—Some music is fearful then though.
—Maybe nice music is like . . . the opposite of fearful sound . . . like the opposite of the roar of a tiger or something.
—Yeah maybe.
—Couldn’t imagine a tiger making beautiful sweet music before biting your head off.
—No.
—So like we’re supposed to not like a tiger’s roar cos it’s dangerous.
—But it’s a horrible sound anyway.
—Horrible to us, James said, cos that’s how we survived. Any idiots who were attracted to a lion’s roar would have had their heads taken off.
—So are you saying that it only sounds rotten to us but if you weren’t made of meat it might sound nicer?
—Ha! I dunno . . . maybe.
—That’s silly. It’s a horrible sound anyway whether people hear it or not. But music was used like by warriors wasn’t it? To like intimidate and scare the enemy.
—Yeah.
—Would make them feel closer together too like. As a group. Stronger like.
—Yeah.
—And like territorial. Like birds.
—I guess. Makes you want to move too. Like a march.
—Yeah.
—I wonder what’s the opposite of a tiger’s roar, James asked.
—Kate Bush, said Sinéad.
James found her favourite Kate Bush song on the piano and she sang. Write the Kate Bush song ‘This Woman’s Work’ in here please.
I wondered where Sinéad summoned this sadness from and she singing this song. It was like she’d lived a thousand lifetimes. Buried a thousand daughters and a thousand sons. Maybe the sixteen years of her somehow had access to another memory. Through the music isn’t it? A thousand thousand thousand lifetimes back maybe and maybe even more and to a different creature yet. Us once.
12
Mass
The mother’s making me go to Mass now again. It’s half five in the morning now and Mass is at eleven in the morning. But I’m not tired anyhow. In Mass I always go up the balcony so I can look down at the back of all their stupid holy heads praying away mad and picking their noses or their holes. I used to try and block out Father Scully’s voice going on and on but it was hard cos he went on and on cos he was only an old bollicks. He’d shout and roar from the pulpit with the big angry red head up on him. When he wasn’t throwing abuse at the Catholics of the parish he spent his days walking around the place reading the Bible. You could see him anywhere just reading it. Well if it was raining you couldn’t see him anywhere reading it. But when it was dry you could see him sitting on the street bench across from Roundy’s. Or walking around the churchyard taking slow small steps and never taking his head from the pages. Like he was a piano being pulled along by a rope. Our own moving statue. And all his stupid sermons were the same. He’d vomit out all the bits in the Bible that he’d read the week before but it was always the same bits that proved that the devil was a terrible fucker and tell them all how the devil had woven his evil ways into all their lives and God wasn’t one bit happy with them and that there’d be hell to pay. In hell.
He didn’t think much of young people. Vice had them. Vice grip.
He stopped me being an altar boy long ago cos I was shit cos I’m a gamal. The altar boy at Mass has to ring the bell at four very special times during the Mass. When I was on I forgot to shake the bell at the special times. But I remembered to shake it at the wrong times. At five wrong times. You should have seen the faces on all the people in the church and they trying not to laugh. Snorting same as pigs some of them and they trying to hide their faces by ducking behind the person in front of them or pretending to wipe their noses with their hankies.
Father Scully just waited patiently for the bell the times when I was supposed to ring it but never did. He tried to catch my eye but I was looking down at all the people or trying to see inside my fingernails so he carried on with the holy talk then when he realised I was only there in body. The body of Charlie, Amen. The times I rang it at the wrong times then he was patient too. Just looked sad is all, looking down at the ground and not at me at all. But the last time then he told me to move to another seat. And when I tried to take the big heavy bell with me he told me to leave it where it was.
Some of the people were laughing so much now that you could hear the shrieks. The shoulders of them rocking like they were hiccup crying.
But he’d lambaste them all for being such horrible rotten sinners. And everything was scandal with Father Scully. Every week the same old puke, woe is the man.
—Let us turn then to scripture.
—Woe to the man to whom the scandal cometh.
