Contents
New York
Maggie’s Breakfast - Dublin
About the author
Gabriel Walsh was born in Dublin. He later went on to study in America. Gabriel has lectured at colleges in Los Angeles and Cork and was a staff writer for Universal Pictures in Hollywood. He has worked with actors such as Jack Nicholson, Gene Wilder and Robert Redford. He wrote the original screenplay Quackser Fortune Has a Cousin in the Bronx which received a Writers Guild of America nomination. He also wrote the film Night Flowers which received an ecumenical award at the Montréal World Film Festival. In 2012 Poolbeg published Maggie’s Breakfast, a memoir of his early years in Dublin.
Published 2013
by Poolbeg Press Ltd
123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle
Dublin 13, Ireland
E-mail: [email protected]
www.poolbeg.com
© Gabriel Walsh 2013
Copyright for typesetting, layout, design, ebook
© Poolbeg Press Ltd
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781781991251
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
www.poolbeg.com
Praise for Maggie’s Breakfast by Gabriel Walsh
‘It’s a magical, true story of the friendship between an impoverished young boy and a famous opera star in 1950s Dublin’ – Irish Independent
‘Maggie’s Breakfast is an honest tale of optimism and humour, and one that remains with you for a long time. Highly recommended’ – Woman’s Way
‘An astonishing memoir of redemption’ – Irish Examiner
‘A heart-warming story of an extraordinary life’ – Evening Echo
‘The story of friendship and opportunity could only come from a movie script’ – The Sunday World
‘Maggie’s Breakfast is an entertaining, witty and often surprising account of a poor Dublin childhood’ – Bord Gáis Energy Book Club
‘A fascinating story of the old times in Dublin’ – Gay Byrne, Lyric FM
‘Reads like the plot of a rags-to-riches movie’ – Irish Daily Mail
‘A remarkable story’ – TV3’s Ireland AM
Acknowledgements
To the countless men, women and children who sailedfrom Ireland before and after me, and to the passengers on the ship I sailed on from Cobh in County Cork to New York in the mid-nineteen-fifties: I yell from the silence of my soul the sorrow and sadness of being detached from country and from family.The dream of forging a new life out of tattered memories and compromised realities has for a seemingly limitless period of time been a constant companion to both thewilling and reluctant exiles, to keep the promise of hope and self-discovery alive. Sailing away from one’s past can be like tears unwilling to abandon the eye. Nevertheless without a dream for a compass one can easily sink the arrival of the future.
Gabriel Walsh
We are such stuff as dreams are made on . . .
Shakespeare
New York
The castle in Tarrytown, New York, was something like I had seen in films when I frequented the cinema in Dublin. In many ways it reminded me of places where Dracula, Frankenstein and the Wolf Man lived.
As I digested my whereabouts a woman wearing white shoes and a white apron approached me.
“Poor boy! You must be very tired,” she said. She seemed happy to see me and obviously had been aware of my imminent arrival.
I didn’t know whether to answer her or not, so I just nodded my head affirmatively.
“I’d say he’s more bewildered than tired,” Mrs. Axe volunteered as she shed her fur coat.
“Say hello to Pat – Pat is the housekeeper,” Maggie interjected with a sense of instruction in her voice while looking very directly at me.
She had left Ireland a few weeks before and was settled in at the castle, but had come to New York City to escort me to the place she had only mentioned to me a few times in Dublin.
I had so many thoughts buzzing about in my head that I couldn’t settle on what to say. Hello, thanks, help me, where am I? Who is everybody? Is my father out of bed yet? Is my mother still praying in the church and is my sister still crying for me? But Maggie’s presence in the vast foyer of the mansion I was standing in brought a calm and reassuring feeling to me. I looked at her and I wanted to talk, laugh and even cry. I resisted the impulse to cry because I knew it would be the last impression she’d want me to put on display at this particular moment.
As I stood trying to make sense of my situation I noticed a portrait of Maggie on the wall above a door that led to another part of the mansion. The painting depicted Maggie as a much younger woman with a broad smile on her face and it exuded a glow of contentment. Somewhat mesmerised by the portrait, I turned to face her as she stood between me and my old suitcase. With a palpable desire to express myself I wanted to say something about the portrait, but was unsure, confused and even afraid to make a comment. I didn’t think Maggie would approve of me saying anything just then. As I looked directly at her I knew I was seeing Maggie in an older and sadder period of her life – I had no idea of her age and only in later years realised that she was in her late sixties at that point. For a moment or two I tried to ask myself why I was now standing in a majestic hallway in a massive castle in upstate New York with her looking at me from the wall and from right next to me with a glare in her eyes that I interpreted as an admonition for me to be on my best behaviour. The tiredness and sleepiness that was consuming me kept me from making any kind of gesture that might have embarrassed Maggie.
