He intertwined his fingers and moving them up and down: ‘I could be their chaplain.’
‘Oh, Father Malachy! Haven’t you enough to be doing down here!’ Mother pretending it was her first time hearing it.
‘Don’t mind him, Kitty,’ says Freddy. ‘Of course, Malachy, the Tan War left its mark on all of your people down there at the mouth of the Shannon! When we had our own troubles.’
‘Do you know,’ Uncle Mal turns to me, ‘that down in Dungeeha we had an open house during the Troubles and into the Civil War? Were you ever shown the trapdoor in the orchard where they were to leave their guns before coming in? Your poor Uncle Pat says he was only half fed growing up with our mother – your grandmother, Patrick – feeding those men on the run!’
‘Pat was the youngest, of course,’ said Fred. ‘I don’t know now if Pat has any time for the present crowd though. You should have more sense, Malachy! Keep well away from it is my motto.’
They moved on to the trifle. A nice dollop of cream for Uncle Mal. Fred abstemious.
‘Must watch the waist, Kitty, and don’t you mind his talk of “out on the hillsides”! It will be all patched up before then. I see that fellow – Faulkner is it? – he’ll surely do something with the unionists. He seems a decent enough chap.’
‘You know they give nothing until they’re forced to.’ – Uncle Mal.
‘Oh, they can’t be all bad, now Malachy. They can’t be all bad. Doesn’t Father Mc Crum say he had great neighbours growing up and he was in the thick of them?’
‘All right until the Twelfth!’ said Uncle Mal, ‘Then you’d better lie low. All right until the Twelfth!’
‘I just wish the killing would stop,’ Mother broke in. ‘Didn’t we hear enough about it, God knows, and we growing up.’
Freddy saw it was time to change:
‘I’m giving Limerick a great chance against Kilkenny.’ Back to his favourite tack. ‘We have only three weeks you know and with Grimes and Cregan we won’t be far off.’
‘Don’t forget Big Pat Hartigan,’ said Uncle Mal. ‘He’ll be minding the square.’
‘And as clean a hurler as you’ll find,’ rejoined Freddy. ‘That’s your game of course. Fine clean hurling!’
Turning to my mother:
‘I’ll have to bring this man to a good, tough junior match some evening, Kitty, and we’ll show him timber! Ballysteen or Knockaderry! What do you say?’
‘If ye may stick to the hurling and don’t mind the crowd in the North. That’s what I say.
Let them sort it themselves. We had enough of it down here.’
Then Fred is out with the watch. The time, the time!
When we moved outside it was again that pleasant afternoon sun presiding over these mid-August days. Uncle Malachy manoeuvred his large frame into the pristine Morris Minor. Mother joked after they left that you could see the car sink down when he sat in.
‘Fred is so proud of that car.’ And, turning to me: ‘I hope the springs don’t give!’
DIARY: 14 MARCH 1975
Hoping for happiness that might befall. Hoping for happiness …
Looking at the picture taken at the Olympic … Yes … that might befall … Arm around her shoulder; coy with her hands on her knee, her thumb keeping down the miniskirt. Hoping for happiness … what to make of it all?
Reading back through the diary and that day in the sitting room. And now Uncle Mal to be gone. Died in his sleep. Way to go! says the Yank. Poor Uncle Mal.
Mother is very upset. Ever since Dad she has relied on our Uncle Mal. Himself and, I suppose, Uncle Pat. At Christmas always a turkey. And it too big for the oven! And the odd bag of potatoes. The Order seeming to allow these acts of kindness to his sister-in-law.
‘A wonder,’ Aunt Molly would say, ‘a wonder they might give to a widow.’
Died in his sleep. There in the college. Not in a barn in Tyrone or a ditch near Aughnacloy!
He died with it still going on, poor man. How it always affected him. Big and kind. Never once saw him cross. Maybe the pupils …
The night we gave that group a lift to the dance. Driving back from Grange. Didn’t know who we were. One of them, a student of his, pipes up:
‘Father Mal? Of course, a slave driver! A pure slave driver!’ was his verdict. ‘If there’s no work in the garden he’s out with us pulling ivy off the walls. Dead set against ivy! Oh, a pure slave driver!’