—Scandal is the word or act which gives occasion to the spiritual ruin of one’s neighbour.
—After the death of a certain person who had given scandal, a holy man witnessed his judgement, and saw, at his arrival at the gates of Hell, all the souls whom he had scandalised, and they said, ‘Come accursed wretch, and atone,’ and they rushed upon him and tore him to pieces like wild beasts.
—Now. You sit there and wonder. Can I be redeemed? Well you can. Great is the mercy of the Lord. Great is the mercy of the Lord.
—If thy right eye scandalise thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee.
I like being up on the balcony all by myself looking at the statues. But Father Scully ruins it. Sometimes I can never get his voice out of my head. Give you the holy spooks it would. Every poor eejit in Ballyronan had to listen to them same words once a week. He kept going on about scandal and the fucking wild beasts in Hell.
—Examine thine own heart.
Cape Clear Again
Seen Racey there pull into the petrol station with her father. She got out of the car and her father stayed in it. She came out with milk and bread. You’re lucky I don’t be describing things. Milk and bread. The milk looked white because it was. Anyhow I felt sorry for her. Even though she did wrong on Sinéad. Made me think of her in Cape Clear Irish college all self-conscious with the same fat ass she has on her today. Wasn’t her fault she was no Sinéad. Inside or out. She doesn’t have a mind of her own. The people around her always owned Racey’s mind.
The night before the Leaving Cert Exam results came out we went to Cape Clear island again. The Leaving Cert is the state exam eighteen-year-olds do to see if their parents made them study enough to go to college. I failed all my exams. My mother and father pretended they never noticed when the letter arrived with my results. NG. No grade. When the exams were on I looked around and drew pictures instead of writing for a few hours. And in my art exam I just looked around. I liked watching them all anyhow. They all thought they were getting more out of it than just a pain in their hand. They were reading the shit on the exam paper and then writing their own shit in the answer book and then reading more shit and then writing more of their own shit. And I was glad I didn’t have to read any of the mountains of shit being read or being written. And the man in charge was walking around the place trying his best to keep looking like he was in charge. The first day he came over and asked me was I feeling all right cos he seen me looking around and drawing on the answer book instead of writing. I said,
—Yeah.
—OK, he said, and the caring stupid head on him.
Anyhow the night before the results and we went to Cape Clear again. This time we were camping. We went back out to the island for old times sake, whatever that means. We watched all the kids at Irish college eejiting down at the waterfront like they were kids and we weren’t. But we were. For another small while anyhow. All the tears that would flow when they all said goodbye to their new friends seemed silly to the others now. But I knew they weren’t silly. Silly if life is only silly isn’t it? Feelings are real at the time.
We camped right in against the wall of the old ruin this time to shield the campfire from the breeze. We could still see the sea that stretched out for America. Just not the other side of the ruin where it stretched off for England or France or so
me place. Dinky and Racey went off for a stroll somewhere off back the way we came, for a kiss and a cuddle. America Sinéad was thinking of.
—Charlie you should get out of here and start a new life. When we make it we’ll set you up in America with an apartment and a job and the whole lot. But you’ll have to stop acting the gamal.
—I will.
—Are you sick of how people see you?
—I suppose.
—I understand. You can start anew though. Somewhere no one knows you. Imagine New York?
—Yeah.
—Do you think we’ll hit New York like Bob Dylan did long ago?
—No.
—Oh. Thanks! You do think we could make it though do you?
—Yeah.
—OK, cool. I’d love if you were with us Charlie.
—Yeah. Wouldn’t be right without you boy, James said.
—Our chief roadie. Stage manager. Would you like that Charlie?
—Yeah.
—Yeah, said James.
—Yeah, said Sinéad. Cool.
—Dublin first though, James said.
—Yeah, said Sinéad, definitely Dublin first.
When Racey and Dinky came back they were both soft. That means a bit drunk.
—Imagine we’re finished the Leaving Cert. We’ll never have to study like that again.
—Fuck yeah! The adventure starts now. We don’t have to do anything we don’t want to any more.