The lady with the white shoes and the white apron took a step towards me and, because I was having trouble standing and staying awake, I wanted to fall into her arms and fall into a deep sleep and forget where I was and who I was with. Had it not been for her radiant blue eyes and an unrestricted smile, she might in my tired mind easily have been a snowstorm approaching me.
“I’m sure you’re very tired,” she said.
Her words helped alert me to my whereabouts. As I attempted to act as if I was wide awake, I heard Maggie’s voice bellow out: “You can see he’s falling down from exhaustion!”
Having learned not to question anything Maggie said and given the degree of fatigue I was feeling, I said with as much reverence as I could muster: “Hello.”
The woman in white answered me with another “Hello.”
Mr. Axe, seemingly wanting to express his involvement and perhaps aware that I was about to fall down on the floor, then spoke up: “All the way from Dublin!” He then stepped away, allowing Pat to move closer to me.
“A long trip I’m sure,” she said, looking kindly at me.
By now I noticed that her hair, tied in a bun, was as white as the apron she had tied around her waist and in my fatigued state she looked more like a nurse than a housekeeper.
“Eight days,” Mrs. Axejoined in on the sounds and voices that were swirling around. “Stormy seas and the rest of it. Lucky to be alive.” She hung her coat on a nearby coat stand. “Well, you’re here. You made it, Gabriel.” She wagged her head in a left and right direction like a puppy dog that had happily emerged from a cold pond. Whe
n she stopped shaking her head she smiled with a sigh of relief. The smile on her face was almost identical to the expression I’d witnessedin Dublin when I first met her. I took it upon myself to believe that she was happy that I had arrived in one piece.
Pat the housekeeper then took hold of my old suitcase and appeared to be surprised asto how light it was. For a moment or two I feared she might ask me what was in it. Had I thought about it before I left Dublin I could easily have put the contents of the suitcase into my jacket and trouser pockets.
“Goodnight, Gabriel, and welcome. We’ll see you in the morning,” Mrs. Axe said and walked into a room adjacent to the foyer. She was immediately followed by Mr. Axe who bid me goodnight also.
Margaret Sheridan hesitated for a moment and then reached out to me. I felt she wanted to embrace me but she didn’t. Instead she laid her hand on my head momentarily. Had she embraced me I might have physically evaporated there and then. By the look on Maggie’s face I wondered if she was having second thoughts about me standing there in front of her, thousands of miles away from where we met.
“Get a good night’s sleep,” Maggie said. She hesitated as she was about to step away from me and said, “We’ll see you in the morning, Gabriel. Show him where to go, Pat.” She then followed Mr. and Mrs. Axe into what appeared to be the living room and vanished from my sight.
At that moment I felt like a bird that had lost its ability to fly.
For a second or two I came out of my reverie and noticed Pat was standing patiently in front of me as if waiting for an instruction or an order. I didn’t know what to say and I didn’t know where to go – mainly because I didn’t know where I was. I looked at Pat again, hoping she would tell me to fall asleep on the floor and end the numbness that was consuming my mind. With little ability to open my eyes and my mouth, I wondered and waited forPatto say something to me.
Finally she broke into the abyss of my silence. “All the way from Ireland you’ve come.”
Was she telling me or asking me? I wasn’t sure. I knew I had to stay awake and, no matter the difficulty, be polite. “Yes, Dublin,” I answered.
“My husband is part Irish,” she said with a laugh that was welcoming and reassuring.
As I tried to think of something important to say to her, she beckoned for me to follow her and I did. In seconds I was walking up a huge marble staircase which was situated towards the back of the castle – there was a wooden staircase to the front – behind her while she talked and talked. She told me half of the mansion had been converted to office space and a large staff worked there every day of the week. Most employees were experts and advisers in the world of finance. With a movement of her hands she drew a map that told me where Mr. and Mrs. Axe’s quarters were. Although they lived on the same corridor they didn’t share the same suite, she explained.
“What did you bring with you from Dublin?” she inquired of me as we climbed to a higher floor.
I was afraid to tell her but I knew I couldn’t escape her questions. “I didn’t bring much: two shirts, a jacket, my overcoat.”
“Mrs. Axe will make sure you get proper clothing,” she responded and continued to walk ahead of me. She glanced back. “D’you feel okay?”
My mind was still in a fog and I couldn’t yet make out where I was or where Iwas going. With Pat talking about her life and the world of the castle and asking me questions at the same time, I wasn’t sure what to say about how I felt because I simply didn’t know. I was just glad to be off the boat and not seasick.
* * *
When Pat and I reached the third floor she opened a big door that led into what was to be my living quarters. It was a long narrow room with wood-panelled walls and a rounded section that offered a view to the outside. All in all the place looked very isolated and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I had never slept in a room on my own. It was only recently that I began to sleep in a bed of my own, and that bed was a small narrow cot. Earlier in my life I slept at the foot of my parents’ bed. When I got a bit older I moved to another bed and slept with two of my brothers.
