The Street and other stories

by Gerry Adams

  They almost stayed a few times. Once, especially, when his father had died and they had stayed on a few days longer at the home place to sort things out, he had become wrapped in nostalgia. Memories of childhood flooded back, recollections of his father and the family long locked away were prised loose by his surroundings and by the neighbours’ talk, and he had resolved, or almost resolved, that they should stay, modernise the old house, and fulfil their wedding-night resolution. It was not to be. Their own children, Deirdre, Sinead and Michael, were at school by then, he was in steady work and Bridie was taking in lodgers in the large house they were buying in Islington. When they had talked it over he had had to concede that they had too many commitments. Once, they promised each other again, once they had the house paid off and could sell it at a tidy profit they’d be back. He had even asked his older brother, Brendan, to look out for a half acre somewhere convenient to town, near to the school and shops.

  That was twenty years ago. Brendan was long since dead, God rest him, and poor Bridie, too. He had buried her only last year.

  He didn’t bring her home but buried her in their local cemetery at St Paul’s with Sinead, their oldest girl who had been killed in a road accident coming across the city after a late dance. The shock of that had almost destroyed them both. She had been only seventeen; a lovely, laughing daredevil, full of life. In the turmoil of her death they had never considered bringing her back to Ireland. Instead they bought a plot in St Paul’s. When Bridie fell ill and they both knew she was dying, she had asked him to bury her with Sinead. And that’s what’s keeping me here, he reflected sadly as he slipped off to sleep. Agrave in an English churchyard and forty years of memories.

  On Thursday night after they had watched the video of the Cork–Tipperary match, he nursed his pint at his usual place at the bar.

  “Are you not yourself?” Tom asked him. “Did you not enjoy the match?”

  “I don’t know what ails me. It was a grand match. Indeed,” he smiled, “it was so good it has made me homesick. I suppose that’s what’s wrong with me,” he continued, brightening up at the thought. “I need to go home, Tom, that’s what I need to do.”

  “It’s not a good time for a holiday,” Tom reminded him. “February isn’t actually the best time of the year for gallivanting around the west of Ireland.”

  “I’m not talking about a holiday, Tom. I’m talking of going back for good, man dear!”

  The Mayo inflections grew with his excitement. “I haven’t been back in ten years.”

  “And where would you stay?” Tom asked.

  “With Michael, of course!”

  “Well, it’s none of my business,” Tom cautioned, “but I don’t think you should rush into anything. Michael’s not long back home. He’s still got his hands full, I’m sure, with his new business. And you’re not exactly a gossoon. You’re settled here. Haven’t you a nice flat and doesn’t Deirdre come once a week to visit? And,” he smiled, “haven’t you got me? You’ll never get a pint of bitter like this in Newport or Westport or wherever the hell’s gates you come from. Fact is, you’ll never even get any sort of bitter,” he concluded, setting up another pint. “That’s on the house.”

  “It is?” Eamonn laughed. “Well then, I think I’ll buy myself a wee Powers. That’s one thing about the English, they stick to what they’re good at. Which is why they left us to make the whiskey. Here’s sláinte, Tom,” he raised his glass. “To you and to home.”

  The next day was Deirdre’s regular day to visit him. She changed his bedclothes and fussed around doing her weekly chores as he told her of his plans. Deirdre had never shared her father’s or her brother Michael’s enthusiasm for Mayo. She liked it well enough for a fortnight every few years. At times she would speak proudly of her roots, but she was a Londoner in every other sense and she had four little children. He couldn’t blame her: this was her home. And for all these reasons, she cautioned him, as Tom had done, against any hasty decision.

  “Daddy, if you want a change I don’t see why you won’t come and live with us. You know we’ve always wanted you to—Alan asked you himself. Now, didn’t he?” She squared up to him the way her mother often had. It made him smile to see Bridie in her.

  “Daddy, you’re not even taking me serious. You must be doting to think at your time of life that you can start off afresh again in Ireland. It’s not the way it was when you left. Where do you think all your friends are? Where would you stay?”