—We’re gonna be famous, aren’t we Sinéad?
—’Course we are babe. Our music will make us famous near and far.
—I just don’t see why ye have to go to Dublin to make it, to be honest, said Dinky.
—Jesus man, that’s where it’s all happening. Dublin is imperative, said James.
—Ye could make a name for yourselves here first, said Dinky.
—Be easier in Dublin. Trinity College have the best college music scene this side of the Atlantic. Not to mention the acoustic sessions happening in the city every night of the week. Best spot in the world, right now, and it’s only a couple of hundred miles up the road. You’re mad not to want to go too.
—What’s wrong with what we have here?
—Nothing. There’s just more in Dublin. It’s only for a few years.
—I’ll live and die for Ballyronan anyway.
—I know you will.
—You’ll go far to find half as good a spot on the planet.
—I know. I’ll take my chances.
—You’re just never satisfied James. You’re never just happy with what you’ve got.
—The future beckons.
—You’re a snob James.
—You can accuse me of anything boy, but don’t call me a snob. I was born into a few bob, big shit. I never let it affect me.
—Are you sure?
—’Course I’m not, but I was never a snob.
—Lads come on, Sinéad said.
—Leave it Dinky, Racey said.
Dublin
I didn’t know what I was going to do when Sinéad and James went to Dublin. Be lost without them isn’t it? Nothing to do and no one ever to talk to ever. James was going doing engineering in Trinity College and Sinéad was going to art college. But really they were going up there to be free and to become music stars. They were going to join the live music society in the college and play all the acoustic sessions in all the bars around Dublin. Imagine Dublin. I’d never been but I could imagine it I think. Sinéad and James there. Christ. Let loose.
—We’ll knock ’em dead up there. What ya think Charlie?
—Yeah.
—Will you visit us Charlie?
—Ha?
—’Course he’ll visit us. You can stay with me Charlie. Dunno where I’ll be staying yet but you’ll be staying with me. We’re gonna stay in houses right beside each other.
James’ parents thought they were too young to live together. Sinéad’s parents didn’t care.
—I think you’d love Dublin Charlie. Maybe you could get a job there and stay up with us.
—Ha?
—Yeah. Fuck yeah. You could do that. My dad knows some people in Dublin. Building people who could fix you up with a labouring job.
—Yeah. Dunno.
—He’s right Charlie. Be a clean break for you wouldn’t it?
—Dunno.
—You could help us gigging. Be like our stage manager or something. I’d say you’d like that Charlie. Would you?
—Yeah. I’d say I would.
—We’ll suss out the scene for a few months above. Then we’ll send for ya.
—A telegram.
—Message in a bottle.
—Or a pigeon maybe.
—Or we could send a messenger on horseback.
—You won’t have to shoot him Charlie. He’ll have good news. Your friends will have sent for you to come and join them as they meet their destiny in the capital city of Ireland.
—What ya reckon Charlie?
—Yeah.
—Yeah! You’re kinda quiet in yourself today Charlie.
—Yeah!
—You’re a cute whore Charlie. Ingenious.
Cute whore means clever rascal in Ireland.
—Yeah, I said and they laughed.
I did see Dublin in the end. And it was cos of Sinéad and James. But it wasn’t in the way we thought.
Next thing around a month before James went to Dublin the father comes in the door at home with shiny new steel-cap boots.
—New boots, I said.
—They’re for you, he goes. I was talking to Diarmuid above in the new houses. He’s giving you a start.
I said nothing. I just felt sick. That’s what happens when you see the next forty years of your life all at once.
—Bed early tonight, he goes. You’ve to be above before eight o’clock in the morning.
The site was only up the hill a bit. Only a few hundred yards. This Diarmuid fella is Teesh’s brother. He was the foreman. I used to be doing the snag lists mostly. That’s a list of stuff that has to be done before the new owners would pay for the house. Usually it was scraping hard concrete off the floor or scraping the spatters of it off windows and window frames. Or raking the earth in the garden for the grass seed. Or taking down scaffolding and taking out whatever loose blocks and planks and cut-off bits of sills and lintels and wood and pipes that the sloppy fuckers would leave after them. Diarmuid used to go through the list with me fierce slow cos I’m a gamal.
