The House of Slamming Doors

by Mark Macauley

  This turf was cut by the lads from our very own patch, then transported down to the yard on a tractor and trailer and piled up in the turf shed. Afterwards, Jack Cully, an old IRA man whose job it was to polish and bone all the hunting boots and make sure all the fires were laid and the stoves lit, would use a wheelbarrow to bring the turf into the entrance hall and fill the turf basket. Then it was the job of all the dogs in the house to fetch the pieces of turf into whichever room needed it.

  Generally we had lots of dogs at The Hall. But when Cromwell arrived, he ruled the roost and the other dogs, labradors and Jack Russell terriers, were never replaced when they died because Cromwell wouldn’t allow it. So before the reign of Cromwell, the old man had all the labs and Jack Russells trained up. Having noticed that a fire in a certain room needed more fuel he would let out a huge roar: ‘Turf! Turf! Turf!’

  All the dogs would immediately fly into the entrance hall yapping away with excitement, skidding round the corners and leap into the turf basket. They would then grab a piece of turf in their mouths and rush back into the old man, wagging their tails at how clever they were. The problem for the terriers was that sometimes the turf would be too big and they would get stuck trying to get a long piece round a bend or through a door. Sometimes they ended up dragging a piece round and round in circles because it was too heavy and they just couldn’t carry it. There was no way they were going to let go, because they were terriers after all.

  When I was born there was a very sweet, bristly little Jack Russell terrier who came from the local vicar. He was only a year older than me and didn’t really show much interest in anyone until I appeared on the scene. For some reason, Boozer, as he was called, decided he belonged to me. Or more likely, I belonged to him. (Boozer was so named because he was always licking the tops of empty beer bottles when he was a puppy.) Anyway, Boozer decided that we belonged to each other and would snarl at anyone who came too close to my cot when I was a baby. He would stand guard and was finally allowed to sleep in the nursery.

  When I got a little bigger, Boozer and I had a really good time together, although he could easily become distracted. Boozer could smell sex miles away and whenever he disappeared for a couple of days nobody was worried. We all knew what he was up to. Eventually Boozer would stagger back towards The Hall, shagged out, and weighing about five pounds less. Having been let in again he would slump down in front of the fireplace, generally in the study, and fall fast asleep for about twenty-four hours. You could put a raw steak or even an open box of Laura Secord chocolates right in front of his nose and he wouldn’t even blink, I swear to God.

  Boozer was very faithful. Once I had a row with Mum. It wasn’t really her fault: I’d put a banger in her cigarette and she was none too pleased. It was early evening and we were alone in the drawing room with Boozer. After her gold Cocktail Sobranie exploded, Mum leapt up off the sofa and tried to belt me. I grabbed her wrists and held firm so that she couldn’t. At that point Boozer leaps up himself and starts to snarl, really angry. Mum was delighted. She reckoned that Boozer was going to bite me because she was always feeding the dogs titbits so they would love her more than anyone else.

  So Mum shouts out all triumphant:

  ‘Now you’ll pay, you dreadful little brat!’

  But Boozer had other ideas – after a moment’s pause for some major Jack Russell decision-making, he bounded across the floor and seized hold of Mum’s left ankle. Boozer didn’t really sink his teeth in because he wasn’t a vicious dog, but Mum was devastated by his disloyalty and refused to feed him chocolates ever again. I don’t think Boozer really cared. He was much more interested in having sex.

  When I was younger and the old man turned on me, I used to get upset and I wouldn’t know what to do. Whenever I tried to talk to someone, anyone, I would generally get the same bloody answer. ‘Ah now, don’t worry your father.’

  I had no one to turn to. I had to do something. Eventually I figured out a solution: I would talk to Boozer. I used to lie down on the lawn and pour my heart out to him and although I don’t think he understood, he was a damn sight better listener than everyone bloody else. I think he stopped me from going totally mad.