  “I’d stay in Michael’s, of course,” he replied, emphasising the “of course” so that she could see the absurdity of her question.

  She was not impressed.

  “Michael’s,” she pouted. “Daddy, it’s bad enough Michael’s away off chasing dreams without you joining him. One fool is enough for any family. Typical men.” She softened towards him. “If you went back to live in Ireland when would I see you? I suppose you think I could fly back and forth every week.” She laughed. He didn’t answer.

  “Look, why don’t you put off visiting till Patrick’s Day,” she suggested, “and go over then for a short break, and if you still feel the same way, well then fair enough, we’ll see about it.”

  He bristled at her tone.

  “I’m not a child, Deirdre, you know!”

  “I know that, daddy,” she countered, “but ever since Mammy died you’re behaving like one.”

  The expression on his face told her she had gone too far. She embraced him.

  “Oh, Daddy. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. If you want to go home…”

  He noted with satisfaction that she’d said “home”.

  “If you want to go, well that’s a matter for you. Only don’t fall out with me over it. Go for a look first before you finally make up your mind? Please?”

  He relented.

  “It’s the bad oul’ Galway blood in you!” he gently scolded her. “That’s what gives you the sharp tongue. But I’ll do what you ask. For the sake of peace and quiet.”

  Michael was delighted to see him. He and the children met him at the new airport at Knock and brought him back to a huge and happy feed which Kate had prepared in his honour in the dining room of their new bungalow. They moved the baby out of the back bedroom and put a bed in there for him. Michael took time off work during his first week to drive him around his old haunts. Many had vanished or were vanishing as nature reclaimed derelict cottages and once busy farmyards. He was pleased that the smithy was still recognisable. A Dutch couple were living in the old schoolhouse. They showed him around it and afterwards over coffee they encouraged him to talk of his schooldays. Many of his boyhood friends were dead, more were in England or the USA, he reflected sadly. Those who remained lived miles apart. He’d forgotten how scattered the townland was and how cruel a month March could be.

  After the first week Michael was busy again at work, and when it rained Eamonn was confined to the house with Kate and the baby. On the Tuesday of his third week it dawned on him, to his surprise, that all his conversation that morning with her had been about London. The lack of a morning newspaper delivery and the distance to the shop had triggered off his talk.

  That evening he told Michael he was going back.

  “But I thought you were here for four weeks.”

  “And so I am, son. But I’m just letting you know I’m going back.”

  “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.”

  “I know, son, and if God spares me, I’ll be back whenever I get the chance.” He rose from his chair and looked out at the spring evening. A gentle quietness was settling over the mountains. He looked over at Michael with a contented smile.

  “Now, seeing as we’ve that all sorted out, do you think you could spare the time to go down for a pint or two with your oul’ fella?”

  The rest of his stay was like that. He would spend the day, or most of the day, in the house or, if the weather was fine, he would take a short walk to the school to pick up his grandchildren. In the evening, he
and Michael would spend an hour in McAuley’s Select Lounge and Public Bar.

  One night, as he drifted off to sleep, he smiled to himself as he heard Kate gently chiding Michael over his nightly excursions to the pub. The next day he discreetly arranged for a local girl to babysit and insisted on standing Kate and Michael an evening meal in Westport.

  All of this he recounted in lavish detail to Tom on his return to London.

  “And what about your plans to return home for good?” Tom asked him mischievously.

  “Oh, I’ll do that yet,” he replied. “It’s just a matter of getting Deirdre and Michael used to the idea. You know something, Tom…” He paused to consider the irony of it all. “I only have one son, and when he was growing up I thought of how we’d be able to spend a bit of time together when he was older. Now he’s back in Ireland far from where he was reared and I’m here in London, far from where I was reared. Isn’t that a strange state of affairs?”

  He paused again. Tom waited for him to continue.

  “Some of the younger ones call our Michael’s the English family. The older ones,” he finished proudly, “the older ones call him Eamonn Hoban’s son.”

  “It’s good that there’s Hobans back there again,” Tom remarked.