The first thing I did was to walk to the window and look out at the sight below me. The grounds were covered with trees and I could see the long winding driveway that led down to the main gate. In the distance I could see the Hudson River and a cluster of what appeared to be several separated small villages.
“This is it, Gabriel. You’ve a nice view of the grounds,” Pat said then pointed to the adjoining bathroom.
I moved away from the window and walked into the bathroom and was happy to see a bathtub that was bigger than any I had seen before, even in the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin where I had worked. We didn’t have one in Dublin and I looked forward to getting into the tub and stretching out in it.
While I contemplated the pleasures of the bathtub, I heard Pat’s voice again.
“Jim’s my husband. He helps maintain the grounds. In fact he helps maintain everything around here.”
I didn’t quite know how to respond so I just said, “Thanks, ma’am.”
Pat walked back towards the door. As she pulled it shut she mumbled back to me, “I set out enough clean towels to last you a week, Gabriel.”
I indicated my thanks by bowing my head.
“Get some rest. I’ll see you in the kitchen for breakfast in the morning. I’ll show you where Miss Sheridan stays.”
Pat closed the door and I walked back into the bedroom. The absolute silence of the place frightened me and for a moment or two I wondered what was happening to me and if I knew what I was doing with my life. I shook my head and thought I might have made a mistake in coming to America.I stood next to my suitcase in the middle of the room for several minutes before I could get my body to move or turn. After contemplating whether I should even keep the leathery old thing or not, I picked the suitcase up and slid it under the bed. I was as close to being numb as I had ever been and I soon fell asleep, still wearing the clothes I had on me when I left Dublin.
* * *
The next morning I was awakened by a knocking on the door. I jumped out of bed still fully dressed and for a second or two I didn’t know where I was. A few more knocks on the door and I was no longer wondering where I was.
I looked out the window and saw several cars going up and down the long driveway.
The knocking on the door continued. I went and opened it. A man dressed in overalls with a colourful kerchief around his neck was standing outside.
“Good morning! Are you ready to come downstairs?” he asked. “I’m Pat’s husband, Jim McCluskey.”
“I’m Gabriel. Will you give me a minute to –”
Jim interrupted me. “There’s no hurry,” he said.
“Can I take a bath?” I asked.
“I’ll come back in twenty minutes.” The man turned and made his way towards the big staircase.
I closed the door, went into the bathroom and turned on the hot water. The water burst out of the tap with such impatience I thought it might well have been waiting a hundred years for me to come and release it. I took off the shirt I’d been wearing for a week, quickly washed it and hung it outside the window. To keep it from flying into the Hudson River in the distance, I kept it in place by pulling the window down on it. In seconds the wind caught it and it flapped about like a flag in a storm.
After that I put my nakedness into the big tub and instantly felt like a new person. For as long as I could I stretched out and let the hot water dissolve away as many memories of my past as was possible at that moment.
* * *
When I entered the kitchen about thirty minutes later, Pat was sitting next to a window that gave a view of a large part of the estate. An aroma of coffee filled the air as if to underline the fact that I was now in America. A lifetime of having a cup of tea every morning had been sent into exile with one whiff of the air. I relished the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
After Pat bid me good morning I sat down opposite her. Before I could say a word sh
e got up and placed a plateful of bacon and eggs in front of me. She then poured me a cup of coffee. My first impulse was to show her how I could use a knife and fork and I unhesitatingly began to display the table manners I had acquired at the Shelbourne Hotel.
As I was about to swallow another cup of coffee a small bell attached to the kitchen wall began to ring.
Pat immediately jumped to her feet. “Mr. Axe is up!” she yelled while she pulled at a cord hanging from the bell to stop it from ringing.
She then began to prepare breakfast for Mr. Axe: a pot of coffee, toast and a bowl of cereal as well as a glass of fresh orange juice. Everything was placed on a silver tray. Pat picked the tray up and hurried out of the kitchen.
I remained at the table and as I pondered my whereabouts Pat came rushing back into the kitchen.
“He wants grapefruit juice instead!” she gasped and then hurried to the refrigerator and took out two grapefruits. She then cut each in half and squeezed them, using a glass juicer. As she poured the juice into a glass she called to me, “Why don’t you go outside and look around, Gabriel, and see the garden? Come back in fifteen minutes or so and we’ll get Miss Sheridan’s breakfast ready together.”
When Pat rushed back into the dining room I walked out of the kitchen, crossed a hallway, opened a big wooden door and stepped out into the garden. The garden was more like a forest. The grass was covered with a light coat of snow and the many trees were practically bare. The driveway that led down to the main gate looked steeper than I’d imagined when I arrived the night before. I walked about for a few minutes and wondered why I was standing in front of this huge castle in Tarrytown, New York. I strolled around to the other side of the castle and looked up to see if I could spot where my room was. I saw my shirt hanging out the window. A floor or two higher and the shirt would have been flapping in the clouds.
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