I can’t stop fidgeting, I know it’ll annoy him but I just can’t help it and I feel like being sick and it’s not just the whole bottle of Lucozade I drank. Now I’m blocking his view.
‘Shift! To the left.’ So I move to the left but his eyes are still drilling holes into the back of my head. I try again to concentrate. Christ, and people are surprised when I say I don’t like cowboys. ‘With his faithful Indian companion, Tonto, the daring and resourceful masked rider of the plains led the fight for law and order in the early west.’
He’s had enough, with me fidgeting away like a flibbertigibbet. ‘Right!’ He jumps up and strides to the telly, the one with the blanket covering it. ‘Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear. The Lone Range …’ He switches off the sound.
Now he’s facing me like his cowboy hero, legs apart, and pointing the sucking end of his pipe in my direction, spitting out bits of Peterson’s Old Dublin Tobacco, all sweet and disgusting. Peasant.
‘I’ve had the last straw with that hussy. You will not only not have her in this house, you will not see her again. End of story!’
‘You’re pulling my leg?’
‘Whilst you live under my roof, you will do as I say. Understood?’
‘It’s Mother’s roof, not yours.’
His face drops. Got you, you cunt!
‘You cheeky fucker! And you’re hers, not mine,’ he says, quick as a flash.
Now he’s got me. ‘What? What do you mean?’
The old man hesitates, thinks hard for a while. ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘You’re your mother’s special boy, aren’t you?’
‘You could have fooled me.’
‘Let me put it this way, Sonny Jim. I don’t want to have to sack Liam Cassidy because of you.’
Annie’s dad? I can’t believe it. Surely not. He’s not that cruel.
‘You heard.’
Now I’ve lost it and all the anger I’ve been holding in for years comes flying out and before I know it I’ve forgotten all the tricks I learnt at the Kilcullen Boxing Club and I am charging straight at him, right for his bollocks, yelling my lungs out, ‘Ahhhhhhh!’
‘Oi!’ The old man’s stunned for a second as I hit him hard in the balls. In a flash, he grabs me by the throat, shoves me against the wall and draws his huge hairy fist back, ready to punch. I’m delighted, thrilled, because then the whole world will know what a fucking animal he is by the bruises and the broken nose and teeth and black eyes.
Knock, knock!
The old man lets me go, a look of shock on his face. He can hardly move with fright, so I move myself very bloody fast and shove his fat fingers away from my throat and step back.
‘Come, come in,’ he says, trying to sound pipe-smoking calm but all shaky and clearing his throat.
Bridget pops her head in. ‘Boss? The new priest has arrived. Father Luke.’ I’m out the door in two seconds flat with Bridget following. In the hall is the new priest, Father Luke, waiting in a chair. He’s trying to look all relaxed and casual but he can’t be, not really. He must have heard about the old man. He’s probably terrified. ‘He’ll see you now, Father,’ says Bridget.
Father Luke leaps up all polite, too polite. ‘I’m so sorry, young man. Did I interrupt something?’
‘Yeah, actually. That fecker was just about to beat the living daylights out of me.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Pay no attention, Father,’ says Bridget. ‘What a family. Always a banter!’
‘I’m not joking, Bridget. He’d have killed me if you hadn’t interrupted.’
‘Ah now, don’t exaggerate, pet.’
‘I’m not exaggerating, you stupid bitch!’
‘Justin?’ I’m off down the passage like a scalded cat with Bridget’s worried shout chasing behind me: ‘Justin? Come back here. Justin!’
The gun room’s not locked. Inside it’s full of dead foxes’ masks, boxes of Eley cartridges, rows of gumboots, hunting crops and a gun case lined with green baize. Inside the case are four shotguns: a pair of the old man’s, one for Lucy and one for me. Still panting away with almost enjoyable anger, I remove my shotgun: the 20-bore Holland and Holland. Next, I grab a bandolier of ammo, throw it over my shoulder like Pancho Villa the Mexican bandit, and rush out, and I’m moving a lot faster than Mr John Bloody Wayne. I’ll fucking kill him. I want revenge and I want it now.