  “Aye, that’s what I was thinking myself. You never know what’s before you, that’s what Bridie used always say.” He paused. “But at least some of us made it back.

  “Now, when I go back for keeps,” he dipped his face into his pint so that Tom couldn’t tell if he was serious or not, “when I go back I’d need a place of me own. Mind you, our Michael’s is great, but there’s nothing like your own place. I’ve got used to my bit of independence. When I get that sorted out then you could come and spend the weekend of the Munster Final with me, couldn’t you? Páirc Uí Chaoimh or Thurles.” He looked at Tom over his glass. “That’s if Cork ever make it that far again.”

  “Oh they will, Eamonn. They will, but I doubt you and I will watch it here on the video.” He smiled.

  Eamonn was taken aback. “Ah now, man dear, don’t be so sure of that. But give’s another pint and pull one for yourself. The next one I buy you will be in McAuley’s. Only it’ll be Guinness instead of this oul’ bitter, and Guinness like it should be, not the way they serve it here. Then you’ll know what a real pint is. Okay, Tom?”

  “Whatever you say, Eamonn. Whatever you say.”

  Tom set the two pints on the counter and Eamonn and he raised their glasses to one another.

  “Here’s to the Munster Final,” he smiled.

  “To us and the Munster Final,” Eamonn corrected him.

  “To us,” Tom agreed, “and the Munster Final.”

  Of Mice and Men

  It was Hugh Deeney who suggested that the mouse should have a fair trial. Hugh was like that, cautious and judicial and fair-minded about most things. Except women, maybe, but that’s another story.

  The mouse in question had dropped in on Hugh one morning while he was eating his breakfast porridge. And when I say dropped in, I mean that quite literally: it fell from the timbers which constituted a ceiling-cum-roof in the political prisoners’ quarters. With a dull, wet plop it dropped into Hugh’s porridge bowl. The porridge probably saved its life. Luckily it wasn’t hot, but prison porridge is never hot. Hugh was nearly as shocked as the mouse and, in a reflex action I suppose, he cupped his hands over the bowl. The mouse, half drowned, concussed and winded, was captured. Then Hugh gave the mouse—and us—a second shock. As the mouse pulled itself together and peered upwards, Hugh opened his fingers a crack and peered down. Their eyes met. The mouse may have screamed, no one knows; but if it did its cry was drowned by Hugh’s long shrill wail of a shriek.

  “There’s a mouse in my porridge,” he squealed. “It fell from wahhhhhh…”

  The rest of his utterance was lost in an almost hysterical keen.

  Hugh’s comrades responded to his trouble in their usual supportive, stoical way.

  “Ah, meat at last,” someone smirked.

  “Everybody’ll want one now,” the hut OC complained.

  “I hate mieces to pieces,” snarled Cleaky.

  “It’s alive,” Hugh finally stammered, his hands still clasped over the bowl.

  “Kill the bastard,” snarled his bosom buddy, Gerry Skelly.

  “Kill the bastard,” ordered the hut OC.

  “Kill him,” rose the chorus.

  Hugh had by now regained his composure.

  “Hold on, hold on,” he pleaded. “This mouse deserves a fair trial.”

  “Kill him!” shouted Joe Ryan, advancing towards Hugh and his porridge bowl captive.

  “I captured him,” Hugh announced defiantly.

  “Captured him!” Joe scoffed. “You’re lucky it wasn’t a fair fight: that mouse would have ate and shit you. Captured him! The poor mouse surrendered.”

  He moved towards Hugh again.

  “Stay back, Joe, I’m warning you. Stay back! Back off!” Hugh commanded the mob. “If you don’t back off I’ll let him go. He deserves a fair crack of the whip.”

  “Stop!” the hut OC yelled. “Okay,” he smiled crookedly at Hugh, “your mouse’ll have his day in court. There will be a staff meeting at twelve to appoint the court. You can nominate the defence and the court will commence proceedings in the half-hut after visits this afternoon. Okay?”

  “Maith go leor,”* Hugh agreed.

