This Man's Wee Boy

by Doherty, Tony;

  Looking up, I could see it was all but dark outside. The marlie game was still going on in the streetlight. Kathleen was now in the sitting room on her knees cleaning out the ashes from the grate. I knew. I knew. But I didn’t know. No one except Gutsy had told me and he was the same age as me. He didn’t count. I rubbed the feeling in my gut with my hand to see if it would go away. It didn’t. I just sat on the stairs and hoped that what I thought I knew wasn’t true.

  After a short while my granda Connor came through the front door in his long, dark-grey overcoat buttoned to the neck. I hadn’t seen him since he’d taken me down the town after my birthday and bought me a brand new pair of Gola football boots. They were black with golden stripes on the sides. He wanted me to be a footballer and play for Ireland. So did I. After we’d got the boots in McLaughlin’s shoe shop we’d gone to Tracey’s Bar in William Street, where he drank pints and pints of stout. I got crisps and Coke. His friends all wanted to see my new football boots and gave me money.

  ‘Hello, son,’ he said as he approached me on the stairs.

  I stood up to see if there was anyone following him in through the door. There wasn’t.

  ‘Hello, Granda.’

  Granda Connor went slowly past me into the sitting room where Kathleen was and closed the door behind him. I could hear them whispering but couldn’t make out what they were saying. After a few minutes he came out and, without looking at me, stood at the front door looking up and down the street. His tall bulk blocked the sight and lessened the sound from the street. His slicked-back, jet-black hair shone under the bare light in the hall.

  Our Paul called to him from the street. ‘Hi, Granda, we’re playing boodlies. Our Tony got knocked out!’

  Granda Connor said, ‘Ach, sure there you go. Sure Tony’s goney be a footballer when he grows up. Isn’t that right, Tony?’ he asked, half turning around to me.

  ‘Aye, Granda,’ I said from the stairs.

  Granda Connor stood on in the frame of the front door. A man with grey hair and a red nose approached him, spoke in whispers, came into the house past me and went into the sitting room, closing the door behind him.

  Our Karen arrived at the front door in an agitated rush. ‘Granda, Granda, a wee girl up the street told me that me daddy’s dead – that he’s been shot!’

  ‘It’s all right, Karen. It’s all right,’ said me granda. He had his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘G’won you, tell her it’s not true, Granda. There she is there – look!’ She pointed up towards Melaugh’s shop.

  ‘You mind your own business!’ me granda called up the street to the wee girl. ‘I’ll put me toe up your arse if you come down here.’

  ‘But it’s not true, Granda! Isn’t it not?’ cried Karen.

  Granda Connor pulled Karen into him and held her without saying anything else. Karen was crying into his overcoat. He hasn’t told her it was true, I thought, still hanging on. He hasn’t told her it’s true. I knew. I knew. But I didn’t know. No one, other than Gutsy, had said it.

  Then Karen ran into the house and up the stairs past me. Her face was streaked with tears. I could feel the cold from her clothes as she passed. She ran into me ma and da’s bedroom and banged the door closed. Sure me granda didn’t tell her it was true. I looked at him, still filling the front door. I hadn’t the nerve to ask him anything in case he told me what I didn’t want to hear. I sat with my head down and looked at the carpet. I was hanging on to the only hope I had.

  A woman with blonde hair came into the house past me granda. She looked at me sitting on the stairs, smiled and went through the sitting room into the kitchen. She left the door open. They were whispering in the kitchen, the three of them. The fire was lit in the sitting room by this time. Then a small woman with dark hair came into the house and went into the sitting room. The ones in the kitchen joined her and they all just sat there. Karen came back down the stairs and went through the sitting room into the kitchen. No one spoke to her and she came back out after a short while. A few people had gathered around the front door to talk to me granda.

  Our Patrick came in from the street. ‘What are you doing sitting there?’ he asked me.

  I just shrugged. To explain the real reason would be to acknowledge that there could be something badly wrong; it would increase the chances of it being true. I just looked down at the stair carpet. Patrick stood at the door to the sitting room and asked Karen what was going on. I didn’t hear her answer; I don’t think she said anything. The people in the sitting room said nothing. They avoided our eyes and looked at one another.