Mostly he was sound enough except when he used to pretend to lose his temper if some fella wasn’t getting the job done or was fucking it up or if some delivery wasn’t made. Then he’d roar and curse but you’d see his face then when he turned around and he wasn’t really cross at all. Usually I was left on my own to tip away. I was the last to work in a house. All the tradesmen would be after moving on to the next house. That’s how they did it. They used to all be having their lunchbreak together and the tea at eleven. But mostly I was able to stay in my own house. And not be listening to their boring shit and they laughing and winking to each other at the lunch the mother made me in a big A-Team lunchbox with sandwiches and all sorts of goodies and snacks and a flask of coffee and a bottle of orange. If I gave a fuck the mother would’ve embarrassed the hole off me my whole life. But she was the perfect mother for a gamal to have. Jumpers she buys me. I’d say she gets them in the middle-aged perverts’ shop. V-neck ones with square or angular designs on them that school inspectors or trainspotters would wear at home in their slippers. And the cheap denim jeans she gets me that you’d think someone painted blue. And she never knew my size. The legs were always too short and the ass of them was always fucking huge. And black slip-on shoes she’d have on me and white socks under them. Except when I was working. Now I was a working man and wore a working man’s boots. And I always have a pencil on my ear. So I’m like the workmen on the site who just look at me and shake their heads. God help us.
13
I s
hould tell you about the bank holiday weekend of that summer too actually. It was the August bank holiday weekend and James had a big match on the bank holiday Monday but we wanted to go camping out at the Fleadh Cheoil an tSamhraidh in Dingle. That’s the Summer Music Festival. Dingle is a town. Nobody in Dingle is passing through cos the other side of it is the Atlantic ocean. Everyone is there cos they went there and it’s usually for the music. It’s hours from anywhere and it doesn’t mind one bit.
So we were going to head off Friday night cos James’ last training session before the match was Friday evening. But then I think they got wind of our plan and they didn’t want James sleeping in a tent and stuff in the days coming up to the big match so they changed the last training session to Saturday evening so that James couldn’t go to Dingle at all. Dinky was the only one who knew we were going to go to the Fleadh and he told Teesh and they told the trainer then I reckon. And Kerby was the trainer but everyone said it was Roundy used to pick the team cos Kerby licked Roundy’s ass always. Anyhow they changed the training so the best player couldn’t go to the Fleadh.
Only trouble was James went anyway and decided to miss the training Saturday night. All it meant was that he could go earlier. So we all went Friday morning instead. We’d come back Sunday and James’ final was on the Monday. We got the bus as far as Cork cos they’d have seen us hitching with the bags and the guitar. We got off near the roundabout by the Kerry road and me and James hid in the ditch and Sinéad stuck out her thumb. The third car stopped. James got in the front and me and Sinéad sat into the back. The man driving took a few minutes to come to terms with it.
—Ye’re gas out, he says.
—Yeah we were taking turns hitching, you’d be wrecked from the standing, James said.
The man started laughing and we did too. He took us as far as Killarney and then we did the same again to get a lift on to Dingle. Lorry this time so it was a tight squeeze but the view out was worth it. The land out that way would make you think differently. One thing about hills and valleys and mountains and rocks is that it reminds you that all you have is one point of view. Keeps you humble and makes you giddy to explore a thousand other viewpoints for a thousand new rewards. And it all at odds with the ocean and it dead level and straight and for ever. Only way you could describe it all to a blind person is by playing some tune of it. Be even better for them cos they’d be like an eagle gliding through it isn’t it? Or a bat cos they’re blind and that’s where sound came from in the first place I suppose. Let creatures with no eyes know where they were. And they moving through terrains. Sound waves isn’t it? Sound was freedom. Sound was everything.
The Gamal Page 16