  By the time the court assembled at five o’clock, the half-hut was packed tight with spectators. Indeed, the hut OC had to call for ciúnas‡ three times before the hubbub of noise receded. Then he informed the assembled mass that an incident had occurred that morning during which a mouse had been captured alive. It was, he went on, as everyone knew, camp policy to kill all mice on account of the damage they did and the risk to health they constituted. Heretofore the mice had neither given nor had they expected any quarter. Despite this, the comrade who captured the mouse had refused to kill the offending creature. Here the OC paused and looked at Hugh for a long, sneer-filled second or two.

  “So,” he continued patiently, “I consulted with the proper authorities regarding procedure, the rights of defendants and so on and so forth, and in my capacity as convener I have appointed a three-person tribunal and a prosecutor. Hugh Deeney has nominated himself to act in defence of the mouse.”

  Hugh permitted himself a curt little nod towards the body of the court. The OC ignored him and continued his speech.

  “Now, I have only a few little formalities to oversee and I will turn the court over to the presiding officer. I would ask the presiding officer, Mr Gerry Skelly, to take his seat along with the other members of the tribunal, Mr Moby McAteer and wee Jimmy Drain. I would also ask Mr Clarke, the prosecutor, to take his seat, and as for Mr Deeney and the mouse, I would ask that they present themselves before the court.”

  Two tables had been set end to end for the tribunal of judges. At right angles to them and facing each other, two single tables were set up for the prosecutor and defence. When all concerned were seated in their appointed places, the OC faced the court again.

  “I have to establish first whether the defendant has agreed to his defence counsel.” Here a snigger rippled through the courtroom. “And then I have to ask you all to pledge yourselves to conduct these proceedings in a fair and just manner. This court will be a military tribunal, as befits the status of the captured enemy. Its verdict will be guilty or death—I mean, not guilty or death,” he hurriedly corrected himself. “There will be no appeal.”

  “Now,” he addressed Hugh. “Has the defendant agreed that you should act on his behalf?”

  “In so far as I can establish, yes,” Hugh confirmed. “And anyway,” he stammered earnestly, “you do have the right to appoint the defence, and I would request that you do so by ratifying my appointment.” He bowed graciously.

  Some of the rowdier elements in the court applauded and the OC permitted himself a good-humoured grin.

  “F
air enough,” he said. “Now I want you all to rise.”

  “A point of order, please,” Hugh interrupted. “The defence has the right to object to members of the tribunal?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so.”

  “Well,” Hugh hurried on, making the most of his advantage, “I want to object to the presiding officer, and I ask for an adjournment till tomorrow so that I can present my case.”

  “Are you serious?” The OC was flabbergasted.

  “Yes, my client’s life is at stake.”

  “For fuck sake!”

  Hugh was unabashed. “I’ve made my point,” he said.

  “Why don’t you refuse to recognise the court?” a voice from the back called out.

  “Order!” commanded the OC.

  “Is my request granted?” Hugh persisted politely.

  “Well, I suppose so,” came the grudging reply. “Till the marra then, same time. The court will now rise.”

  And so, with a great clatter of noise, of seats scraping backwards on the floor, of voices raised and doors slamming, the court adjourned.

  * * *

  “Therefore the purpose of this court cannot be fulfilled unless each of the judges is unbiased and without prejudice and is seen to be so.”

  As Hugh concluded his opening remarks the court was hanging on his every word. His submission had been masterful, unusually brief and understated.

  “I think it goes without saying that all of us are in total agreement on that point,” the OC snapped testily at him.

  Hugh looked at him benignly.

  “Mr Convener, have I permission to question the panel?”

  The OC nodded.

  “Thank you.”

  “M’lud,” a voice from the back added.

  Hugh faced Gerry Skelly.

  “Mr Skelly, did you, on the morning that my client was captured, did you incite others to murder him?”

  “Objection!” the prosecutor intervened.

  “Yes?” said the OC.

  “I object to the words incite and murder. Also, if I may say so, the court has not established the sex of the mouse.”