The Best of Frank O'Connor

by Frank O'Connor

  The priest finished, went up to the altar, came down again with the cross in his arms and stood there patiently. It was only then that I realized that none of the congregation had attended the Stations of the Cross before, and that the only two people in the church who had were an Irish agnostic and a French atheist. ‘I can’t stand this,’ I said to Géronte and pushed hastily out past him and the organist. As I went up the nave the priest signalled to the three women. While I stood aside and waited for them to kiss the cross, I suddenly heard the steps behind me. ‘Iconoclast!’ I thought. ‘Whatever would they say of us in Ireland.’ But when I turned, I saw that the man behind me was not Géronte but the organist. ‘So all De Maupassant’s people are not like that!’ I thought.

  After the service we chatted for a while with the young priest. There was nothing remarkable about him; we hadn’t expected it. The young organist was the bigger man. To him we said good-bye outside the church: it was getting late and we wanted to reach Beauvais before dark.

  ‘You know,’ he said with sudden emotion as we shook hands, ‘I thought that service hideous till I suddenly saw it through the eyes of you and your friend. Then I realized how beautiful it was. Perhaps that is conversion.’

  ‘Let’s be honest,’ I said. ‘It’s not conversion for me.’ My French would not rise to an explanation of what it really was.

  ‘I’m younger than you,’ he replied gravely. ‘For me, perhaps, it is complete conversion.’

  ‘I hope so,’ I said, and Géronte and I plugged on our way to Beauvais.

  THE LATE HENRY CONRAN

  ‘I’VE ANOTHER little story for you,’ said the old man.

  ‘I hope it’s a good one,’ said I.

  ‘The divil a better. And if you don’t believe me you can go down to Courtenay’s Road and see the truth of it with your own eyes. Now it isn’t every wan will say that to you?’

  ‘It is not then.’

  ‘And the reason I say it is, I know the people I’m talking about. I knew Henry in the old days – Henry Conran that is, otherwise known as “Prosperity” Conran – and I’ll say for him he had the biggest appetite for liquor of any man I ever met or heard of. You could honestly say Prosperity Conran would drink porter out of a sore heel. Six foot three he was, and he filled it all. He was quiet enough when he was sober, but when he was drunk – Almighty and Eternal, you never knew what divilment he’d be up to!

  ‘I remember calling for him wan night to go to a comity meeting – he was a great supporter of John Redmond – and finding him mad drunk, in his shirt and drawers; he was trying to change out of his old working clothes. Well, with respects to you, he got sick on it, and what did he do before me own two eyes but strip off every stitch he had on him and start wiping up the floor with his Sunday clothes. Oh, every article he could find he shoved into it. And there he was idioty drunk in his pelt singing,

  “Up the Mollies! Hurray!

  We don’t care about Quarry Lane,

  All we want is our own Fair Lane.”

  ‘Well, of course, poor Henry couldn’t keep any job, and his own sweet Nellie wasn’t much help to him. She was a nagging sort of woman, if you understand me, an unnatural sort of woman. She had six children to rear, and, instead of going quietly to work and softening Henry, she was always calling in the priest or the minister to him. And Henry, to get his own back, would smash every bit of china she had. Not that he was a cross man by any manner of means, but he was a bit independent, and she could never see how it slighted him to call in strangers like that.

  ‘Henry hung round idle for six months. Then he was offered a job to go round the town as a walking advertisement for somebody’s ale. That cut him to the heart. As he said himself, “Is it me, a comity man of the Ancient Order of Hibernians, a man dat shook hands with John Dillon, to disgrace meself like dat before the town? And you wouldn’t mind but I couldn’t as much as stomach the same hogwash meself!”

  ‘So he had to go to America, and sorry I was to lose him, the decent man! Nellie told me after ’twould go through you to see him on the deck of the tender, blue all over and smothered with sobs. “Nellie,” says he to her, “Nellie, give the word and I’ll trow me ticket in the water.” “I will not,” says Nellie, “for you were always a bad head to me.”

  ‘Now that was a hard saying, and maybe it wasn’t long before she regretted it. There she was with her six children, and wan room between the seven of them, and she trying to do a bit of laundry to keep the life in their bodies.