  A car pulled up just past the front door. It could have been a taxi. Granda Connor moved away from the front door towards it; then a crowd of people appeared to gather all at once in the space he left. Me ma was in the lead, and Granda Connor had Paul by the hand. I stood up on the stairs as people filed into the hall behind them, searching their faces for me da’s. My eyes darted from person to person but he wasn’t there. It was only aunts, uncles and neighbours. Me ma passed me without looking at me and stopped at the sitting room door. The house was completely silent.

  ‘Your daddy’s dead. He was shot by the army,’ she said.

  I dropped back down on the stairs and put my head in my hands. I started to cry and I sat there rubbing my eyes.

  ‘The bastards! The bastards! The fuckin’ bastards,’ screamed our Patrick from the sitting room.

  ‘There now, Patrick. There now,’ said me ma, pulling him close to her. She sat on the sofa and Patrick was on her lap. He was crying hard into her chest.

  ‘I want our Paddy back! I want our Paddy back!’ screamed Aunt Siobhán.

  ‘You can’t have him back! For God’s sake woman, he’s dead!’ me granda shouted at her.

  ‘Jesus, Connor, let her say what she wants,’ said the man with the red nose in a half whisper. ‘She’s in shock.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Siobhán,’ said me granda and he started crying into his large hands. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ He wiped his eyes and nose with a white handkerchief. Karen was clinging on to him and crying into his overcoat.

  The hall was bunged with people, mostly aunts, uncles and neighbours, and no one could get in or out.

  ‘C’mon over here, Tony,’ me ma called from the sofa.

  I got up and squeezed through to sit beside her. I put my head down on her lap. Patrick was still pressed into her chest, cursing away to himself.

  ‘Mammy, where’s me da now?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s over in the morgue. In Altnagelvin.’

  ‘Were you over? Did you see him?’

  ‘Aye, I did, Tony,’ she said with a heavy sigh.

  I could tell she didn’t want to say any more, so I didn’t ask any more questions. I just sat there and let her rub my head and shoulders with her hand. She didn’t cry like everyone else.

  ‘There’s thirteen dead,’ said a man’s voice. I looked up and saw it was the man with the red nose.

  Me da’s cousin, Paddy McCallion, came through the sitting-room door. He knelt down in front of me ma in his well-worn, shiny brown suit, his long black hair sticking out all over the place as if he’d been in a fight.

  ‘Jesus, Eileen, they’ve killed our Paddy. They’ve killed our Paddy.’ He had her hand in both of his.

  Everyone in the sitting room was watching.

  ‘I know, Paddy. He’s gone for ever,’ said me ma.

  ‘Jesus, Eileen, what are we goney do? They’re saying there’s thirteen dead. Thirteen! Jesus!’ Paddy sounded almost hysterical.

  ‘I don’t know, Paddy. I just don’t know,’ me ma said with a long sigh.

  ‘They’ll have to pay for this. The bastards!’ he said, and with that he got up and rushed out of the room into the hall.

  Me ma nodded to someone to follow him out. ‘Make sure he doesn’t do anything. There’s murder round at the Mex,’ she said.

  ‘Ma, how are we goney live without me da?’ I asked. ‘We’re not goney have any money t
o live.’

  Me ma laughed and said, ‘Ach, Tony, don’t you be thinking like that. It’ll be all right. Don’t worry. Did you hear him, Daddy?’

  ‘The bastards! The bastards! The fuckin bastards!’ It was our Patrick again, screaming.

  He’s a wild curser, I thought, as me ma held me on the sofa. He’s too young to be cursing like that.

  * * *

  The long, black hearse pulled up in front of the house. We were all gathered at our door and there was a large crowd in the street. Chesty Crossan was standing outside his cottage across from us, his eyes red from crying. I’d never seen Chesty cry before. Eff-a-dee and his da were standing beside him. Eff-a-dee had his hand up to his mouth and was grinning at people.

