Sifting

by Mike Mac Domhnaill

  Knew him well, poor man, too early to die, but that same, well-remembered, nice quiet man, is that all you have, well thanks all the same, make a hero of my father will you and I’ll dig out the price of the dance, be off home with myself, half happy, swap you my alcohol haze for your memories, touched up with his kindness, his understanding, his general conviviality. Or not, as you wish, for you to play with the memory sticks. Control, Alt, Delete. Now you’ve swirled up from the seventies to present day, present day that was, that is. A fine man, you’ll say, knew him well, ah sure died too young. Any chance of a few bob, in any time frame, give it to me now even that I’m dead this twenty years, we’ll dance in the graveyard. No, your good father’s not in here, would be sacrilege, this corner’s for us vagabonds. Give us a quid

  They’re making off down South Quay, ‘Goat Street’ you prefer, same here, the old name, before the poshness set in, ‘Would You Put a Paper Ship to Sail?’, maybe at best, there’re some of them clambering over the rocks where once washed the washerwomen, steps and all, organised must have been, the Normans, though they relaxed into our company, took a while, some of them scamper over the rocks, the crossing stones, stepping stones from Norman to Gael, now that was easy, to ‘Daft Man’s Castle’, Fuller’s Folly, has to be, they’ve got that too the bright ones, they mustn’t have inhaled, they shall inherit the earth or at least the business end, acumen that’s what they have but see them get to the clouds, there’s the rub, abide with me here outside the church

  Ah you’d see him in Lynch’s or behind at Kennelly’s, nice quiet man, but given at times to pranks, there’s no pranks now, them times it was all pranks, that’s all you have, well that same, when Old Kennelly was out for the day, came back to his well-run public house to find your father stretched with bottles scattered round, himself and a few of the pals, oh characters, a right bunch, out for the count mar dhea, when anyway in comes Old Kennelly, ah you never knew him, but a strict oul fella mind you and of course – flabbergasted, What’s this! What’s this! They left him stew for a while and then up they shot in fits! Caught you out again, Tomeen! That was the kind of man. Innocent times, innocent times, and that’s all you have, well that same

  Climbing the walls they are, storming the ramparts, a bit dangerous this, not in the script, some of them could fly by the looks, ‘He Wrote in Lingos Three’, has to be the bauld Gearóid Iarla our much prized poet of Norman stock, settled in like the best and applied his quill to Gaelic verse, as well as the others, educated men in those times, but then he was off to Lough Gur to ride around the lake wearing out his horse’s shoes, whatever he did to deserve, no grave here to visit, here in our beloved. Out of sight now bar the shouts and shrills as they vie for his writing desk, now where’s it hidden, where else but the dungeon, they’ll be a while

  Another time they went to all this trouble scooping out the turnips for the candles and waiting then behind the Home for old Kit Mc Guire, known to stay out till all hours, anything for the laugh, and wait they did, out by the paupers’ graves, is it Bóithrín na Plá that narrow lane, must have been frozen by the time she came, with their sheets draped and ready for a bit of caterwauling but all they got was: Good night, good sirs, an’ if ye’re dead God rest yere souls an’ if ye’re alive ‘tis a quare hour of the night ye’re out! And off with her, cool as a breeze, into Dungeeha. So much for that, And that’s all you have, well that same, ah a bit of a lad you might say, but a nice quiet man, up for the lark was all

  ‘The Golden Apples of the Sun’ will bring them to the doctor’s orchard, where we sported and played and rawked apples in the autumn, and then I’ll string them through the demesne, ‘At Swim Two Bucks’, will bring them to Mc Cann’s Pool, the poor man’s Ballybunion, where we dipped. ‘Poorer and Poorer’ will bring them back around to Maiden Street where the boast is ‘None Were So Poor’ and anyone from up the road is only a pretender. While the Coole off our street was the poorest of all. When they’re not at Siddhartha, they’re into love man peace and brotherhood, how long will that last, but a few have sidetracked onto Flann O’ B so they’ll enjoy the above, I’ll have some friends left when it’s all done, but the sky, the sky’s the limit, or is it, where does it start and finish, there’s one for when they’re coming down: ‘What is the Stars, Joxer?’