  It was horrible when Boozer died but I am glad I was there when it happened. I came home last Christmas holidays, just before the big freeze had set in. Poor old Boozer had become so old he was nearly blind and totally deaf and no longer recognized me. It was hard for me to look at him as I was really choked. When I went up and stroked him, he suddenly got excited and jumped up and down as much as he could. He must have recognized my smell.

  On Christmas Day, we woke to find the ground covered in a blanket of snow higher than anyone had ever seen it. You could not see any green whatsoever, anywhere. Bridget appeared at breakfast full of tears and asked me to go with her into one of the greenhouses. I was stunned. There was the body of poor old Boozer laid out on a bench, stiff as a board. Liam had been driving back from midnight Mass on Christmas Eve through the first blizzard and Boozer, totally blind and deaf as he was, had walked out under the Jaguar that Liam had borrowed for the evening. Bridget said that Liam was very upset and asked me if I wouldn’t mind going up and telling him it wasn’t his fault. So I dried my tears as best as I could and went up to see Liam and told him I didn’t blame him. I am a good actor if needs must. When I was giving Liam the little speech and even though I was smiling sympathetically, I wanted to kill him for murdering my friend, even though I knew it wasn’t his fault.

  The big thaw didn’t happen until the end of March. By the time we arrived back from school, the vast amounts of snow had melted. We couldn’t understand why a taxi had been sent to pick us up from the airport and deliver us home, but we realized very quickly when we arrived at the main gates to The Hall. There was an old rowing boat to meet us with Liam in charge. It was one of the lifeboats, a tender, from our yacht, the Diana. We loaded all our suitcases into the rowing boat, put on some life jackets and off we went. As Liam set a course for the house I strained my eyes but I couldn’t spot the avenue itself. It had disappeared. The Liffey had flooded its banks and it was just water, water, water, as far as the eye could see.

  For the next couple of weeks the lads who lived past the main gates away from the estate, had to come to work by boat. One day while we were still at school there was a bit of a swell on the water because of the wind, and poor old Paddy Kelly got seasick. Another time apparently, the old man got very emotional because one of his dirty Friesian cows was swept away down the river. At least it was clean when it died.

  Winter

  Fifteen

  A child miseducated is a child lost.

  John F. Kennedy

  Saturday, 16 November 1963

  I stare with disgust at the sign on the wall: ‘Hampshire House School for Young Gentlemen.’ Beside it is the postbox. I kiss the envelope for luck and slip it through the opening.

  I don’t like it here at school in England. First, I am away from all my friends. And second, I am bored. The old man has always told me that I am stupid and will never get to Oxford like him and I should concentrate on sports instead. So that’s what I do, and I’m not half bad at running probably because I spent a childhood drinking Lucozade and flying round the garden like Ronnie.

  Here comes good old stuttering George, Hampshire’s most miserable postman, arriving dead on time to deliver the school post. Please God, let him have a letter for me. And not the usual monthly newsletter from the old man, although they’re quite entertaining, I hate to admit. I want one, just one single letter from Annie. I haven’t had any for ages, which is just not like her and makes me sad.

  The newsletters from the old man to Lucy and Emma, who are at a convent in Ascot near the racecourse, surprise, surprise, and the newsletter to myself, are exactly the same. The old man types the letter, copying it three times. The only difference between them is that he writes the Dear Justin and the Love Dad in his own hand.

  The Hall,

 
Rathpeader,

  Near Kilcullen,

  County Kildare,

  Telephone: Kilcullen 211.

  Dear Justin,

  I hope you are well and working hard. You had better do as your mother and I have spent a fortune on your educations, I’ll have you know. And the fees have gone up again.

  Things here at The Hall are good all round, although the weather is lousy, as per bloody usual. Christ, if it wasn’t for the cheap taxes, your mother and I would go back and live in England near your stuck-up relations. At least we’d have some efficient services. Talking of services, Andy the postman has just been given a van to replace his bicycle. Pity he hasn’t got a bloody driving license. Jesus, what is this country coming to?