  Me da’s coffin was carried into the house and into the front room. Me ma brought us all into the room, just her and the six wains. Everyone else stayed outside. The smoked glass door was closed. Someone had taken the tin screen off the front window and daylight came through the orange curtains, giving the room an unnaturally warm glow. We gathered around the coffin. The lid had been taken off and we could see me da’s face with his eyes closed. His black moustache stood out from his white, waxy face. He had a small round hole right between the eyes. I was standing right beside his head.

  ‘Is that where me daddy was shot?’ I asked me ma, almost in a whisper. She was standing with Glenn in her arms at me da’s feet.

  ‘Naw. That must be just a cut when he fell. He was shot in the back – they shot him in the back.’

  ‘Is me daddy up in heaven already?’ asked Colleen. She was nearly three.

  We laughed.

  ‘Aye, I’m sure he is,’ me ma said, smiling back at her. ‘Do yous want to touch him?’ she asked.

  We took turns at touching his hands. They were icy cold. His fingers were entwined with a set of black Rosary beads. The smoky, bronze stains had gone from the fingers of his right hand, as had the black dirt under his fingernails. His hands had been scrubbed clean.

  I’m going to miss your smoky, brown fingers, I said in my head to me da. And your Park Drive.

  There were long periods of silence while we stood and looked at me da, and looked at me ma, and looked at one another. Karen was crying into her hands and hugged me ma and Glenn. Patrick cried too, and me and Paul stood near me da’s face and touched his jet-black hair.

  * * *

  During the wake period I was sent to Melaugh’s shop for messages. I had a list of things to get with a fiver inside the note: sixty Embassy Red, forty Park Drive, a loaf, sliced ham and sliced cheese. I walked up the street on my own and went in the shop door. Paddy Melaugh was standing behind the till; his wife came in through the door connecting the shop to their house. As I walked up to the counter Paddy half-turned to his wife and said something that I didn’t hear. Mrs Melaugh looked at me across the counter, looked back at Paddy and nodded her head.

  ‘You all right, son?’ asked Paddy.

  Mrs Melaugh didn’t say anything. She just looked on.

  ‘Gimme sixty Embassy Red, forty Park Drive, a loaf, eight slices of ham and eight thin slices of cheese,’ I said, adding, ‘Here’s the note.’ I slid the note across the faded pale-blue counter towards him. I couldn’t help but notice the bags of marlies lined up in rows on the counter along with loaves of Hunter’s bread, boxes of Dainties, Chocolate Logs, Whoppers and jars of lollipops and coloured sweets. Paddy lifted the note and studied it. Mrs Melaugh stayed in the doorway and smiled at me when I looked at her.

  ‘Right. Sixty Embassy Red.’ He lifted three twenty-packs from the shelf behind him and placed them on the counter in front of me. Then he lifted two boxes of Park Drive and placed them beside the Embassy Reds.

  ‘Ham and cheese. Eight each,’ he said, reading aloud from the note. ‘Your daddy likes the hard chee–’ He stopped himself too late but carried on as if nothing had happened, loading a large, rectangular block of cheese onto the cutting machine. He pressed a button on its side and it began to whirr. He then counted the slices of cheese as they fell onto the paper below: ‘One … two … three … four … five … six … seven … and eight. That’s the cheese.’ He turned the cutter off, wrapped the cheese up and placed it beside the fag boxes.

  ‘Now the ham,’ he said, more to himself than to anyone else. He lifted the block of cheese away and replaced it with a mound of crumbed ham in an orange net, which he pulled back with his fingers at one end. He adjusted something on the cutter and switched it back on with a whirr.

  ‘One … two … three … four … five … six … seven … and eight. That’s the ham,’ he said and turned the cutter off. While it slowly came to a stop, he wrapped the ham and placed it beside the rest of the messages. ‘And here’s your loaf!’ he said, lifting the bread from the pile on the counter. ‘You’ll need a wee bag.’

  ‘Naw, Paddy, it’s okay. I’ll just carry them home,’ I said.

  ‘Ach naw, son – a wee bag sure.’ He reached below the counter and brought out a used brown paper bag. He put each item in the bag before folding it at the top.

  ‘There you go, son,’ said Paddy, sliding the bag over to me. ‘And take this here as well.’ He wrapped the fiver back up in the note and slid it towards me.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Melaugh,’ I said. ‘Churrio, Mrs Melaugh.’