  Went for a shoot of course, loved that, heading out around Monagea and places, now did he bring back much, that’s another matter, but he loved the shoot. Tracey and himself off with their dogs, nosing about in the wilds trying to rise a bird, a pheasant, even the woodcock. But what they ever brought back, now that’s another matter – not much if you ask me. Cleary was the man to bag them and then the gibing there’d be, back in Kennelly’s, the slaggin’ they’d have and that’s all you have, well that same, a lovely man

  Yes, we’ve led them a merry dance, now they’re skittering on the Iron Bridge, ‘An Droichead Iarainn’ to test their rusty Gaelic, while some are legging it up the Mass Path, ‘The Way of Truth’, what devils of clues, whatever it was now wearing off they appear a touch down in the mouth, no longer an option to ascend to heaven or wherever it is the clouds traverse, the blue beyond, the grey more often, the ‘Sheep on High’ leading them to no Cloud Nine but to shepherds’ curses and I’d better be away as they gather forces, off out the Cork Road helter-skelter, nudge in here with me and not a word mind, not a word until the tally-ho dies, what’s this here in the hedge but the band-wheel cross made up at which forge we can only surmise, quiet now, here in the hedge sit back, in memory of this poor Dwyer chap (that’s how he’s called in the last dispatch!) while above in Churchtown not a mile away his brother too laid low, amazing we say that only two outsiders killed, be they Regular or Irregular (imagine being called an ‘Irregular’, what names – whisht!), the West Limerick crowd they say shot in the air but these two took it full on, Eddie and Denis, and here we are lying, for God’s sake hush, they’ll tear me apart for the final hint, too bookish by far, while their sense of humour was good at the start it’s always the way when the competition starts, even the love brigade start to carp, and hungry then from checking castle and glen, getting doused crossing the Arra, and all for this cul-de-sac, hush will you here by Dwyer’s Cross, and the other in Churchtown where his brother, poor man, tried to stop the Free Staters’ eighteen-pounder from landing its shells in the Castle Yard, where Irregulars (imagine – whisht!) lorded whatever was left, hush will you, they’re moving by, beating the bushes

  And then of course he had to cycle the seven miles to work in all kinds of weather, rain hail or shine couldn’t be good for his weak chest – oh don’t you mind that priest with a drink that day at the wedding saying he was a weak little man, you should have hit him! But no, he hardly meant any harm, and you know he was smaller than the rest, the rest of his clan, ah yes, and the asthma caused him to cough that bit, poor man, and is that all you have, well that same. Your father was a generous man, now I’ll say that, as decent a man as ever I met. Fiddling around in my pocket, here take that, forget the dance, the country-and-western band. Oh now a fine man he was, your father

  ‘Run with the Hounds’ an easy one thrown in, so they don’t give up, think they’re back in the game searching the Coursing Stand for clue number seven, not pretty out the back with the briars and bottles but that’s where they’re gone. The ha-ha was for the erudite, the Castle Demesne know-it-all, ‘You’ll Laugh When You Land’ was all I gave. At least they’re off my scent, the humour wearing off. Lynched I could be, lynched. All started at the table quiz, and now I have them whizzing around. Like headless chickens on too much dope. The lime kiln and the brother O’Dwyer, we’ll bring them to the other spot: ‘He Stood in the Bearna Bhaoil’. The Gap of Danger. Say a prayer – they’ve nothing left that lot. Read then from the Upanishads! While I cower here on the Cork Road beside this poor O’Dwyer’s ghost. Wait until the tally-ho dies – that’s where … that’s where we’ll rendezvous, ‘Repair to Horse and Hound’, maybe a live guitar twanging o
ut a nasal Dylan yarn in our Tally-Ho Tavern while they drift on up to nirvana. Quiz-master supreme stretched supine, I’ll be ferried home in the dead of night. Have we picked out a waning harvest moon

  The shirt off his back – that’s what he’d give, the very shirt. No dance tonight with this much change. Only to dream a skewed dream by the Arra, no – we dream by the dark-flowing Daar. ‘The Bridge on the River that Rhymes with a Dragged-out War’ – that one I didn’t give. Too much, man, they’d say, too much.

  Felix

  I am walking back to the flat after … It is about nine, nine-ish. It must be September, October. (Leaves were crackling underfoot. Can we put a year? Maybe 1982. Thereabouts.)