A great laugh in the back of the car. Then an awkward silence.
‘Now you wouldn’t be …? Oh God, now we’re landed!’
DIARY: 16 MARCH 1975
I know that breaking
from the chains that bind
must have meant …
Everything happened inside the grounds. The funeral Mass with the few anecdotes of the man they called Father Mal. Light-hearted enough. Must have meant … must have meant a kind of freedom. Maybe they feel they have a guaranteed ticket – like Freddy! All his life there teaching how to sow and reap. Prayer. For them, he had done his bit. He was theirs. And he was buried in their plot. Their worker come to rest.
‘A wonder we got the cup of tea itself.’ – Aunt Molly. Always sharp.
‘And they inside with their four-course meal. Full of their old guff.’
Always resenting the top brass, with their days out at the cattle shows. Their pictures stuck up in the paper.
‘And no beard, Mam, you’re spared all that! And no running round with the Flying Column!’
‘Oh, the poor man never meant it I’m sure … Just some cracked talk when Freddy brought him out in the car … Just some cracked talk.’
Writing for Joan
Trapped in a chair. No locks or shackles. Despair. Just despair, at the News. The never-ending News and the sister tearing up her mortgage papers in front of everyone last night. Whiskey-fuelled.
Like I’m floating. Like we’re all floating.
What will I do today? To the window! I am sitting inside this window which sometimes reflects a shadow, sometimes it’s the shrub, rounded by my mother – the fights we have, I want it left to grow its own way, reach its fingers outwards, to sun and space, but no, she’s out again to round it off. Looks neat, she says, when clipped. And sometimes it’s a bird, picking on the stale crumbs.
If I don’t finish this I’ll go mad. I can’t turn up without some feckin’ thing written down. She said they might stop the dole. I’ll tell her to stick it … I can’t get out of this chair. Get back onto Facebook? No. No. I’ll have to start this. Start it before finishing it, now there’s a good idea. And my sister heading off. ‘Fuck the land of our fathers,’ says she, ‘and fuck the whole bloody island.’ Then Dinny the Literate goes on about some sow devouring her own. ‘This fuckin’ sow is just pushing us out into the shit.’ The easing down when Mother restored some calm.
‘Now, now there’s always a way back—’
‘A way back! They shoved the money at us. Shoved it.’
‘There’s more than you in it—’
‘Oh big deal so I’m not alone, more than me. Hallelujah!’
Then we all started singing like Cohen, some like Jeff Buckley, others like crows like me:
‘Broke your throne and cut your hair.’
Until we howled out:
‘It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah!’
What a crescendo! There in the kitchen. Hallelujah! Blasted it out for the neighbours. ‘Shss, shss!’ from Mother. ‘Ye’d wake the dead.’
Dinny the Literate and the sow with her litter – oh, what whiskey can do! Write it down, they said, before you forget it. Whatshername will love it.
The window. The window has got rid of the sun and now I can see my face, shadow. Will it tell us our age? Will this be my story for her? She’ll say I stole it. She has her job to do – Mother. Oh Mother will you just give over. I’ll give her: My face at the window reflects my emotions. It is dull, it is grey, it is mercilessly thin, it is the face of a spectre! Since the mickey-mous
e job in the bank went, this is me. Floating there in that pane of glass. And me transfixed in this chair. A pain in the arse this chair. No birds today. No crumbs so no surprise there. Any worms? Not a worm for the blackbird. The cheeky robin. I only ever liked wrens. Will I give her a story on my life with the wrens!
There in the little rounded nest peeping out are twenty little wrens. Each smaller than the other. Oh yes they have lots of eggs. Most sure to get caught, one way or another. Like my thoughts. If I have enough thoughts today will one survive and fly? If I apply for one more job – before I blow my bloody mind – if I apply for one more job will that be the one to fly? Now we’re motorin’.
And the wren – I’m getting a run on this one – flies the highest in the end. Remember the second-year book and that mad English and history teacher, your man with all the hair. How did he ever eat his yogurt … through all that hair!
The wren it seems is a canny bird
and hangs out with the eagle
but when the eagle soars on high
the wren pops up and beats him!
