The House of Slamming Doors

by Mark Macauley

  So here I am about to take the final leap when I hear this bloody song and I can’t get it out of my head. ‘It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to, cry if I want to, cry if I want to. You would cry too, if it happened to you.’ Bloody disloyal bitch who hasn’t even bothered to write me a fecking letter. She’s still in my bloody head.

  ‘Oh bollocks. Fuck everybody. Fuck the lot of ya!’ I am going to jump. That’s it. Fuck you all – Annie, the old man, Mum, even the sisters and all those other bloody people who just wouldn’t listen, like fat old Cook, trying to keep the peace just so as she doesn’t get yelled at herself.

  ‘Ah now, don’t worry the boss, me little gossoon.’

  Or Bridget trying to keep me from cracking up by making him seem nicer than he really is.

  ‘He’s not that bad, really, your dad. He shouts and roars but then he forgets it in no time.’

  Or Mum, telling the biggest lie of all.

  ‘I know he shouts sometimes, but it means nothing, darling. He adores you.’

  They’ll all be sorry and I hope they feel really, really guilty. And if they give me a funeral everyone will be staring at the old man like it’s his fault and you won’t know where to look, will you, you arse? Now I am really thinking again and changing tack. Fuck him! What about me? What about Justin? What if I do jump and die? What if there’s no Heaven? What if it’s like out there in space, going on forever, nothing but darkness? What if nobody cares anyway? What’s the alternative? Stand up to him? How can I stand up to him, how can I possibly beat him? I’m only small and a weed and he’s huge and hairy and full of hate. Christ alive, I don’t think I have ever felt this angry in my whole life.

  But then something strange happens. I feel the energy leave me and I sit down on the wall and I start to cry. Not crying like when Boozer died, or even Grandpa Charlton – this is more like the dam bursting at Poulaphouca. So I just sit there for at least ten whole minutes while the floodgates open until I cannot cry any more and my left ear is blocked from all the sobbing. The weird thing is, at the end of the crying when I am dried out and nothing more will come, I feel a little better, I swear to God. Probably better than I have for years. And on top of that, the feeling better, I’m very, very focused as I know for the first time in my life exactly what I have to do. Oh yes, exactly. So I take the big leap and jump down, not into the school yard, but back down onto the roof top and away from the parapet.

  I’m striding through the dormitory like a ghost and I feel like I’m floating and I am so focused that I don’t care about what I see out of the corner of my right eye. That fat bully, Adams, is looking out of his bed real worried, when suddenly Blondie Lawrence, this really pretty boy who looks like a girl, jumps out of the same bed, Adam’s bed. I swear. Who gives a tuppenny fuck? Not me. If that’s what he likes, fair dues to him. I hope he enjoys it. Blondie’s got a lovely arse and looks just like his gorgeous sister who comes to visit on free weekends.

  I’m at my bedside locker now and I’m checking my stash and it’s nearly fifty quid in English pound notes, all stolen from the old man and he never noticed, the tosser. I’m chatting away to myself like it’s normal. ‘I’ll kill him! This time I will.’ I hardly notice that someone’s standing right beside me.

  ‘Justin? Old chap?’ says Adams, with the smell of Blondie all over him and a sweet tone to his voice. Oh feck off, old chap. Can’t you see I’m busy?

  ‘You won’t tell, will you? Please?’ Adams begs, all whiny. Jesus bloody Christ haven’t I got enough on my fecking plate? Now I’m staring at this whingey fecker and I have yet another of my brilliant ideas.

  ‘One condition?’

  ‘Anything!’ He’s desperate.

  In the blink of an eye we’re in the school corridor, Adams and I, and it’s definitely not allowed and Adams is really, really worried by the illegality of the whole thing. ‘Hurry up!’ he says, all panicky. I’ve got this great big rubber torch I stole from the milking parlour at home and I hope Paddy didn’t get the blame. I’m checking all the car keys in the housemaster’s cupboard. I’m all dressed of course but Adams is still wearing his dressing gown, just like Noel bloody Coward.

  ‘Got it!’ I snatch the car key labelled Housemaster: white Mini Cooper.

  We’re outside now and it’s getting a little chilly and I’m balancing on top of a bin cutting telephone wires as Adams holds my waist tightly, from behind.