*
In the study, Cromwell watches with interest as Bobby Montague, trying to pull himself together, delivers the new priest his instructions. Bobby finds these types of meetings a pain. Why could the old priest, Father Flash, not have done his bloody handover properly and just told the man how to behave? It would save so much time and trouble.
‘Right, Father, down to business! If you have any problems, financial or otherwise, our door is always open.’
‘Thanks a million.’
‘A tree-planting, a case of claret, a spot of hunting for yourself. You do ride, of course?’
‘No, I don’t, I don’t really believe in …’
‘Never mind that! Anyway, even a new roof, I’m your man. The door is open as I …’
‘That’s wonderful.’
‘I haven’t finished.’ Bobby does not like being interrupted by lesser mortals. ‘I have only one rule. Mass will not last longer than thirty minutes.’
Father Luke is rocked. He cannot believe what he is hearing and starts to protest: ‘Begging your pardon, Bobby …’
‘Bobby, is it? If you don’t mind, I’m not missing The Lone Ranger and it’s already started. See you Sunday, Father.’ Bobby holds the door open, inviting the priest to leave, but the Rottweiler flies out instead. ‘Oi, come back! Cromwell! Come back. Jesus bloody Christ!’
The new priest is speechless. None of his training in the Mullingar seminary had prepared him for an encounter like this.
*
Up across the yard and I’ll have to tell Annie the terrible news and then I’ll go up into the woods where I’ll have to kill something or I’ll probably kill the old man as the pressure’s just too much. Suddenly I hear something behind me. ‘Ruff ruff!’ Oh no, that bloody mongrel is following me. Cromwell loves shooting but I normally remember to make sure he’s locked up so he can’t follow. Cromwell is not a gun dog, he’s a bloody nuisance, and he’ll just rush around frightening everything before I have a chance to fire.
‘Get lost! Home!’ But Cromwell flies past me and I know there’s nothing I can do. ‘Heel, you fucking mongrel. Heel!’
*
Father Luke cycles back up the avenue towards the main gates. His hands are sweating and slipping round the rubber handlebars. He fails to engage third gear and bashes his knee in the process. He cannot believe what has happened. As far as Luke knew from what he had been told by the older priests in Mullingar, he, like every other priest in Ireland, would rule the roost in his new parish. He had been assured that he would be able to tell his new parishioners how to behave, and he had been really, really looking forward to going to the local dances and making sure that unmarried couples did not get too close on the dance floor. Luke cycles faster and faster as he rides out through the main gate of The Hall and up towards his church.
Eight
Every action of our lives touches on some chord that will vibrate into eternity.
Sean O’Casey
Thursday, 27 June 1963
I’m outside the Cassidys’ house with Annie and I’ve told her quietly, in her front garden, what the old man has said. I told her not to worry, that we’ll meet on the sly, but that it’s real important everyone believes we’re sticking by the rules, even her parents. Annie shouts at me very realistically as I leave her garden. ‘So? You just give up, just like that?’ Good girl!
‘Annie? Annie! Come back inside, this instant!’ shouts her mother.
‘Sorry, Annie, sorry.’ I slink away, head down.
‘Ya little coward!’ screams Annie. What an actress.
*
In the Cassidys’ front room, sitting round the wooden kitchen table, Liam and Maureen watch Annie, concerned. Annie cannot hide her feelings from her parents and as much as she admires Justin’s bravery, she doesn’t really believe he has a hope in hell of winning any battle against his father.
‘He can’t do it, it’s not fair, he can’t!’
‘He can, and he has,’ says Liam, firmly.
‘He’s just a big fecking bully! This is the Sixties, not the Twenties. And I’m not staff.’
‘She has a point now, Liam,’ says her mother, kindly.
‘Maureen … Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you’re not helping. Annie, please – you’ll just have to make another friend. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Am I not good enough?’
‘You know you are, love,’ says Maureen. ‘But your dad’s got a point now. People from Justin’s background move in a different world. They’re like people from another planet, and they’ll never accept you, not in the way they should, anyway. Sad as it is, in no time at all you’ll be like strangers, you and Justin. That’s God’s own truth.’
