to say was they’d have a laugh up at the barracks. It was an extraordinary crowd of men who were defending the country these days. He returned to the soldier and found that he had taken a small mirror from his tunic and was examining his face in it, putting pressure on one or two of the pimples.
‘I’d leave them alone,’ said Morrissey. ‘You’ll heal nothing that way.’
The soldier returned the mirror to his pocket. He took the glass from Morrissey and drank from it. Morrissey said:
‘Are your parents alive?’
‘Ah, they are of course –’
‘I’m parentless myself. I was brought up in an institution.’
‘Is that a fact?’
‘I was given no advantages. There was a time when I used steal little things out of Woolworth’s. I used go down to Henry Street and take the stuff off the counters.’
‘I never did that.’
‘I had a hard life.’
‘It wasn’t easy for me, mister.’
‘If you have a hard life you have to use your mind the entire time. You have to outwit everyone. If you’re a parentless person you’re on your own from the first.’
‘It’s unfortunate to be like that.’
‘Is there anyone gives a damn?’
‘It’s bad, certainly.’
‘Listen to me. There is no crime that doesn’t come into your head to tempt you. If there’s a crime committed they look round for a victim like myself who never lifted a finger.’
‘I thought you went into Woolworth’s –’
‘Is there a child living that didn’t take things out of Woolworth’s?’ demanded Morrissey loudly. ‘Isn’t it their own damn fault for spreading the goods out to tempt you?’
The soldier said he’d have to be going, but in his anger Morrissey didn’t appear to hear him.
‘I took forty packets of seeds,’ he said, ‘on a Saturday morning. I threw them into the river.’
‘Cheerio then.’
‘Where’re you going?’
‘I have to be back at the barracks.’
‘Wait a minute now, I have something to show you.’
When he put his hand in his pocket the soldier said immediately that he wasn’t interested in photographs of women. ‘It’s not a woman at all,’ explained Morrissey, holding out the spider that he had acquired for Mrs Sinnott’s birthday present. ‘Isn’t that a great thing?’ he said.
‘A spider,’ said the soldier.
‘It’s for the birthday of an old female. Mrs Sinnott over in Thaddeus Street. Ninety-two tomorrow.’
‘Is that a fact?’
‘She’s a deaf and dumb woman: you go in to see her and you have to write everything down. Isn’t it a great spider?’
‘Ah, it is.’
‘That’s a jewel in the middle, and gold legs. That spider’s worth a fair bit. It’s written on there.’
The soldier nodded.
‘You do what you can,’ Morrissey continued, ‘to cheer up the elderly. Mrs Sinnott takes an interest in my own subject. I write prophecies down for her and she pays me a little fee. D’you think she’ll like the spider?’
‘Ah, she will of course.’
‘There’s a terrible old scut called O’Shea who’s a total damn nuisance to her. O’Shea buys her a holy thing every year that she has no use for whatsoever. D’you know what I mean?’
‘I’ll be seeing you, mister –’
‘O’Shea’s a long string of misery in a porter’s uniform. Maybe you saw him around? With a fat old greyhound?’
‘No, no –’
‘He’s not fit to be tinned. D’you like the little spider?’
‘It’s nice certainly.’
Morrissey returned the spider to his pocket, and the soldier again said that he’d have to be going.
‘Listen,’ said Morrissey quickly. ‘Do you play cards at all?’
‘Ah, I don’t –’
‘I don’t myself. No cards of any kind was allowed in the institution. I often think I’d like to go to a whist drive if I could play the game. Or Twenty-One. There’s a female I know, a woman I do a bit of business with called Mrs Kite. She plays a lot of Twenty-One. A very deceitful woman, as a matter of fact.’
‘Is that so?’ said the soldier, rising to his feet.
‘I was thinking,’ said Morrissey, rising also, ‘that maybe if we palled up you could teach me the rules of some card games. Do you mind me saying that to you?’
‘I don’t know any rules –’
‘Will we have one more drink? It won’t take us a minute.’
‘Cherrio now, mister.’
Morrissey put his hand on the sleeve of the soldier’s uniform and when the soldier tried to ease himself away he found that the hand was not released. The hand held the green material of the tunic while Morrissey talked in a rapid voice, saying he had a rough way of putting things because of the circumstances of his upbringing. He asked the soldier if he knew what he meant. He said he was sorry to have offended him, he repeated that two more drinks wouldn’t take up more than a minute of their time.
‘You didn’t ever offend me, mister.’
‘Did you mind me saying that about your face?’
‘Excuse me, mister.’
Morrissey did not remove his hand. Once again a person was going to turn his back on him. He would ask the soldier if he intended to return some time to this bar and the soldier would say he’d be back the following day, telling a lie in order to get away. He had pretended an interest in what Morrissey was saying in order to get drinks out of him, which he had succeeded in doing.
‘Will you be here again?’ Morrissey asked.
‘I’ll be in tomorrow, mister.’
‘That’s a bloody lie –’
‘Excuse me.’
Still gripping the sleeve of his uniform, Morrissey looked up at the soldier’s face. He stared into his eyes. ‘You cadged drinks off me,’ he said, ‘and now you’re telling me lies.’
‘Leave go my clothes, mister.’
‘I told you personal things. I told you things in confidence
–’
‘You told me a lot of damn rubbish. I can’t be wasting my time listening to that stuff.’
‘You listened when the drinks were there. You said you were interested.’
‘I did not ever –’
‘You displayed an interest.’
‘I did not display an interest in any words you said. I couldn’t understand you talking about things in my houses and going on about my face. My face is my own business.’
‘You’re a bloody liar. You’re a bloody disgrace to the army.’
‘Go back to your institution, mister. Go and tell someone else about metals and dentistry. Let go my clothes.’
‘Will we have another drink?’
‘I will not have a drink with you,’ shouted the soldier. ‘If you were the last object on the face of the earth I wouldn’t take a drink with you. This man tried to sell me women,’ he shouted in a louder voice, attracting the attention of the drinkers at the bar. ‘This man is selling his wife.’
Mrs Eckdorf in O'Neill's Hotel Page 12