  ‘Well, it would be a troublesome thing for me to relate all that happened them in the twenty-five long years between that day and this. But maybe you’d remember how her son, Aloysius, mixed himself up in the troubles? Maybe you would? Not that he ever did anything dangerous except act as clerk of the court, and be on all sorts of relief comities, and go here and go there on delegations and deputations. No shooting or jailing for Aloysius. “Lave that,” says he, “to the rank and file!” All he ever had his eye on was the main chance. And grander and grander he was getting in himself, my dear! First he had to buy out the house, then he had an electric bell put in, then he bought or hobbled a motor car, then he found tidy jobs for two of his sisters and one for his young brother. Pity to God the two big girls were married already or he’d have made a rare haul! But God help them, they were tied to two poor boozy sops that weren’t half nor quarter the cut of their father! So Aloysius gave them the cold shoulder.

  ‘Now Nellie wasn’t liking this at all in her own mind. She often said to me, “For all me grandeur, I’d be better off with poor Henry,” and so she would, for about that time Aloysius began to think of choosing a wife. Of course, the wife-to-be was a flashy piece from the country, and Nellie, who didn’t like her at all, was forever crossing her and finding fault with her. Sure, you ought to remember the row she kicked up when the damsel appeared wan night in wan of them new fangled sleeping things with trousers. Nellie was so shocked she went to the priest and complained her, and then complained her to all the neighbours, and she shamed and disgraced Aloysius so much that for months he wouldn’t speak to her. But begod, if she didn’t make that girl wear a plain shift every other time she came to stay with them!

  ‘After the scandal about the trousers nothing would content Aloysius but that they must live away from the locality, so they got another house, a bigger wan this time, and it was from the new house that Aloysius got married. Nellie, poor woman, couldn’t read nor write, so she had nothing at all to do with the preparations, and what was her surprise when the neighbours read out the marriage announcement to her! “Aloysius Gonzaga Conran, son of Ellen Conran, Courtenay’s Road” – and divil the word about poor Henry! The whole town was laughing at it, but what annoyed Nellie most was not the slight on herself, but the slight on her man. So up with her to Aloysius, and “this and that,” she says, “I didn’t pick you up from under a bush, so give your father the bit of credit that’s due to him or I’ll put in the note meself!” My dear, she was foaming! Aloysius was in a cleft stick, and they fought and fought, Aloysius calling his father down and Nellie praising him, and then the young wife drops the suggestion that they should put in “the late Henry Conran”. So Nellie not having a word to say against that, next day there is another announcement – nothing about Nellie this time only plain “son of the late Henry Conran”.

  ‘Well, the town is roaring yet! Wan day the man have no father to speak of and the next day he have a dead father and no mother at all. And everybody knowing at the same time that Henry was in America, safe and sound, and wilder than ever he was at home.

  ‘But that’s not the end of it. I was in me bed the other night when a knock came to the door. My daughter-in-law opened it and I heard a strange voice asking for me. Blast me if I could place it! And all at once the stranger forces his way in apast her and stands in the bedroom door, with his head bent down and wan hand on the jamb. “Up the Mollies!” says he in the top of his voice. “Me ould flower, strike up the antem of Fair Lan
e! Do you remember the night we carried deat and destruction into Blackpool? Shout it, me hearty man – Up the Mollies!”

  ‘But ’twas the height I recognized.

  ‘ “ ’Tis Prosperity Conran,” says I.

  ‘ “Prosperity Conran it is,” says he.

  ‘ “The same ould six foot three?” says I.

  ‘ “Every inch of it!” says he, idioty drunk.

  ‘ “And what in the name of God have you here?” says I.

  ‘ “Me wife dat put a notice in the papers saying I was dead. Am I dead, Larry Costello? Me lovely man, you knew me since I was tree – tell me if I’m dead. Feel me! Feel dat muscle of mine and tell me the trute, am I alive or dead?”

  ‘ “You’re not dead,” says I after I felt his arm.

  ‘ “I’ll murder her, dat’s what I’ll do! I’ll smash every bone in her body. Get up now, Larry, and I’ll show you the greatest bust-up dat was ever seen or heard of in dis city. Where’s the All-for-Ireland Headquarters till I fling a brick at it?”

  ‘ “The All-for-Irelands is no more,” says I. ‘He looked at me unsteadily for a minute.