  I’m sure they are behind me. Scoffing. I can hear it. I walk fast but they keep up with me. Christ! There’s no one else on the street. By the high wall of the training college. On the other side neat gardens placid in front of old dark-plaster houses. Faster I walk and they’re still with me. Consolation: I have only a few pounds on me. The pay cheque? No, no, at home. Left it in the wardrobe after supper.

  I am running now. Like bloody hell. Never get to the junction. Am I that slow a runner? They’ve just lengthened their strides, getting to me, marching, sort of.

  Big fellow. God, he’s taller than me. Young fresh face. Smiling maliciously. Up beside me now. Close-cropped fair hair. Barrel chest. Small fellows, ugly, with knives: preferable. This one positively attractive. (That is your cue. You now know. Who. What. Your opinion is formed. Laugh if you will.)

  And now I am running desperately. There is sweat trickling into my eyes. Clammy under my coat. Wish I didn’t have the coat, could go faster. But, I am racing. They just walk faster to keep up.

  The big fellow strides beside me, smiling menacingly across at my terrified face. They are all enjoying the hunt. That’s all they want. Not money. That will come later. Enjoy it.

  As long as I escape mutilation. A flash before my eyes. Was it a knock on my head from behind? The sniggers.

  Standing like a scarecrow. That’s how it will end. Tattered clothes. Pockets out-turned. Hands out-turned. Blood. Probably trickles from nose and teeth. And tears.

  But it will not be the end. I will get home. I will live.

  I stall in desperation. Quite out of running. Getting no nearer the junction. The junction where there would be witnesses. Maybe better without witnesses. They enjoy an audience.

  Fairy! Fairy! A soft chant. I stall. The tall one has changed. Now he’s Twohig. Oh, relief. And back along I see them. The last, the small fellow, is Clancy. Clancy talks.

  How’s Felix!

  And there’s a laugh.

  I wake up beside M—. I cannot mention names, you understand. A small town, even though they call it a city. And this is grimy business, you will, most of you, will feel. Call him Mole.

  Yes, I’m a man. The story so far is by a man. That puts you at ease, I hope. A dream? Of course. It’s better than the other one. It must have been the Vietnam study I did. Contemporary America was my thesis. Now to some of you I’m boasting. But we generally are, aren’t we? Intelligent. Arty. Arty-farty, you probably laugh. Yes.

  Being thrown out of a helicopter. You know what the Yanks did over the jungle. Ve haf vays off making you tok! one would mimic. No, not Spike Milligan, The real thing.

  And they’d whoosh him nearer the exit. Swirling. Thousands of feet above. Not too low. Zeese yellow bastards could surfife on trees, no? Haw, haw, haw!

  But they rarely talked, those obstinate little yellow men. Gibberish. Or a stony reticence. Some didn’t even seem to mind. Not until the last instant, that is. Then shriek. Boot the yellow bugger.

  But some nights I am over the hatch. And the brown mass of jungle swirls beneath. And canyons. Oh jeez … And Clancy is always there. The only friend I had, most of the time. Ran with the hare. But slipped over to the hounds always before the kill. Especially in the last years. It must have become obvious. And he had to cover for himself. Now I understand. But then I didn’t. Naturally. Not when you’re in the thick of it.

  Clancy my friend. Clancy my friend. I’d not sleep thinking of the betrayal. And worried sick about myself. One summer I got a girlfriend. A friend was all she wanted, Marie.

  Made sure I got the word around. Through Clancy. I think it helped in that year. Or maybe they just got tired. Looking back, I’d say fourteen to sixteen was the worst.

  I think it was from a television programme they got it. You know with nicknames. Like good jokes. Never quite sure where they started. But Felix stuck. I still react to it.

  It even came home from boarding school with me. A few fellows from round about brought it back. You all loved it. The fun of it. Soon only in the home, the less and less comforting home, was I called Jack. My older brother? I never found out how he felt. He was a great mixer. Not as good at school as me. Anyway, I was the favourite. So Bill took off with a few of the lads and has been in America for years.

  Yes. Once. Two years ago. I stayed with him only a day or two though. Then took in LA and San Fran.