‘Never, ever, ever!’ says Annie, not really wanting to believe something she had always known to be true.
‘And I cannot afford to lose my job,’ says Liam. ‘If you don’t believe me, look at the dole queue next time you pass. See how long it is. And where do you think we’d live if that happened? This is not our house.’
‘Why does God let the sun shine on some people and not on others?’
‘Well, pet,’ says Liam. ‘Why don’t you just swap places with Justin then?’
*
I’m stalking through the trees and some fucking pigeon is going to get it right up its hole.
Suddenly that stupid fecker Cromwell gallops ahead, barking away, scaring the birds who fly out of the trees at a hundred miles an hour in all directions. ‘Idiot!’ I scream. So, fast as lightning I put the gun to my shoulder and I fire twice at a distant and disappearing bird and … nothing. I missed by a bloody mile. Bugger! ‘Here Cromwell. Here, come here!’ I slump down on some soft old moss under the big oak tree on the edge of the forest and wait for the birds to return. Then I’ll get them, but I’m just boiling inside. Fucking pigeons.
Cromwell sits opposite, keeping his distance. He’s staring at me all worried as he knows anger when he sees it. He’s got that look that says, ‘Please, please say something nice and I’ll come and lick you all over and I’m sorry, I really am sorry, honest.’
‘Shit!’ I’m still thinking about the old man and I pick up some dirt and throw it at that fecking mongrel. But now he’s growling at me. Whoops, careful Justin. Don’t push your luck. He’s Gestapo after all. Hold on, hold on, I’ve got it. I’ve had a brainwave. I know how to get my revenge. I know exactly.
I grab the Holland and Holland, break it open and the two used cartridges fly out pop, pop, onto the grass. I pick up one used Eley 7-gauge cartridge and smell it. Lovely, that smell of cordite. I grab two fresh cartridges from my bandolier and slip them into the gun, all the time grinning at Cromwell with delight at what I’m about to do. I close the gun, clunk, push forward the safety catch, click, and put the gun to my shoulder and tuck it in, all snug-like. I raise the 20-bore all slow and now I can see right down the barrel, past the gunsight, straight at Cromwell. And the best bit? He’s staring at me all quizzical, with his head to one side, like he’s asking what I’m doing. You’ll soon find out, boyo.
*
Back at the kitchen table, Maureen rattles on with her memories. ‘I remember when he was born, Justin. A squashed tomato, that’s what he looked like. I mean, God, I’d never seen a baby before, although I was pregnant myself, of course. Her Ladyship was very kind and invited me up to see him. The Queen’s nurse came over, Nurse Rowe from London, and she stayed three weeks. The girls themselves used to come over and see me when they were small, too. Emma was always quiet, but Lucy always wanted to know everything, why you do this and why you do that …’
Slam! The door shuts and Annie disappears. Maureen looks up, surprised. ‘Holy Mother of God! Where’s she gone now?’ Maureen jumps up out of her chair, but before she can go anywhere, Liam takes her arm and sits her back down.
‘Leave her be, pet. Leave her be.’
Out in the garden, Annie hugs Delany for comfort. Delany keeps chewing. Bang! Bang! Two gunshots go off, way in the distance. Annie smiles to herself, thinking how funny it is that the boss man relieves his anger by bullying Paddy, and that Justin relieves his by shooting birds.
*
I feel better now, a whole lot better, as I walk into the entrance hall carrying the leather gun case and an old newspaper. I open the case on the hall table, remove the cleaning rods, the bristle brush and a tiny wool mop and the oil, and I lay everything neatly on the newspaper. I pick up the gun and break it into various sections. I’m thinking about Charlton, where the butler always ironed The Daily Telegraph before anyone read it so that we wouldn’t get ink on our fingers. Now I’m thinking of the old man’s strange habit of leaving typed notes everywhere.
One summer’s morning I went to the fridge and there was one of his messages sellotaped to the door:
‘If you let a fly in, please let him out again!’