  ‘ “Joking me you are,” says he.

  ‘ “Divil a joke,” says I.

  ‘ “The All-for-Irelands gone?”

  ‘ “All gone,” says I.

  ‘ “And the Mollies?”

  ‘ “All gone.”

  ‘ “All gone?”

  ‘ “All gone.”

  ‘ “Dat you might be killed?”

  ‘ “That I might be killed stone dead.”

  ‘ “Merciful God! I must be an ould man then, huh?”

  ‘ “ ‘Tisn’t younger we’re getting,” says I.

  ‘ “An ould man,” says he, puzzled-like. “Maybe I’m dead after all? Do you think I’m dead, Larry?”

  ‘ “In a manner of speaking you are,” says I.

  ‘ “Would a court say I was dead?”

  ‘ “A clever lawyer might argue them into it,” says I.

  ‘ “But not dead, Larry? Christ, he couldn’t say I was dead?”

  ‘ “Well, as good as dead, Henry.”

  ‘ “I’ll carry the case to the High Courts,” says he, getting excited. “I’ll prove I’m not dead. I’m an American citizen and I can’t be dead.”

  ‘ “Aisy! Aisy!” says I, seeing him take it so much to heart.

  ‘ “I won’t be aisy,” says he, flaring up. “I’ve a summons out agin me wife for defaming me character, and I’ll never go back to Chicago till I clear me name in the eyes of the world.”

  ‘ “Henry,” says I, “no wan ever said wan word against you. There isn’t as much as a shadow of an aspersion on your character.”

  ‘ “Do you mane,” says he, “ ’tis no aspersion on me character to say I’m dead? God damn you, man, would you like a rumour like dat to be going round about yourself?”

  ‘ “I would not, Henry, I would not, but ’tis no crime to be dead. And anyway, as I said before, ’tis only a manner of speaking. A man might be stone dead, or he might be half dead, or dead to you and me, or, for the matter of that, he might be dead to God and the world as we’ve often been ourselves.”

  ‘ “Dere’s no manner of speaking in it at all,” says Henry, getting madder and madder. “No bloody manner of speaking. I might be dead drunk as you say, but dat would be no excuse for calling me the late Henry Conran.… Dere’s me charge sheet,” says he, sitting on the bed and pulling out a big blue paper. “Ellen Conran, for defamation of character. Wan man on the boat wanted me to charge her with attempted bigamy, but the clerk wouldn’t have it.”

  ‘ “And did you come all the way from America to do this?” says I.

  ‘ “Of course I did. How could I stay on in America wit a ting like dat hanging over me? Blast you, man, you don’t seem to know the agony I went trough for weeks and weeks before I got on the boat!”

  ‘ “And do Nellie know you’re here?” says I.

  ‘ “She do not, and I mane her not to know till the policeman serves his warrant on her.”

  ‘ “Listen to me, Henry,” says I, getting out of bed, “the sooner you have this out with Nellie the better for all.”

  ‘ “Do you tink so?” says he a bit stupid-like.

  ‘ “How long is it since you put your foot aboard the liner in Queenstown, Henry?”

  ‘ “ ’Tis twinty-five years and more,” says he.

  ‘ “ ’Tis a long time not to see your own lawful wife,” says I.

  ‘ “ ‘Tis,” says he, “ ’tis, a long time,” and all at wance he began to cry, with his head in his two hands.

  ‘ “I knew she was a hard woman, Larry, but blast me if I ever tought she’d do the like of dat on me! Me poor ould heart is broke! And the Mollies – did I hear you say the Mollies was gone?”

  ‘ “The Mollies is gone,” says I.

  ‘ “Anyting else but dat, Larry, anyting else but dat!”

  ‘ “Come on away,” says I.

  ‘So I brought him down the road by the hand just like a child. He never said wan word till I knocked at the door, and all at wance he got fractious again. I whispered into Nellie to open the door. When she seen the man with me she nearly went through the ground.

  ‘ “Who is it?” says she.

  ‘ “An old friend of yours,” says I.

  ‘ “Is it Henry?” says she, whispering-like.

  ‘ “It is Henry,” says I.

  ‘ “It is not Henry!” bawls out me hero. “Well you know your poor ould Henry is dead and buried without a soul in the world to shed a tear over his corpse.”

