Sober, he was one of the most charming men on the planet. However, when he was in the wrong mood he could win Olympic medals for drinking. “Another one for Ireland,” he’d say, raising a glass full of whisky to his lips. He’d drain it to the last drop like milk.
Sometimes when he was drunk he was very funny to watch—from a safe distance. After spending most of his money down at the local pub, he’d zigzag his way homewards. This was quite a feat if you knew how many glasses of Guinness, whiskey, port, and brandy he’d had. Once he reached our doorstep, he’d pause to catch his breath. Swaying slowly, he’d concentrate on inserting his key in the front door. We could hear him from all over the house.
“Bloody hell, what’s wrong with this lunatic key?” we’d hear him say loudly in frustration. The moment the key slid home, guilt usually hit him hard. How much money had he poured down his throat during the evening? How many rounds had he bought everyone? Was any of his paycheck left?
These questions were followed by the same amazing revelation at least three nights a week. He’d stand swaying at the door and raise his hands like Moses. “What this family needs is a bloody, bollocksy budget!” His voice would ring throughout the neighborhood like a prophet’s. “I know how to save bloody money! This family’s going to start learning how to turn all the bloody lights off!” He’d sway some more before shouting, “Do you hear me, family?”
Finally pushing the door open, he’d stagger inside and weave clumsily around the house in search of light switches. Major and Rex followed at a distance, watching him warily, upset by all his loud noise and manic energy. But Dad was oblivious to them.
He’d lean forward and flip off each switch like he was God switching off the world. If someone was in the room, he’d point at the culprit with a wavering finger. “What do you think this is?” he roared. “Shannon fucking Airport? There’s enough lights turned on to land a bloody plane on the roof. Turn that light off before you bankrupt me!”
By then me and my brothers and sisters were smothering nervous giggles in our hands. We all knew when to keep our traps shut.
If Mammy was reading in bed, she’d just roll her eyes and switch her light back on once he’d left the room.
Job done, Dad would zigzag downstairs until he fell backwards like a collapsing mountain into his favorite armchair. There he’d drift into a deep drinker’s sleep, head nodding down lower and lower, until it ended up on his chest like an exhausted baby’s.
Show over for the night, all us kids would run quietly back to bed and one by one fall asleep. Except for me, that is. Upstairs in the bed I shared with my brothers, I lay very still, waiting for everyone else to fall asleep. My ten fingers would be twitching in anticipation, waiting impatiently for my father to start snoring.
Pesky fingers, they were, all of them natural-born thieves. They knew exactly where a treasure trove of coins was imprisoned—coins that were desperate to be liberated by me. Their place of incarceration was inside my father’s trouser pockets. The ones he was wearing.
As soon as Dad’s snores began to roll thunderously through the house, my fingers poked and pushed at me until I carefully slunk out of bed and crept down the stairs. They negotiated me around the two stairs that creaked and along the hall towards the living room. They totally ignored my heart which was thudding inside me like a trapped wild thing.
Think of all those lovely coins, they crooned.
In fact, my fingers didn’t stop prodding me until I was standing right on the threshold of the living room. Terrified, I peered in. Dad was only illuminated by the hall light, but I could still see enough to give me second thoughts.
The size of him was terrifying, from the length of his legs, to his sledge-hammer fists hanging over the arms of his chair. While I was scrawny like a piece of skinned string, my father was six-foot-five in his bare feet and tightly packed with muscle from head to toe.
I swallowed nervously as my eyes travelled up the length of him to study that big head lolling around on his chest. At this point common sense usually kicked in. My brain would frantically urge my feet, Turn around! Walk away now! Danger! Danger!
Unfortunately, my fingers refused to listen. I stared fearfully at my father’s face as each of my silent, careful footsteps brought me closer to his nearest trouser pocket. I was so terrified my heart climbed into my mouth. My ears stretched out even further on invisible stalks to catch any unusual sounds between each volcanic snore. My eyes stayed glued to his face, watching for the slightest clue he was about to wake up. I felt like a spring being wound tighter and tighter as I crept closer and closer.