  ‘Don’t get any ideas,’ says I.

  ‘You’re not my type.’

  Jesus! The man’s actually got a sense of humour.

  Moments later I’ve got the car started and I’m leaning out the driver’s window saying goodbye to someone who is no longer a fat spotty, toffee-nosed English git.

  ‘Thanks a million,’ I say. I mean it.

  ‘Montague? I wish I had your nerve.’

  ‘You do Adams, you plonker. You just proved it.’ I shake his hand. And now I wish I hadn’t shaken it, as I’m not sure where it’s been.

  ‘About the other thing …’

  ‘Don’t worry, old chap. Your secret’s safe. You’re not the only one, you know.’ I wink at him all cool, then I put my foot on the accelerator of the lovely new Mini Cooper and I’m gone down the school drive like Sterling bloody Moss. Christ, this is easier than driving a Massey Ferguson.

  Nineteen

  A man may die, nations may rise and fall, but an idea lives on.

  John F. Kennedy

  Friday, 22 November 1963

  Dark clouds fill the sky: a gathering storm. It is early morning in north Wales, on the island of Anglesey. Huge winter waves crash against and break over the harbour wall. A sign reads: ‘P&O Ferries. Holyhead to Dun Laoghaire’.

  The housemaster’s white Mini Cooper, now very dirty, sits alone at the end of the pier. A Welsh police constable is writing down the number plate in his black leather notebook.

  At The Hall, on the lawn field, two blanketed racehorses canter round and round, ridden by Danny Keogh and another stable lad.

  At the church bus stop, Liam, Annie and Maureen Cassidy wait. Beside them is a huge pile of luggage: their worldly possessions. An old van drives slowly away from the sad scene. Inside, Donal Sheridan shakes his head, horrified. He looks in the rear mirror at the people he has just delivered to the bus for the very last time. He cannot believe what has happened. And it’s all his fault. Nobody has lost their job at The Hall, ever. The boss man is tough, nobody would dispute that, but he never fires people. It isn’t his way.

  Donal Sheridan is not an emotional man, but this is just too much to bear. ‘Oh what have I done? God forgive me. Where will they live?’ Donal decides, at that very moment, that he is going take one hundred pounds from his large savings and send it anonymously to Liam, when Liam finds somewhere to live.

  At the bus stop, the Cassidy family are distraught. Annie, wiping tears, clutches something tightly. It is a brown envelope, Justin’s letter. She opens the envelope and reads the letter, one more time.

  ‘“Why don’t you write, Annie, why? I thought you were my friend.” I do, Ma, nearly every day. What’s he on about?’

  ‘I don’t know, pet. I don’t know,’ says Maureen.

  Annie sobs. Her mother has no words to comfort her. She hugs her daughter tightly, all the same. Liam Cassidy doesn’t notice. Liam has aged ten years in the last few days. His world has fallen apart.

  At The Hall, as the thunder booms away outside, Bridget Collins enters the dark bedroom, places the wicker breakfast tray by the bed and draws the curtains.

  ‘Good morning, m’lady,’ she says, politely.

  ‘I do so love a storm, Bridget. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Not really, m’lady. Not really,’ says Bridget curtly, unable to hide her hate. She leaves the room, closing the door a little more firmly than normal.

  Peculiar girl, says Helen to herself. What is the matter with her? The telephone rings, interrupting her thoughts.

  Minutes later, in the dining
room, Bobby is eating breakfast and feeding Cromwell bacon. ‘There’s a good boy. Yes, yes, yes.’

  Helen, having dressed quickly, gazes out the dining-room window towards the lawn. She is agitated. The phone call she just received has upset her. Bridget hands her a cup of coffee.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Helen and turns to Bobby. ‘Poor boy. He must have been so upset, and it’s all my fault. I didn’t even think before I opened my big trap. Do you think he’s all right?’

  ‘Of course he is. He’s perfectly capable of looking after himself.’

  Bridget stares daggers at Helen, then leaves the room with Mary. Helen is so shocked she says nothing. At Charlton, someone would have been instantly dismissed for far less.

  ‘Her eyes. Did you see the look in her eyes?’

  ‘What look?’