  ‘ “Henry!” says she.

  ‘ “No, blast you!” says he with a shriek, “but Henry’s ghost come to ha’ant you.”

  ‘ “Come in, come in the pair of ye,” says I. “Why the blazes don’t ye kiss wan another like any Christian couple?”

  ‘After a bit of trouble I dragged him inside.

  ‘ “Ah, you hard-hearted woman!” says he moaning, with his two paws out before him like a departed spirit. “Ah, you cruel, wicked woman! What did you do to your poor ould husband?”

  ‘ “Help me to undress him, Nellie,” says I. “Sit down there on the bed, Henry, and let me unlace your boots.”

  ‘So I pushed him back on the bed, but, when I tried to get at his boots, he began to kick his feet up in the air, laughing like a kid.

  ‘ “I’m dead, dead, dead, dead,” says he.

  ‘ “Let me get at him, Larry,” says Nellie in her own determined way, so, begod, she lifted his leg that high he couldn’t kick without falling over, and in two minits she had his boots and stockings off. Then I got off his coat, loosened his braces and held him back in the bed while she pulled his trousers down. At that he began to come to himself a bit.

  ‘ “Show it to her! Show it to her!” says he, getting hot and making a dive for his clothes.

  ‘ “Show what to her?” says I.

  ‘ “Me charge sheet. Give it to me, Larry. There you are, you jade of hell! Seven and six-pence I paid for it to clear me character.”

  ‘ “Get into bed, sobersides,” says I.

  ‘ “I wo’ not go into bed!”

  ‘ “And there’s an old nightshirt all ready,” says Nellie.

  ‘ “I don’t want no nightshirt. I’ll take no charity from any wan of ye. I wants me character back, me character that ye took on me.”

  ‘ “Take off his shirt, Larry,” says she.

  ‘So I pulled the old stinking shirt up over his grey pate, and in a tick of the clock she had his nightshirt on.

  ‘ “Now, Nellie,” says I, “I’ll be going. There’s nothing more I can do for you.”

  ‘ “Thanks, Larry, thanks,” says she. “You’re the best friend we ever had. There’s nothing else you can do. He’ll be asleep in a minit, don’t I know him well?”

  ‘ “Good-night, Henry,” says I.

  ‘ “Good-night, Larry. Tomorrow we’ll revive the Mollies.”

  ‘Nellie went
to see me to the door, and outside was the two ladies and the young gentleman in their nighties, listening.

  ‘ “Who is it, Mother?” says they.

  ‘ “Go back to bed the three of ye!” says Nellie. “ ’Tis only your father.”

  ‘ “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” says the three of them together.

  ‘At that minit we heard Henry inside bawling his heart out.

  ‘ “Nellie, Nellie, where are you, Nellie?”

  ‘ “Go back and see what he wants,” says I, “before I go.”

  ‘So Nellie opened the door and looked in.

  ‘ “What’s wrong with you now?” says she.

  ‘ “You’re not going to leave me sleep alone, Nellie,” says he.

  ‘ “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” says she, “talking like that and the children listening.… Look at him,” says she to me, “look at him for the love of God!” The eyes were shining in her head with pure relief. So I peeped in, and there was Henry with every bit of clothes in the bed around him and his back to us all. “Look at his ould grey pate!” says she.

  ‘ “Still in all,” says Henry over his shoulder, “you had no right to say I was dead!” ’

  MICHAEL’S WIFE

  I

  THE STATION – it is really only a siding with a shed – was empty but for the station-master and himself. When he saw the station-master change his cap he rose. From far way along the water’s edge came the shrill whistle of the train before it puffed into view with its leisurely air that suggested a trot.

  Half a dozen people alighted and quickly dispersed. In a young woman wearing a dark-blue coat who lingered and looked up and down the platform he recognized Michael’s wife. At the same moment she saw him but her face bore no smile of greeting. It was the face of a sick woman.

  ‘Welcome, child,’ he said, and held out his hand. Instead of taking it, she threw her arms about him and kissed him. His first impulse was to discover if anyone had noticed, but almost immediately he felt ashamed of the thought. He was a warm-hearted man and the kiss silenced an initial doubt. He lurched out before her with the trunk while she carried the two smaller bags.