One day in the middle of winter, Declan took me down to a fishing spot at a place called Polauphouca, which is Irish for ‘the devil’s hole’. So there we were fishing away with these poor minnows hooked up alive to tempt the pike, when suddenly this enormous monster grabs the line. It took me about half an hour to get the bloody fish in. My fingers were frozen and I was exhausted. Mind you, so was the poor pike. We put the dead pike with all its huge crocodile teeth into the bucket between my knees on the passenger’s side of Declan’s old car and we drove home, thrilled: at least I was thrilled until the pike suddenly came alive and leapt out of the bucket onto my knees. I nearly died of fright. We ate the pike the next day as kedgeree with eggs and rice and all that. It was delicious.
Sometimes in the summer, especially on a Thursday, I would go and shoot a rabbit and run straight away as quick as I could down to the river. Then I would take the rabbit and hang it with a piece of string, which I had stolen from the old potting-shed. I would hang the rabbit upside down by its back legs right over the clear river water with the blood all dripping down. In no time at all the flies would be swarming round and then all the trout and perch would come to get to the flies. Very soon I would have a bank full of lovely fresh fish, which I would take home and stick in the fridge to save for eating the next day, a Friday. I loved cutting off the heads and tails and removing the slimy guts with my middle fingers.
We always had fish on Fridays. We weren’t allowed anything else. If we bought the fish from a shop, it was generally days old and smelt rotten. Donal’s driving didn’t really help – it could be fresh when he collected it in Dublin and rotten by the time he eventually got back to The Hall. If I remembered to go fishing on a Thursday and come back with a big enough basket to feed the family on the Friday, I was the most popular person in the house. Nobody shouted at me on those days. No way, Jose.
The river that runs through our land is called the Liffey and it flows out of the mountains right past us and on to Dublin and then into the Irish Sea. It looks filthy in Dublin, although, to be fair, that could just be the strong tides stirring all the sand and mud from the bottom. But where it comes through our land, the Liffey is really great. And I don’t just fish there: I swim.
When we get a hot summer like last year, the river is brilliant. I would go down with Lucy at least twice a day. We’d run down the avenue through a small narrow iron gate and get into the Daisy Meadows, which meant brushing past all these nettles, then down to the beach. Honestly, we have a beach with real sand, right where the water is shallow and rushes past. From there we could either float down left into the deep pool full of trout and perch, or walk up to the right where there was a lovely area just like a large swimming pool called Magee’s Pool. Apparently it was named after a man called Magee who drowned when fishing there. If you followed the river from there and went uphill, you would come to the source of the river near Mount Kippure, whereas if you followed the river in the other direction, you would travel about sixty-five miles and end up in Dublin.
From the age of seven I used to catch the bus by myself all the way to Dublin and get off, walk to O’Connell Street, and go to have egg and chips. There’s nothing like egg and chips. If they were going to execute me tomorrow like poor Kevin Barry, I would order egg and chips as my final meal. After the egg and chips, which were sometimes covered in sugar, I would probably go to the Grafton Cinema and then finally finish the day in an amusement arcade. I loved this particular machine where you had a steering wheel and you drove a car faster and faster on this television until it crashed. I wasn’t ever very good at it but it was great fun and made a fantastic noise when you had a pile-up.
One time when I was just nine I got chatting away in the arcade to an interesting man who told me that he also enjoyed the cars. While we were chatting he told me how he was in charge of the camera at all the sporting events for Telefís Éireann. Then he turned the chat to what I was up to.
‘It’s really hard, isn’t it?’
‘No, not really, I’m just not very good at it,’ says I, all modest.
‘No, not that. This!’ he says, as it suddenly dawns on me that he’s touching my dick from outside my shorts and I hadn’t even noticed. Dirty bastard! So I made my excuses and left, very bloody sharp, and took the bus home.
I was dying to tell everyone about this weirdo but I didn’t dare. If I had done I could just imagine the old man making a big song and dance, probably at a dinner party where I would be hanging around being made to serve drinks to show what a great job he had done bringing up his children. There would be a lull in the conversation and he’d say something like: ‘Did you hear about Justin the other day? He was picking up old queers in O’Connell Street. Jesus, he’ll have to grow up quick and stop looking like a big girl!’