  ‘Does everyone hate me?’

  ‘They walked out, for God’s sake. We didn’t sack them,’ says Bobby. ‘Anyway, I’m not letting that bloody boy ruin our plans, thank you very much. First, I’m taking you, my wonderful wife, to lunch at the Shelbourne.’

  ‘No! The Russell please, darling,’ says Helen, almost too quickly.

  Bobby stares at Helen, surprised. ‘Why? You love the Shelbourne.’

  ‘Ah, ha. Oeufs Benedictine, that’s why. Haven’t had it in ages. If you don’t mind, my darling? They don’t have them on the menu at the Shelbourne.’

  ‘You are a funny one. All right then, the Russell. And second, the best bit? I’ve booked tickets in the Pullman seats for the new Western, How the West Was Won.’

  ‘Wonderful! Are you sure, darling?’

  ‘Never been surer.’

  ‘But Bobby? What if the police call again, or the school? What kind of a mother would they think me if they find out we are gallivanting around Dublin, when Justin is missing?’

  ‘You’re a marvellous mother. Everyone knows. It’s hardly your fault the little fucker’s turned out completely wild. Now, for once, you’ll do what I want. Go and get ready. Go on! Before I change my bloody mind.’

  Helen leaves the room, appearing humble, and yet it isn’t all an act. During the last few weeks, Helen has started feeling differently about Bobby, because maybe, just maybe, her wild colonial boy is returning after all. What surprises her the most is that she is feeling something she had never thought she would feel again. She is attracted to Bobby for the first time in years.

  Bobby puffs out his chest, leans against the mantelpiece, crosses one leg over the other and lights his pipe. He blows smoke, content. Bobby is happy with his newfound courage and thrilled with the way his wife reacted to his advances the night before. Christ alive, he thinks, is that what it was all about? Had I become a wimp, the thing I most despised in all other men? Jesus, I will never, ever, let that happen again.

  Cromwell looks up at Bobby and wags his tail.

  ‘Good boy, Cromwell. Good boy. Do you know what? You are my one and only true friend. Good boy. Yes!’

  Cromwell jumps up and places his paws on Bobby’s chest.

  Bobby is delighted. ‘Old fool!’

  *

  It’s early afternoon and here I am, riding on top of the 62a bus heading down Aston Quay on my way to Kildare, when I’m supposed to be on a football pitch in Hampshire. Strange as it seems I don’t feel worried and I don’t feel anxious or nervous or anything. Just a wonderful calm. I don’t think I have ever, in my whole life, felt like this. Never. So I start singing. ‘I’ll tell me ma, when I go home, the boys won’t leave the girls alone. They pull my hair, they steal my comb, and that’s alright till I …’

  I’m looking out the window and Holy Mother of God, what do I see? It’s the Jaguar, with both the parents, heading into town. Oh thank you, Lord. What a great day. And the best bit? That fecking mongrel Cromwell is in the back. Everything’s going exactly according to plan.

  *

  It is dark. Chattering couples stream out of the Savoy cinema. The sign above proclaims: ‘How The West Was Won – John Wayne. Gregory Peck. Debbie Reynolds.’ Bobby and Helen Montague walk happily, arm in arm, back up O’Connell Street, heading towards Trinity College and then Grafton Street.

  Bobby feels this is the best day of his life. His bastard son is fucked. His wife is in love with him again. Incredible. And to cap it all, he’s just seen a fantastic new cowboy film that the staff will love when he does a showing in a few weeks’ time. That will help them forget all about the unfortunate but necessary departure of the Cassidy family from The Hall.

  As they stroll towards the Russell Hotel car park, Bobby also feels a little guilty. He doesn’t really want Justin to suffer and he admires the boy’s fighting spirit. But then he has to learn, does Justin, like every child. It would never work, him being in love with some bogtrotter. They just wouldn’t get along. I am, reasons Bobby, saving Justin from a terrible mistake. Maybe one day he will even thank me for my timely intervention.

  On American television, there is a live broadcast. An excited crowd, held back by Dallas police, strain for a view of the most important man in the world. Air Force One, a Boeing 707, is parked at Dallas airport. It bears the seal of the president of The United States of America – an eagle, bearing thirteen arrows in his left talon, and an olive branch of peace in his right.