Maybe that wasn’t it but something like it. And Fogsy thought it was great. I should have liked that teacher because he was daft, like me. Only I’m daft sensible. To get in the door for a job I’ll have to look the part, won’t I. No beards, hate them anyway. He allowed us to write ‘‘em’ instead of ‘them’ and stuff like that. He was great, looking back.
Oh the wren she is a canny bird! So now Joan! (She likes us to call her Joan. What else would we call her? Miss? At this stage of the game! Isn’t she wonderful letting us call her Joan.)
This chair that I’m stuck to … Made by my father’s uncle – your grand-uncle, she’ll say. That’ll make her feel clever. My father’s uncle fashioned this chair out of ash from the hedge beyond. My father, it seems, was very proud of that. Fashioned out of the hedge beyond! But then he fashioned his exit and left me, Ma and Sis all to ourselves. Like it was a little gift. To just … be gone.
So proud of that chair – Ma – and it to be fashioned out of the ash beyond. Well Joan, where were we? The wren. I too will attach myself to some soaring eagle and bounce higher and say: F-you! Now who’s higher? I’ll lay so many eggs one’s bound to hatch a winner. And then we’re saved. Ma can stop fashioning that round ball of a bush, can get in a gardener. Might have more taste. Might even have a wren’s nest in it to round off our little scéal. Will Joan go for that, or will she say, try again. Like last week she said it was not one bit sincere! If we’re to make any progress you will have to record your feelings.
That is why I am here. To help.
Why didn’t she give us a list of questions. Ones you could tick. Will I look at Facebook? No … No. What else could I give her? Take the eagle’s point of view? No. Enough birds. That blank backyard. And that roundy bush. This bloody chair fashioned from the ash. And súgán cords that wear into your arse! The father admired the súgán. And then he was off.
Gone. Vaporised, you might say.
So if not the wren or the eagle what then? The sparrow, Edith Piaf. Why am I sticking to the father’s stuff? Left all those Piaf records. ‘Ah, Little Sparrow,’ he’d say, ‘none to top her!’ Now I download the stuff. Not bad. If I give her the father’s story? No … No. There’s no start or finish there. A middle, yes. But you need all three, she says. A start, a middle and an end. What a load of cobblers. Looking out that window there is only blank. No start, middle or end.
Will I give her Sis? Too close to the bone. Too raw. The way she exploded last night. Herself and Tim off to God knows where. Australia. Off to dig up Ned Kelly’s bones. Put on his tin canister. Bushranger. Get the hell out of here at all costs. Hate the place, hate the place, look where it’s left us, look where it’s left us. Hate it hate it. That’s Sis. And I’m stuck in the chair. There’s Ma now for the tea and still nothing penned to the page. Now that has a ring to it: Nothing penned to the page. Even though it’s a laptop. She would surely take the bait. Even old Fogsy would have liked that. ‘Good for a fifteen-year-old,’ he’d say. ‘You should keep it up.’ Yogurt. I can’t think of him without the yogurt. Wasn’t it Molyneaux saw him eating in the teachers’ staffroom. Sent in for copies. There was Fogsy, mouth wide, eyes to heaven, about to drop in the spoon of dollop. With the shock of Molyneaux bounding in without even a knock, plopped on the beard! Cursed and swore. Then gathered himself and spluttered: ‘Did you ever hear of knocking or can you read? Múinteoirí Amháin. Swahili to you? Or have you recently joined us? Recently qualified, Molyneaux? Hum?’
And he rattled on, says Molyneaux, about American universities and it wouldn’t surprise him if they didn’t have a degree in surprising teachers. Write away for it! So that soon he was laughing at the idea. ‘You may now,’ says he, ‘remove those copies. Careful now, Molyneaux, they may contain some hidden gems! Ho-hum!’ Molyneaux was forever telling it.
The súgán. He had another one about the súgán, old Fogsy. Some old Irish story or other. The way he’d tell it like it was happening there in front of you. Eyes and beard going with him acting the parts. Some of us in stitches, more with their eyes to heaven.
‘Excuse me, sir, is this on the course?’ Lafferty, the points chaser. Pity Fogsy didn’t hit him. Was it the father or the daughter? Anyway it doesn’t matter. They wanted rid of him, this fellow who was after the daughter. And they thought up the trick with the hay. Keep winding. Casadh an tSúgáin – that was it. Turning and turning making this hay rope and all the while backing him towards the door. He – mesmerised, I suppose – until he was out in the yard winding, winding and … Bang! Closed the door and my poor maneen was out in the cold.