Thirteen
This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.
Oscar Wilde
Sunday, 30 June 1963
It is evening at The Hall, but still light. A flight of pigeons swoops across the shadowed roof, heading for the safety of the forest to rest up for the night. Justin walks fast towards the front door.
Just around the corner, the Jaguar pulls up in the yard. Bridget and Annie get out. Bridget takes her shopping and walks towards the house, calling over her shoulder: ‘Bye Annie, thanks Donal. Thanks a million now.’
‘My pleasure, Bridget,’ says Donal, in his usual Kerry drawl.
‘Thanks, Mr Sheridan,’ says Annie, not pushing it too far.
‘A word, please?’ Annie stops. ‘Stay away from Justin,’ says Donal, firmly.
‘What? Why?’
‘Because the boss man said so, and because you should know your place.’
‘Which, which place?’ Annie is shocked.
‘You are one of us, Annie. Not one of them.’
Annie feels like she’s been stabbed in the heart. ‘Yes sir. I’ll remember. And hopefully one day, when Mr Montague dies and Master Justin takes over, I’m sure he’ll give me a job, as a parlour maid.’ She storms off. Donal shakes his head. She will get her comeuppance, he thinks to himself. She needs to learn a lesson before it’s too late.
In the dining room at The Hall, Emma, Lucy, Helen, Bobby and Cromwell are eating. There’s a pregnant silence. Bobby wants everything to be normal. He hopes that, if he says nothing, the problem will just disappear. And it would, if he didn’t have that damn cigarette case. Lucy, worried about her father, cracks a joke to cheer him up. ‘Knock knock?’
No answer.
‘Dad? Come on, man! Knock, knock?’
‘Go on. Who’s there?’
‘Siobhan.’
‘Siobhan who?’
‘Shove on your knickers, your mother’s coming.’ Bobby laughs weakly as the door opens.
*
I’m late and I’ll be in trouble but then I always am, so who gives a shit? I open the door and everyone stares at me and I blurt out, ‘Sorry, sorry.’
Feck it! I’m beginning to sound like a bloody Englishman.
‘Hello, old cock. Where have you been?’ asks the old man. Are you fucking kidding? Why’s he being so nice? Is he drunk?
‘Town,’ says I, all cautious.
‘Dublin?’
‘Yup. To see a film.’
Now it’s Mum’s turn to shock me. ‘Did you have a good time, darling?’
‘Yeah, yes, thanks.’
‘Ah, let me guess. Hud?’ asks the old man, all excited.
‘No Dad. The Birds. Hitchcock. Real scary.’
‘Don’t you like Westerns?’ asks the old man, looking disappointed. I shake my head.
‘Extraordinary.’
It’s all quiet now and nobody’s saying anything and Mary the new maid is clearing and the old man is watching her, all leery like. ‘Where’s Bridget?’
‘It’s her afternoon off, sir.’
‘She had one last week.’
‘No, sir. Excuse me, sir. That was the week before, it was, sir.’
&nbs
p; ‘All right. Don’t stand there, gawping. Pour Her Ladyship’s wine.’
‘Sir.’
Then Mum says something quite extraordinary. ‘No. I’m fine, just fine.’
‘Time for the news then.’ The old man gets up and lumbers to the door, followed by Cromwell. Even Cromwell looks subdued. He seems to have forgotten all about this morning, thank God, when I slobbered at him through the window of the Jag.
‘I’ll join you in a minute, darling, I promise,’ says Her Majesty. What the fuck is going on? Everyone’s behaving so oddly.
The door shuts and I’m lost. ‘What’s up? Why’s he being so nice?’
‘He’s always nice to you, darling,’ says Mum, sweet as anything.
‘Since when?’
‘I know he shouts sometimes but it means nothing. He adores you.’
‘I’ll remember that, Mother, next time he calls me a useless little fucker.’ Now I feel better. I’ve added some real conversation to the table and I’m on a flow and I turn to the sisters with the gossip. ‘Hey uglies? I met a pervert.’