  And talking of taxes, I had an inspector down here the other day, a junior one at that, and can you credit it, he turned up without an appointment. Cheeky sod! I told him to go back to his office and not to come back until he had one. Guess what? He refused to leave until he’d had a look at my books. Well, that was the end of that, I can tell you. I told him he could bugger off my land, otherwise he’d end up in the Liffey like the last inspector I had a run-in with. He was off like a scared rabbit, double bloody quick!

  Night Train runs next week at Navan in a three-mile handicap hurdle. He has a very good chance as he’s well in at the weight if that idiotic jockey, Brennan, doesn’t get a fit of the slows. I am a little worried about Brennan. I’m not sure his nerves are holding.

  Talking of nerves, your mother has bought me this enormous grey horse as a birthday present. He’s called Gandalf. There he was, Gandalf, on my very birthday, standing in the yard with a huge red ribbon round his neck. I would never have bought him, not in a million years. He’s got a wild eye, and if you know anything about horses, you’d only have to take one look at him to realize you shouldn’t buy him. Maybe she does know and she’s trying to kill me? Ha ha.

  Anyway all the lads were watching, so I had to get on him, otherwise I’d look like a complete coward. And boy, was I right about the wild eye. He’s a nutter. He tried to scrape me off straight away by backing against the milking-shed door. But what can I do? Your mother, bless her, has obviously made such an effort to find him and I cannot let her down, so I am taking him hunting next Wednesday at Dunlavin. Luckily, I have had a terrific idea which will sort him out before the meet starts. Danny Keogh is going to trot Gandalf to Dunlavin, all of fifteen miles. ‘That’ll learn him’ as they say in this part of the world. Gandalf will be banjaxed by the time I get on him, and hopefully he’ll have learned his lesson. And if he hasn’t, I’ll get Danny to trot him all the way back.

  Anyway, we’re off to Dublin just now, lunch at the Russell, then a movie – Call Me Bwana, starring Bob Hope.

  Cromwell is on flying form you’ll be pleased to hear, although he was in trouble last week with a local farmer, Liam Heggarty. Cromwell decided that Heggarty’s sheep looked tasty and killed two of them. Greedy bugger! Heggarty, of course, charged me double price for damages. Bloody money-grabbing Irish, as usual. You can’t trust them, can you?

  Love from your mother,

  Dad

  PS Good news! Some lads from the council have been tarmacking the road outside the main gates. I’ve had a word and asked if they’d like to earn a few extra bob at the weekend. They said yes instantly. They’re not stupid. Next Saturday they are going to bring the steamroller and tarmac machine up the avenue into the garden and lay us a tennis court. What do you think of that? In the strawberry beds. All-weather no less, and easy to keep. Get practising!

  PPS That mad Macdonald from up the road came here the other day with his two daughters. They should be well ready to lose their virginity by now, after all that riding to meets. Hah!

  Mad Macdonald lived near to us and had two cute daughters and loads of money. But he would never buy a horse box, even though some of the hunt meets he went to were over twenty miles away. As a result Macdonald and his daughters used to ride all they way to the meets. The old man once asked him why he didn’t buy a box? Macdonald had a simple answer. ‘When my daughters get married I want them well ready for it. If they get to trot their horses miles and miles to every meet that’ll help. They’ll be all prepared, so to speak, with the long hours spent in the saddle.’

  ‘For what?’ asked the old man, somehow realizing he already knew the answer but hoping he didn’t.

  ‘For the marriage bed, Bobby. So they’re nicely opened up and it won’t hurt them!’

  *

  Bobby Montague is at his desk, having just finished the monthly letter to the children. He is now wondering if he can come up with a brilliant scheme to make some serious money out of his wife’s fortune, to prove to her family trustees that he is a super-smooth businessman and not the hillbilly they have always thought him to be. Bobby stares out the window. He is easily distracted.

  Outside, Gandalf trot-canters past, mostly sideways, being ridden by Danny Keogh, who looks terrified. Donal drives into the yard in the Jaguar and Annie Cassidy, carrying an envelope, appears at the same time.

  As Donal gets out of the car, Annie greets him, cheeky as usual. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheridan,’ says Annie.