What scared me most about my father was his nose. It was surely the ugliest, most broken nose in the world, so dented in the center that it looked like he’d been kicked right in the middle of his face. When I first read the fairy tale of Jack and the Beans talk, the drawing of the scary giant asleep in his chair reminded me of my dad.
However, even this fear couldn’t turn back my delinquent fingers. They itched, wriggled, fidgeted, and squirmed until they positively hurt with longing for those coins hiding inside those pockets. I slowly reached out my hand towards his nearest trouser pocket and slid my fingers inside.
My father’s breath caught mid-snore and his big, bent nose twitched as he started to stir. I froze, and sensing something behind me, I glanced over my shoulder.
Major and Rex were standing at the threshold staring at me intently. Their bushy tails were low, beating slowly side to side. I knew they were soon going to bounce over to me barking happily if I didn’t work out a way to stop them. If Dad caught me, I was dead meat.
I glared hard at the dogs and angrily waved my free hand at them as if to say, Piss off!
They cocked their heads to one side.
Stupid dogs! I flicked my hand at them again and pulled the most blood-thirsty, cross-eyed ferocious face I could.
Mesmerized, they sat down at the threshold to watch.
Ah, to hell with them.
Desperately, my fingers took over. I leaned closer and let them slip all the way down, smooth as snakes. Down past his crumpled, damp handkerchief with its horrible sticky bits. Past his army truck keys trying not to let them rattle and click until . . . Eureka! My fingers finally touched treasure and tonight the takings were good. He hadn’t drunk it all away.
I transferred the coins, one after another, to my own pocket. And before I could blink it was done. As I pushed past the surprised dogs on my way out, my feet barely touched the floor.
Fee fie fo fum, I just robbed a sleeping Irishman, I hummed. Be he alive or be he dead, I’ve now got money for chocolate and a cigarette.
I flew up the stairs and slid back into bed. Even though it was forbidden, I lifted the blanket and let Major and Rex crawl underneath. I rolled on my back next to Andrew, my heart still beating crazily.
First thing next morning, I was in Mr. McSweeney’s corner shop as soon as it opened with Andrew and John. Feeling like a millionaire, I grandly dropped the coins on his counter. First we bought an impressive pile of chocolate bars.
“Let’s have three . . . no, four cigarettes each,” I said happily to Andrew and John. “Hell, why not make it nine cigarettes each?”
Mr. McSweeney carefully brought up the precious cigarettes from beneath the counter and pushed them stealthily across the counter at us. “You’ll all be smoking sooner or later anyway,” he grumbled as his fingers happily wrapped themselves around my coins.
Reluctantly, I watched the beautiful things slide across the counter to their new owner.
There were other times, however, when my dad drank and he wasn’t funny at all. We knew those evenings straightaway. They were the nights when the door slammed back on its hinges, shaking the whole house, and he marched inside yelling. I hardly knew what he was roaring about because I was too busy rolling myself into a ball beneath my blanket and jamming my hands against my ears as tightly as I could.
Those evenings turned into long nights in which sc
reams flew around the house, followed by insults, curses, plates, glasses and furniture while we kids hid ourselves like mice.
Andrew, John, and I usually wriggled under our bed and lay with our arms around each other, rocking in unison. Sometimes we snuck downstairs, risking our lives to grab Major and Rex and drag them up to our bedroom by the collars so they wouldn’t kill our father. Together, the five of us hid under the bed, shoulder to shoulder.
Now and again Major and Rex would growl deep in their throats when things got very loud or Mammy screamed. We’d tighten our hold on their collars and shush them. Huddling up closer to their bodies, we buried our faces in their thick, soft fur.
The raging storm only ended when the alcohol finally overwhelmed my father and he fell asleep. As soon as everything fell silent, Andrew, John, and I crept through the house, the dogs padding at our heels, and searched everywhere until we found Mammy. We hugged her tightly as we could while the dogs licked her hands, her legs, anywhere they could reach.