‘Where?’ asks Emma, all a tremor for some reason. Before I can answer, Mum tries to change the subject, just when it’s becoming interesting.
‘Do you think I should give Bridget more days off?’
‘Mother?’ says Emma, with that hard look she gets sometimes.
‘Yes darling?’
‘Do you even know where the kitchen is?’
‘That’s very unkind.’
‘And Justin,’ says Lucy, quick as a flash.
‘Yes darling?’ says I, just as witty.
‘Do you even know what a pervert is?’
‘He was shaking and had wet clammy hands and wouldn’t let go.’
‘Yuck,’ says Lucy.
‘That’s a pervert, isn’t it?’
Mum gets up to leave. ‘I’d better keep your father company.’
‘That’ll make a change,’ spits Emma, sticking the knife in. We often give Mum a hard time when the old man’s not around.
Mum, ignoring Emma, walks to the door slowly. ‘Where was he?’ asks Lucy, very insistent.
‘Whom?’
‘The perv, man!’ Mum’s still at the door, listening.
‘The Shelbourne. He said I was good looking and gave me ten pounds.’
‘Dirty bastard! Next time you call the guards. Christ!’ says Lucy.
Now something really peculiar happens. Emma stares at Mum with a look that would skin a rabbit. ‘This time, sadly, I don’t think the police are necessary. Are they, Mother?’
Mum stares daggers back at Emma. ‘I never knew you could be so disloyal.’
‘Dear pot, love kettle,’ replies Emma.
‘Have you any idea what it was like to go through the war? Have you any concept what it cost me to bring you and your two siblings into the world? The pain of childbirth? Wait until you try, Saint Emma!’ Mum is on a furious roll and leaves, slamming the door.
Lucy’s outraged and amused at the same time. ‘I love that. Pops us out like farts and hands us straight to nannies. Bloody martyr! She thinks a nappy’s a new kind of cocktail.’
Now we’re all laughing and I think it’s the perfect time for my new joke, the one Annie just told me. ‘Hey, what was the guard doing up the tree?’
‘Go on,’ says Lucy.
‘Looking for the Special Branch.’
‘That’s years old, man.’
‘Sorry, man.’
‘But Justin, how did you meet him?’ asks the oldest sister, all suspicious.
‘Who?’
‘The pervert.’
‘He knew Annie.’
‘Annie?’ Says Lucy. ‘You were with Annie? Jesus!’
‘You’re crazy, man. The old man’ll kill you,’ says Lucy.
‘We were in the Lord Mayor’s Lounge, having tea.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘English. Yeah, and he was called …’
‘Roger?’ asks Emma. I’m too surprised to speak.
*
Helen enters the study but Bobby doesn’t look up. He continues watching the news on the two televisions while holding up the cigarette case, waiting for Helen to take it. ‘It’s not what you think,’ she says to his unmoving back.
‘What does it matter?’
‘It matters to me. I didn’t want to have to tell you. After all, Bobby, I created the problem, not you. He wants to see his son. That’s why I went to meet him.’ Helen pauses. ‘He said if I didn’t, he’d come to The Hall, find Justin, and introduce himself.’
‘He what? I don’t believe it. Is he mad? Are you telling the truth? I’m coming to the end of my tether, Helen. I really am. I’m not going to just stand by and watch …’
‘About bloody time,’ whispers Helen under her breath.
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing.’ Helen feels there has been enough emotion expressed and sits down in the armchair next to Bobby’s. She speaks gently, in a voice that always gets her what she wants. ‘Bobby? I’d love one of your special martinis. Would you mind terribly? Please?’
‘Get one yourself. I’m not your blasted butler, thank you very bloody much.’
Autumn
Fourteen
I’ve never let my school interfere with my education.
Mark Twain
Thursday, 5 September 1963
We’re on the way down the avenue, Emma and Lucy and me. The Aer Fungus Viscount doesn’t leave for another three hours. But by the time Donal gets us to Dublin airport, it could be bloody midnight. I hate leaving home even when the old man is in residence, but I love going on the plane. This time we’re going First Class, thank God. I am sure the old man only puts us in First because he feels guilty packing us off to school in England.