There Joan. How to get rid of people in good old Ireland!
This chair. When they fashioned this chair did my father wind the súgán? Must have to say he was so proud of it. And now what would he think of poor Sis heading off with her effing and blinding the whole shagging lot. And glad to leave it behind. Never mind that auld rot of wanting to return to Paddy’s Green Shamrock Shore. Bloody come-all-yees. Hate it hate it never again want to see it.
But I’m stuck to this chair with the window, the bush – Joan what do you want? My whole bloody life on a plate? The start the middle the end. Be honest. In this haze? Be honest. There’s the ash and twisted hay that keep me off the floor. There’s the shock when the sun goes in and I only see the spectre. Fogsy’s stories of the Famine and fearful figures. About to topple into oblivion. The grass around the mouth. No music then … But then he’d get excited. There was music in some quarters. Where they still ate well and didn’t venture abroad from the homestead for fear of what they’d see. Maybe the birds stopped singing, like Auschwitz – ye’ve heard of Auschwitz? – oh God, is there anything within these walls?
No stories from the Famine, Joan, to lighten up the road.
No birds singing so all my bird stories are for nothing. But hold on, Joan, there’s the ones he drew on the board. The Irish having lost or drawn. Or should have won. The Wild Geese with their long necks straining into the breeze. Heading off for the French battle fields. Will that do us Joan? Wild Geese, with me stuck here to the chair. And Mother calling me now for the tea. Telling Sis God is good and it will all work out like she’s read the script. Fashioned from some hedge beyond. She’s learned to accept, our mam.
There’s always the phone and you’ll be better off.
She’s sending poor Sis from the nest, that’s it Joan, will we wrap it up like that though from my window there’s no birds at all today.
As I sit in a chair which reminds me of Dad – I never got to call him Da. The chair that Mother always admires. Fashioned as it was … from the hedge beyond … while I listen to Edith Piaf.
You Give Witness
You give witness, by the lapels, lifting off the ground comic-wise, unreal strength, must be mad that kind of energy, unreal shall we say – you shall not, you shall not – this is all too real as you will see. You give witness, eyes bulging, opposite the
church, where else, The Metaphor Chase, my idea already nobbled. You give witness, the eyes inches from mine. Knew your father, ah a nice quiet man, can I touch you for a quid, the sting, always a sting in the tail, so much for the palaver about my father, the few bob, bottom line, half the town driven mad looking for the next metaphor, now see what you’ve started, never think things through do you, all very fine coming up with these ideas, all hunky-dory, and then the outcome, never thought through, no prize you said, you mean it’s for fun, man, for fun, oh yes, oh yes, tell them what they want to hear, impossible to decipher, words to that effect. Oh who am I to put words in your mouth with your confusing rigmarole
Dipping into pocket, feel around, must keep the price of the dance, his beseeching face, there’s all I have, a decent lie, he knows, I know, knew my father, could have been anyone, nice quiet man, covers a multitude, nice to hear all the same when some spoke of alcohol, falling off the bike on his way home, maybe too given … Oh dear. Pull up the blankets so’s not to hear
What were they thinking asking me to come up with the clues? With a month to go to Christmas, a seasonal search we might call it. ’74 All Over, an ominous title, joint decision. The final joint decision. Now over to you. A list of metaphors, within a mile radius, say, of the church. No bother. ‘Sheep on High’ depends a bit on the forecast, that kind of weather, send them up to the sky, one joint each before they set off, nothing too way out, they said, we can handle it, count the leaves on the beech tree – that means I have to count, take a branch and multiply same by, say one hundred and forty. Never prove me wrong. Allow for wind, attrition of the elements, and half of them won’t know a beech tree from Adam. Do they know Adam? That you might say, is the … conundrum. Chestnuts … pot smokers are more into dreamy chestnuts, lounging about reading Siddhartha under the enclosing horny branches. It evokes, doesn’t it? There to be a tavern nearby. Fill it in. Don’t spare the palette
Sifting Page 2