“Don’t worry,” we told her fiercely through our hugs. “Everything will be okay.”
“Yes,” she’d say over our heads. “Thank you. Of course, everything will be okay now.”
The only good thing about those nights was the terrible price my father would have to pay the next day. Karma would come calling in the form of a thumping, great hangover. No other vengeance could have been crueler. Even I was impressed by how vicious they were. And sometimes when my dad woke up, I was the only member of the family around. Ha! Such fun.
First his body would twitch. Then his eyelids would crack open to the barest of slits. At the first ambush of sunlight, he’d groan deeply—a truly tortured sound. Finally, without moving his head, his eyes began to cautiously roam around the room in search of help. Carefully, he’d focus, trying to find someone—anyone—to help him. And there would be me.
“Martin?” he’d whisper, wetting his lips slowly like a man dying of thirst.
I knew what he wanted.
On really bad hangover mornings, my father would easily have swapped his soul for a mug of scalding hot tea. Especially if it had ten heaping spoonfuls of sugar in it. Tea and sugar was the hangover cure he swore by.
“Martin?” he’d whisper again mournfully.
“Yeah, what?” I’d ask, looking him over without much interest.
He usually looked sicker than a dead dog on these mornings, but I couldn’t push the memory of his bullying roars and Mammy’s screams out of my head. On one such morning I looked at him coldly and said nothing.
“For the love of God, Martin, a cup of tea for your old dad,” he begged. He looked pitiful.
That little devil of mischief sitting somewhere on my shoulder poked at me. Yeah, I could think of something funny to pay him back for last night alright. I cocked my head, as though hearing something from outside the room. “Hold on. Is that someone calling me? Sorry, Dad, I’d better go.”
His eyes widened. “No,” he begged, desperate. “I’m dying. A cup of tea—that’s all I’m asking for. Run and make one for me, son, please.”
My hyperactive feet could never stay still at the best of times but now they were almost doing a jig on the spot. They always came alive when they knew I’d have to run fast for my life. La-la-la. This was actually turning out to be quite fun. Major and Rex padded into the room. Even better.
“What are those bloody dogs doing inside?” whimpered my father, trying to sound angry.
I rubbed the dogs’ big shoulders happily while they wagged their huge tails, grinning back at me. Time to put my little plan into action. “Hello, boys. How are you?” I asked cheerfully, raising my voice.
“Please,” mumbled my father, shutting his eyes. “The noise. Oh my God, my head. I think it’s going to fall off. Please, for the love of God, keep your voice down.”
I cocked my head again as if my ears were trying to catch the slightest sound. “Can you hear Mammy calling, dogs? I’m sure I can. Yep, that’s her.” My voice was increasing in volume with each word I spoke.
My father guessed what I was about to do. His eyes flew open in horror. “No, please, no!” he begged.
But it was too late. Vengeance would be mine that morning. I swung around, hollering as forcefully as I could, “Coming straight away, Mammy! Be with you in a moment!”
Major and Rex did their part too, barking as noisily as they could.
My father’s hands were clutching his head as if it were about to implode. His eyes were squeezing themselves inside out.
I flew for the door just as my dad shot out of his chair. His enraged bellows followed me down the passage as I bolted towards the front gate.
“You little bastard!” he roared. “I should have turned off your bloody incubator when you were a baby! Get back here this second!”
I kept running.
“Get back here and make me a cup of tea before I flog the living hide off you!”
Funny, I’ve always been fond of a nice cup of tea ever since.
Of course, my father also had his good points or he wouldn’t have had so many friends. Nor would Mammy have married him.
“No one can make me laugh like Mick,” she used to say. One of the things Mammy loved most about my father was the way he teased the German seriousness out of her. He constantly had her in stitches. “Stop, Mick! Stop making me laugh so much. I have vork to do!”
Other times he could drive her crazy with his unexpected pranks, like the time he brought a tiny cassette recorder home.