As the Jag bumps gently over the large potholes, I stare out at the Liffey running alongside the road and I think back to just a few months ago when the weather went totally wild and our land turned to water. Last winter was the most savage Ireland had seen for 200 years. It began freezing on Christmas Day and didn’t really thaw until March. From Boxing Day onwards the old man was very busy as there were all sorts of problems on the farm: animals dying, pipes freezing and bursting, staff sick and not able to come to work. Worst of all for him, he couldn’t get to Dublin to go to the cinema. I think he was suffering from severe John Wayne withdrawal. I didn’t give a hoot and absolutely loved it. The snow was so high it was incredible.
Finally, after three weeks of misery and an awful lot of moaning, the old man ordered one of the lads, Jimmy Duffy, to use a tractor with a front loader to shift the massive piles of snow. It took three days to push a clear path all of two miles up to the main road. Then we got the Jag out and drove all the way to Dublin to go to the Russell and then to the cinema. On the way we passed loads of vehicles, especially trucks, just abandoned in the ditches.
It took about four hours, this journey, as we kept getting stuck and sliding into drifts. When we finally got there we made a brief stop at Smith’s of the Green. We were late for lunch at the Russell so the old man, having parked the Jag outside Smith’s with the engine running, asked me to sprint in and get two magnums of Mum’s special champagne, Krug 1953, and put it on his account. When I politely asked for the two magnums and stated my name, the staff hesitated. I had wet trousers up to my knees and was now filthy from having helped to push the car when we got stuck. The staff called for the snooty manager, who appeared, full of grandeur in his morning coat, and asked for some form of identification as he ‘couldn’t just hand over the most expensive Krug’ to someone he didn’t recognize. Oh dear me, no.
I wasn’t used to people questioning who I was. I mean, Ireland is a small place and I thought everyone knew who we were. So I just said: ‘Sorry, I don’t have any identification. I’m twelve years old.’
‘I am sorry too, young man. Smith’s of the Green could not possibly just release two bottles of their finest without knowing who you are. Especia
lly as you are, if you don’t mind me saying, wearing such a strange get-up.’
Oh for fuck’s sake. At this point all the people in the shop were staring at me like I was a Dublin gurrier. On top of this, I was also getting worried as the old man was now hooting the horn and would kill me if I didn’t come out with the bubbles. Just at that moment I had one of my brilliant ideas. I dropped my trousers and turned around and pulled back the top half of my underpants to show the stupid manager my school name tag: J.A.T.E.P. Montague.
After the initial embarrassment the manager decided to accept my ID and send me on my way as fast as possible, clutching the two incredibly expensive magnums of Krug.
The Aer Lingus air hostess, Dolores, who is totally gorgeous, has given me a smoked salmon sandwich and keeps stroking my hair. The propellers have just started but I can’t hear what she’s saying because of the terrible racket and I don’t care because I am not listening, just staring. She has bigger bubbly doops than Bridget and she can lean as close as she likes, thinking she’s being motherly. Personally I’m getting a little excited but as I have a First-Class blanket over my knees there is no way she can tell. Otherwise, I’d probably be getting a whack around the head instead.
I stare out the oval windows of the Aer Lingus Viscount and try to distract myself from the Aer Lingus breasts by watching the hares bouncing around on the grass. Dublin Airport has always had an invasion of huge hares. My first nanny, Sissy, used to tell us how they were ‘making Marmite’, but now I’m a little older I’m not sure I believe her. We’re off now, flying away and turning out over Dublin Bay, heading towards bloody England and bloody school.
Back home during that terrible spell last winter, me, Annie and the local lads built snowmen and had snowball fights. I mean, sure, it was freezing cold, but the winters in Ireland were never exactly warm so it didn’t really bother us. Even at The Hall we didn’t have central heating, just fires in all the main rooms. Of course we didn’t use coal like the English. We used turf, cut from the Wicklow Mountains, and we had a huge store full.
The House of Slamming Doors Page 11