  ‘You’re a bold girl, Annie Cassidy. And what are up to? Some kind of mischief, no doubt.’

  ‘If you must know, Mr Sheridan, I’m posting a letter to the man I’m going to marry – Master Justin Alexander Torquhil Edward Peregrine Montague.’

  ‘I warned you, you little brat! Stay away from him.’

  Annie trots off, laughing. ‘It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to, cry if I want to …’

  Donal is livid. But a wicked smile spreads across his face. He makes a decision. He removes his hat, replaces the smile with a forced frown, and strides purposefully towards the house.

  Bobby watches as Annie goes to the estate letterbox on the wall, kisses the envelope and tries to slip it into the slot. Clumsy as usual, she drops the letter instead. Laughing, she picks it up and pops it into the box.

  Bobby, shaking his head at the stupidity of the girl, goes back to his thoughts. Moments later, there is a knock on the study door. Bobby is grateful for the interruption. ‘Come in!’ he booms.

  Donal walks in. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘It is a good morning Donal, and lovely and quiet without that bloody idiot Justin running around, driving me mad.’

  ‘Well, sir. It’s Justin I wanted to talk to you about, sir.’

  ‘Justin’s at school in England.’

  ‘It’s about what was going on behind your back, sir, before he left and even now, that is. It’s more than my job’s worth, sir.’

  ‘What the bloody hell are you blathering on about?’ Bobby is frustrated. He can never understand why the Irish don’t just get straight to the point.

  Minutes later, steaming with indignation, Bobby strides across the yard. ‘Jesus, bloody Christ, that little fucker! You’ve had it this time. Oh yes, you fucking have!’

  He knows in his heart that aside from killing Justin, there is nothing much he can do. If he takes his anger out on Helen, she’ll leave him: and if he doesn’t do something, he’ll just explode.

  Bobby unlocks the letterbox, rummages around and pulls out an envelope.

  ‘Think I’m stupid? We’ll soon see about that, you little cunt!’ Tearing up the envelope as he walks to the back door, he drops the pieces in an outside bin, walks in, and slams the door behind him.

  *

  It’s breakfast in St James’ House and there’s silence until we’re given permission to speak. Me and Norton II, the youngest of the snotty English boys, have to serve as it’s our first year in the big school. Our fat kinky housemaster, Mr Macadam, wearing shorts and long yellow shooting socks with brown garters, sits at top table. Now he rises, holding the post, and I’m watching him, really hoping for a letter. Please God let me have one, just one, and I won’t ask again. And now he’s calling out the names, and the boys are going up for to get their letters.
/>
  ‘Calthorpe. Buckley. Chumley-Watson. Hesketh II. Vaughan. Williams. Norton I. Tempest.’

  Then he stops and sits back down. Oh no, that’s it. I know it.

  ‘You may speak!’ shouts Mr Macadam and a huge chatter erupts all around. Speaking is the last thing I want to do. I’m feeling so sad and I just want to go home. People often say to me that I must love it at school in England because I can escape the wrath of the old man, but it’s not true: I’d rather be at home as he’s not always bad, especially when I get things right. Sometimes the parentals go off on holiday and then everything’s perfect and we can have the run of The Hall, which is brilliant.

  I can’t eat and I’m not allowed Lucozade and I just wish I had the nerve to run away and disappear to Spain or somewhere hot. That fat spotty git, Adams, with his stuck-up English voice, is staring hard and I know he’s going to have a go.

  ‘Hey, Montague?’ he says, really, really loud and now everyone’s watching. ‘No letters, poor thing? Although, come to think of it, can anyone in Ireland actually write? Rumour has it Oliver Cromwell burnt all the bog men with brains. Not that it was a very big fire, was it?’

  And now they’re all laughing at me.

  I remember the first time I arrived here in England. My school then was called Junior House and it was the preparatory school for Hampshire House School. All the boys at Junior House were really young, between seven and thirteen, at which stage you took your Common Entrance and moved into the big school, presuming you passed, that is. The old man had decided that I should start a little earlier at the age of six as it would ‘sort you out and stop you being so wild’.