Our area is full of flies, especially in a hot summer. This was partly because we had so many animals, especially the horrible Friesian cows who are always splattering their shitty pats everywhere. Obviously he’d opened the fridge door one day and a fly had flown out. But to leave a note about it seemed to me to be a little bloody weird, even for him.
‘Hey Justin, old cock?’ He’s leaning over the stairs looking down, speaking all cheery. Good. He’s obviously feeling guilty and so he bloody well should. ‘How did it go? Get anything? Another left and right?’
‘Cromwell messed it up by running all over, scaring the pigeons.’
‘Sorry about that. He just ran out before I could catch him.’ All right, enough of the polite stuff. I can’t get used to it. Let me get on with my cleaning.
‘Anyway, where is he?’ asks the old man. I keep cleaning the gun without looking up. Fuck him. I’m not going to answer.
‘Am I talking to a wall? Where’s my effing dog?’
‘I shot him.’
‘Don’t smart-arse me.’
I go to the pantry door open it and yell. ‘Cromwell? Here, you big German lout. Your lord and master awaits you.’ Cromwell comes flying through the door and up to the old man who bends down to meet the love of his life, all because I didn’t have the guts to pull the fecking trigger. Now Cromwell is kissing him on the lips. I mean, the dog licks his own arse and even his bollocks and then he licks the old man on the face. Yuck. ‘He could be carrying all kinds,’ says I, thoroughly disgusted. Ignoring my health warning, he walks off with his mongrel but can’t resist another attempt at being friendly.
‘Oh by the by, I sorted the new priest. We should have no problems on Sunday. Hah!’
‘Hah,’ says I, and make a V-sign at his hairy departing back.
We’re going to miss Father Flash, our old priest. He was ‘a gas man’ as they say, and apparently quite serious when he first arrived. But he mellowed over the years. Before he came to our parish, Flash used to be based in the west of Ireland and once told me a great story about his Saturday confession. This one farmer, Mick, had been hanging around the confessional for a couple of Saturdays, but had shown no interest whatsoever in entering the box to confess his sins. This confused Father Flash, who decided to confront him. ‘Michael Healy? You’ve been lurking around my confessional every Saturday for three whole weeks and you haven’t so much as poked your head inside. What are you up to, Michael? I want the truth now, boy.’
‘Well now, Father, the truth it is you want? I’m waiting to hear who stole my effing load of hay. That’s the truth.’ Someone had fecked a load of hay from Mick’s farm and Mick was convinced that if he hung around long enough he would eventually hear the culprit confess.
>
Father Flash was very fond of hunting and even owned a racehorse that the old man had given him. The horse was called Slow Melody and that’s exactly what he was, slow. To be fair he wasn’t that slow. He just didn’t like racing. In a fit of pique, the old man had decided he was going to send Slow Melody to be eaten by the hounds of the Kilcullen Harriers as he would never win a race. But Father Flash had a soft spot for the horse and asked if he could keep him as a hunter.
The old man, mystified, demanded to know where Flash was going to keep Slow Melody. ‘I don’t want to see that bloody animal anywhere near my fields. All he does is remind me of all the money I wasted trying to get him to actually win a race.’
‘The Good Lord will provide,’ answers Flash. And he did. For the want of a field, Father Flash kept the horse in the graveyard where there was plenty of lush green grass between the graves. And the funniest thing was, Slow Melody took to hunting like a duck to water. Father Flash became the envy of the Kilcullen Harriers as he tore across the countryside at full pelt.
The old man just loved being Master of the Kilcullen Harriers because it meant he was in charge and could feel really important and boss everyone around. But one day he got his comeuppance. A while ago we had a man working at home, called Brendan Plant. Now Brendan was a superb rider and could even, according to all the lads, have made the Irish team for three-day eventing if he hadn’t had such a drink problem. Brendan was once in terrible trouble for missing a day’s work. He was somewhere in Dublin, scuttered drunk, and unable to get home. So he was fined a week’s wages and just had to accept it as there weren’t any other jobs around, especially for a drunk. But Brendan didn’t forget.
The House of Slamming Doors Page 7