  ‘I’m doing a thesis on contemporary America.’

  ‘Well get a load of that! No shit!’

  His wife was a bit more interested but I didn’t want to embarrass him by staying around.

  Often have arguments with my colleagues – I enjoy my work – about the States. After the way I took them apart on Vietnam. Now Nicaragua, they say. Etc. Etc. Even Mole here argues. But I developed a love for the place. Things were free, carefree, for my type in the big cities.

  I have to convince himself here that it’s not so bad. Then I’m off.

  Consolation? Well, the famous actors. Everybody knows about them. Lived together for years. But did they … do you think …? Love to know, wouldn’t you? And how …? Yes, you’re a sordid enough lot. Well, up yours!

  Toughened, haven’t I? There was the case of the actors, like I said. Everyone just had to admire them. So they were caught. Found out too late. So they didn’t all speak with a high-pitched lisp.

  ‘Shucks,’ as one corporal used always say as the little yellow being plummeted, faint scream … to his death.

  You don’t always know, do you? That’s the worst part for you. Take Mole here, the sleeping hunk beside me. Snores. And talks … Doesn’t dress ‘snazzy’. Remember the word? Of course. Especially you, Clancy. You were always using it. You had a great nasal twang to it. Would always bring a guffaw.

  The rest of you. Names? Doesn’t matter. Mine didn’t matter to you.

  Felix, Felix, the cat Felix.

  Prowls all night looking for dicks.

  Which of you made that up? Not much, poor rhyme, but it always got a laugh. Written on my desk in the final year. When the gibes were dying off. Subtlety creeping in, God help us!

  Yes. My English compositions. You loved to hear those read out. You could always down a swot. But the English comp! You had to admire. The few acquaintances … the few I had in the last year, were got on the strength of those. Fellows with a slight literary bent. Not friends, mind you. They wouldn’t risk that.

  I slept a bit more peacefully though, that last year. My star was beginning to rise. I could see yours fixed. The jobs you’d get. The settling down. Match talk. Pint talk. Woman talk.

  Woman friends? Of course I have. Admirers of my flamboyance, I’d say. Perhaps that’s a boast. You think? I have no shortage of company.

  I know you wish to know about Mole. What a name I’ve chosen for him while talking to you! Little figures from the past, I am pushing you one by one out the little hole. Watching you swirl. Saying, ‘Shucks’!

  Of course I’m only joking. You, I’ve forgiven. But I wish you wouldn’t follow me in my sleep. Tonight, for instance, I am here lying in sweaty sheets. You’ve recalled the clammy boyhood of a tortured youth – that’s more like it. The style of my compositions.

  But I’m not up to flowery stuff tonight. I’ll have to change or I’ll catch my death. I’m getting cold, sitting up her
e addressing you lot.

  Mole? A great hunk of a fellow! You’ve warmed to me, I can tell. It was that mention of the compositions. But I won’t embarrass you with my feelings. If I returned to that flowery prose God knows where it would stop.

  He’s my type. We get on well. Roles? Him, her? Of course. I’m ‘her’. You guessed that. You’ve reverted to the sniggering bunch again. Come on schoolboys, snap out of it!

  We don’t actually live together. Just meet from time to time. That way it’s not too dependent. And my research keeps me busy. I don’t think – I’m only guessing, mind – I use up as much sexual energy as the average married man. Now I could be wrong. So I have more drive for my work, my research. The actors I mentioned. All that energy into acting. Well, it’s a theory. And the mix of passions. Adds life. Flamboyance – I think that’s the word.

  Pity for you? No, I wasn’t being offensive. To me you died at eighteen. Round about then. Were sighted only on the periphery. Overestimate myself? Well maybe I do. That is for you to judge.

  Once I used to wish you’d all have sons who would turn out like me. Force you into torment. Force you to confront. But that is no longer my wish. I no longer care one way or the other.

  America … Yes, I’d like to go there for a few years. I have the qualifications. Mole here, well he’d get on well, out there, I think. But he’s happy as he is. I really criticise him fiercely at times, for leading such a double life. Rubs it off. Not as sensitive as me.

  But he’s great … Sorry, I promised. Not to embarrass.

  Now please depart and let me alone in my sleep. No more threats. No walking beside me, sniggering, while I race.