  ‘Churrio, son,’ she called back from the doorway.

  I turned to leave and Paddy called out: ‘Hi, wee Doherty! C’mere over before you go.’ I looked round. Paddy was beckoning me over with his hand.

  I walked back to the counter. Mrs Melaugh was standing beside Paddy behind the counter. Both of them had tears running down their faces; Paddy had taken his thick glasses off to wipe his eyes.

  Mrs Melaugh lifted three bags of marbles from the counter and said, ‘Here, open your bag, son.’ She put the marbles in on top of the other messages. ‘These are for you and your two brothers.’

  ‘Thanks, Paddy. Thanks, Mrs Melaugh,’ I said, and turned to leave again.

  ‘God bless you, son,’ I heard her say as the shop door closed behind me.

  As I walked down Hamilton Street on that cold, bright afternoon there was a long line of people outside our house. Two bags for me and one for Paul, I thought to myself. Our Patrick doesn’t play marlies. But the nearer I got to the house the more generous I became. I’ll give the other bag to Gutsy, or maybe Eff-a-dee, I thought, as I squeezed past the orderly queue of wake-goers lined up in our hallway.

  * * *

  It lashed with rain on the day of the funeral. It drummed on the black sea of umbrellas as we followed me ma and granda up the steps of Saint Mary’s Chapel in Creggan. Inside the chapel we walked up the aisle together as a family. As we were being ushered into a pew by a man wearing a white armband I caught sight of the long line of wooden coffins, laid out in a row, stretching the whole width of the altar. I wondered which one was me da’s. They all looked the same from where we sat. I watched other families coming up the aisle and being seated in front and behind us. Everyone was soaking wet and the sound of crying echoed around the chapel. The place hummed with sadness, disbelief, pity, shock, all at once. Me ma and me granda looked lost, and me granda’s eyes were red.

  The Mass began. I heard nothing but the rain bucketing down outside. I felt nothing but cold and wet inside. When the Mass was over we were ushered back down the aisle and outside the chapel. The rain was still pouring out of the heavens. We followed the hearse as it moved slowly towards the cemetery below. Everyone was wearing black and when you looked up all you could see was the undersides of black umbrellas with the odd bit of grey sky in between. There were people on both sides of the road looking at us as we passed with our heads bowed.

  When we reached the cemetery the procession slowed down even more as it was packed with people. We eventually found our way to the graveside where me da’s coffin was placed beside the newly dug grave. The rain pelted off it, and the grassy verges had turned to muck and puddles. A row of freshly dug graves
lay to each side of me da’s. We all stood as near the graveside as we could get – me ma and granda, us brothers and sisters, me aunts and uncles and cousins. The black umbrellas were still up and the water dripped from them onto our heads and shoulders. Despite the lashing rain, you could still make out the sound of people crying; it ebbed and flowed in waves on the wind.

  ‘C’mon you away o’ that, son.’

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up to see a man wearing a white armband, and a sea of faces looking on behind him. I hesitated and was about to come away at his beckoning when me ma turned, white-faced with her black veil blowing up over her black hat, towards us from the graveside.

  ‘It’s okay, mister. That’s this man’s wee boy,’ she said, pulling me over to her side, where her thick black coat felt cold and damp.

  Glossary

  alroyt English regional pronunciation of ‘all

  right’ (possibly in a Midlands accent)

  BA British Army

  blatter move noisily, with a clatter

  bluttered severely drunk

  bob shilling

  boys-a-boys colloquial: ‘oh, dear me!’

  brock from the Irish broc meaning refuse or rubbish

  cacked messed or excreted

  can’t take your oil someone can’t accept when they are beaten

  dander walk or meander

  dear bye it (someone will) pay dearly for something (a threat)

  deef deaf

  dootsy staid

  fleadh (n.) Irish for celebration or feast, pronounced ‘fla’

  foundered freezing or frozen

  gis ‘give me’ something (‘give us’)

  houl hold

  hunkers haunches

  marlies (also boodlies) marbles

  mauser/mausey a huge thing/huge

  messages errands