  Jackie Kennedy, the First Lady, appears on the top of the aircraft steps. President Kennedy follows. The American newscaster becomes very excited when he sees them.

  ‘Mrs Kennedy! And the crowd yells. And the president of the United States.’

  The president walks down the steps as the newscaster continues. ‘I can see his suntan, all the way from here.’ Moments later, the president’s car moves off.

  ‘The motorcade will head out for downtown Dallas where thousands should already be out on the street right now, waiting for a view of the president and his wife.’ The motorcade moves across the tarmac.

  One hour later at The Hall, in the back passage, lights are being switched on. Bridget and Mary are doing their rounds, preparing the house for the evening and for the return of the boss man.

  ‘That’s odd,’ says Bridget to Mary. She has seen a light coming from the gun room and the door is ajar when it’s always locked. Now she’s worried and she’s already convinced there has been a burglary and she’ll have to call the guards. Bridget opens the door and peeks inside.

  ‘Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Inside, the gun cabinet, oddly, swings open. There are only three guns, not four as there should be. One is missing: Justin’s 20-bore. An open box of Eley 20-bore shotgun cartridges lies on the floor, spilled everywhere.

  On the avenue, a stag feeds peacefully on the verge. Suddenly it looks up, startled, because it has heard rustling nearby. Alarmed, the stag gallops off through the wood, running for its life.

  The Jaguar turns through the main gateway and onto the avenue. Inside the car, soft music plays on the radio: ‘True Love’, sung by Grace Kelly and Bing Crosby. ‘Suntanned. Windblown. Honeymooners at last alone. Feeling far above par, oh how lucky we are. I give to you and you give to me, true love, true love …’

  Bobby and Helen listen to the soothing sounds. Cromwell is asleep on the back seat. Bobby, totally at ease for the first time in years, teases Helen. ‘I should never have taken you. Damn Gregory Peck! Too damn smooth for my liking.’

  Helen laughs.

  On American television, President Kennedy’s motorcade makes its way around a bend in Dallas. The police motorbikes lead. The American newscaster continues: ‘The president’s car is now turning onto Elm Street. It’ll be only a matter of minutes before he arrives at the Trademart.’

  In the Jaguar, Helen teases Bobby. ‘I didn’t notice you exactly dropping off when the ravishing Miss Reynolds pranced around in that skimpy …’

  ‘Shut up!’ interrupts Bobby, staring ahead in disbelief.

  ‘Don’t you dare talk to me …’

  ‘Fucking hell!’ The Jaguar slows to a halt. They both stare out, amazed. Cromwell falls off the sea
t into the rear footwell, then jumps back up and joins in the staring.

  *

  So there I am at last, standing like Wild Bill fucking Hickok. I’m in the middle of the avenue and I’ve got my legs spread apart and this time the boot’s on the other foot, you cunt!

  So I yell, just like he always does at me. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Right, that’s it!’ screams the old man and he goes to get out of his shiny car to deal with the situation just like John bloody Wayne. This time he’s not going to get away with it.

  ‘Don’t you dare fucking move, you fucker!’ I mean it. I place my shotgun butt neatly up into my shoulder and aim it at the old man and he knows full well that I mean business. I can tell by the nervy look in his eyes. But then the Nazi war criminal ruins this beautiful moment by deciding he’s going to get in on the act.

  He bounds past the old man and out of the car and stands snarling at me. Quick as a flash, I delve into my left pocket with my left hand, without dropping the gun one little bit. Cromwell knows exactly what I’m after. He stops snarling and starts slobbering in anticipation.

  *

  The Kennedy motorcade approaches the grassy knoll as the American newscaster continues. ‘I was on Simmons Freeway earlier and even the freeway was jam-packed with spectators, waiting their chance to see the president as he made his way towards the Trademart.’

  *

  Now Cromwell’s crunching away at the sugar cubes and I’m still staring daggers at the old man through the sight of my gun through the windshield and he’s white as a sheet and it’s just brilliant to watch. Brilliant! He’s still doing his best, the old man, as he just can’t imagine not being in control. ‘Put that gun down! Do you hear? Justin? I’m warning you. Justin!’