Knowing she was going to be extremely angry with him about something—probably over spending the household money on alcohol as usual—he carefully hid the recorder in his pocket and switched it on once she started ranting.
For once, he didn’t try to defend himself or make excuses. He just sat at the kitchen table, drinking his tea quietly and nodding apologetically every now and then. Mammy, of course, had no idea he was recording her.
On this particular morning she was so angry, she could have given Mount Vesuvius a run for its money. It often amazed us kids how her head managed to stay on when she blew her top. She ranted and raved, screeched and screamed, unaware Dad was catching every single word on the cassette recorder hidden in his pocket. This was one of her really impressive explosions so the dogs and us kids bolted outside, leaving Dad to face it on his own.
But the best was yet to come.
Whenever Mammy’s fury boiled over, it could take hours for her to come back down again. The more righteous she felt, the longer it took her to calm down. In this cooling off period, she’d mutter curses under her breath for hours, bang pots and pans around as she cooked, sweep rooms like she was possessed. She’d even clean the oven, the bathroom, and the fridge, all the while breathing through her nose like a dragon.
We knew how to read her body language when she was like this. If her lips looked sewn together, then she was still in a semi-explosive state, so it was safer to keep clear.
On this particular day, she breathed like a dragon for a good while longer than usual, but by dinner time she was beginning to calm down. She even served up the meal without too much banging. She still had a slightly wild look in her eyes but it seemed likely there’d be tranquility by the time we took our first mouthful.
At last dinner was ready. She looked around at us. “Dinner time. Dogs outside. Children up to the table,” she said quietly. “Please.”
We could see she was still dangerous. The dogs bolted outside while we kids ran to our allotted chairs, sat down, meek as mice, elbows off table, backs straight, no fidgeting, mouths zipped shut.
Mammy’s eyes ran suspiciously over each one of us in turn, then swiveled back to the stew she was serving up.
In walked Dad.
We couldn’t believe it. Strolling languidly through the kitchen, he was whistling a tune pleasantly, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Wide-eyed, we followed his progress as he seated himself and looked at us benignly. “This looks absolutel
y delicious, Siggy.” He gave her one of his most charming smiles.
Our eyes darted back to Mammy.
Her spoon paused above the stew pot. She looked him over slowly, a suspicious glint in her eye. “Humph,” she grunted. When she went back to dishing out the stew, her eyes looked slightly softer than before. She took a deep, soothing breath. The last of her anger was finally leaving her body. Indeed, she was almost smiling as she raised a forkful of stew to her lips and looked around at us all.
Suddenly out of nowhere, a banshee screech erupted. It was Mammy’s voice at full volume ripping all tranquility to shreds: “. . . and let me tell you mister big man Mick, you big dummkopf, you drink all the family money while I’m working all those hard hours at the hotel. Yes, while I work extra shifts to get the good things for these children, you do not help me pay the bills. You are the laziest man ever put on this earth, and I am zick to death of it!”
Forks half way to our mouths, we froze. This was obviously one of Dad’s pranks.
Mammy stared at him stunned, her fork frozen in front of her lips.
“You are an impossible man, Mick Faul!” the screeching continued. “Why I marry a dummkopf like you, I will never know! Back in Frankfurt I have so many rich, polite men who all are wanting to marry a beautiful, hardworking woman like me.”
Our eyes swiveled to Dad, at the other end of the table. He was eating his stew as calmly as I’d ever seen him. Where the hell had he hidden the cassette recorder?
Our eyes flew back to Mammy.
She was speechless. Her mouth dropped open. Then she leapt to her feet. “How dare you do this shameful zing to me! Turn that machine off zis second!”
Now there were two Sigrids ranting at my father.
Outside, the two dogs started barking and scrabbling at the kitchen door.
And as for Mick? Well, picture a man in an expensive restaurant, listening to Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” while enjoying his meal. He was completely shameless.
The Boy Who Talked to Dogs Page 2