Yes, that was the way it was back in those good old days. Roy Orbison in the charts, The Comancheros in the cinema, a dog off to space and every night stupid old Malachy Bubblehead blubbering away to himself like a halfwit, all because love was in its grave and there was nothing he could do about it.
There was no doubt it was a sad state of affairs. But you couldn’t let it get you down. You had to look on the bright side. And then of course – there were always Sunday mornings to look forward to, weren’t there?
Sunday Mornings
Sunday mornings – you just could not beat them. If there was one morning in the week young Malachy loved, it was that old Sunday morning. School was over, the Saturday night scrub in the zinc bath was history and there was nothing now only the protestants across the way singing ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’ and every bell in the town ringing out to call the devout to their respective places of worship. Sunday morning was the best morning of the week, the best by a long shot. And Malachy wasn’t the only one who loved it either. Another great fan of the Sunday Morning was Packie Dudgeon, who whistled a little tune as he made inroads into his white beard of foam in front of the shaving mirror and said, ‘Man, Malachy, if there’s one morning in the week I love, it’s Sunday morning! Sunday morning every time!’ He grinned when he said that, then wiped the razor with a towel and went on whistling his tune. Malachy was as busy as a beaver too, brushing his jacket and knotting his tie and combing his hair. Then it was on to the polishing of the shoes and as usual he had to keep at them until you could see your face in them. ‘I want to be able to see that old phizzog of yours in them!’ Cissie would say. ‘And if I can’t, don’t think I wouldn’t make you go and do them all over again for I would – and make no mistake about it!’ But she needn’t have worried. She didn’t have to worry in the slightest for he was polishing away to beat the band and by the time he was finished, they were like mirrors the pair of them. Then it was off out to the scullery with her, rattling pans and breaking eggs and doing God knows what as she got the breakfast ready. The smell of rashers would make your mouth water. Was it any wonder they loved Sunday mornings? Bacon sizzling and eggs spitting and Cissie slicing away at her cakes of soda bread and making sure that you were going to have the breakfast of a lifetime. And so you would, once you were back from chapel.
But now it was time to get going, yes now it was time to hit the high road and off up the hill to say your prayers to Jesus. Packie squirted a bit of aftershave on himself and called into the kitchen, ‘Are you right there, Malachy me son – I daresay it’s near time we were making tracks. We don’t want to keep The Man Above waiting now, do we?’ ‘Indeed we do not,’ replied Malachy, and, fixing his nutmeg-knot tie just one last time, headed off out the front door, hand in hand with the one and only Packie Dudgeon, his father. Cissie didn’t bother coming with them because she had already gone to early Mass as she always did. ‘To make sure I have a good big breakfast ready and waiting for my two wee men when they get home!’ as she said. Boy, did Packie like that! On the way up the street, he rubbed his hands and turned to Malachy as he said, ‘What do you say, son? Isn’t she a good one? Now when all’s said and done you have to hand it to her. There’s not many women in this town would have a breakfast like that waiting for you when you come home. There’s times I think I’m not going to be able for the half of it, do you know that! Enough to feed a blooming army, she says! Am I right, son?’
Malachy said that he was. No, he said he sure was, for he knew only too well from past experience just how hard it was to get through all the stuff she heaped on your plate. There were times when he was only able for quarter of it! Not that he was complaining of course! He most certainly was not! It would be a long time before you would ever hear a word of complaint out of Packie or Malachy Dudgeon about Cissie Dudgeon’s breakfasts!
And so here they were on Sunday morning, strolling through the bright and colourful streets of the town with the warm breeze blowing and Michael O’Hehir the football commentator sweeping out of every window, getting so excited that you thought he was going to lose his mind. ‘Yes! He’s going through! Thirty yards out! Twenty yards out! Ten yards out! Oh my God! It’s high! Yes it’s high and it’s – over the bar!’ Half the time you thought he was going to burst into tears or just go completely mad shouting ‘Oh Jesus! Oh, fuck! Oh, no! Oh, please, God, no!’ But he just kept on going, shouting out through every window in the town until he got hoarse. Malachy’s father loved that – the sound of Michael O’Hehir’s voice on a Sunday morning. ‘You always know it’s a Sunday morning when you hear Michael,’ he said and smiled warmly as he squeezed Malachy’s hand.
They always met plenty of people on the way up to the chapel. There was always someone to shout, ‘There you are, Packie!’ or ‘Good man, young Malachy!’ or ‘That’s a grand day now, thank God!’ Packie always made a point of acknowledging every greeting saying, ‘There you are now, Matt!’ and ‘A lovely day surely, Francie, thank God!’ tipping his cap or touching his forehead with his index finger.
Whether or not his father was the holiest man in the town, Malachy couldn’t have said for sure, but one thing was certain, what with the way his lips were fluttering like the wings of a mad butterfly and the huge gleaming beads of sweat that were appearing on his forehead as he prayed to Mary the Mother of God and St Joseph and St Patrick and St Michael and every saint who had ever lived to do something for him, if he wasn’t Holy Man number one, he was certainly trying hard.
When the praying was all over, off they went back down the town again and into the shop to get the papers. Packie was a great man for the papers. ‘Man, but I love the papers!’ he’d say. ‘There’s great reading in them altogether!’ Then it was across the road and into the hotel where up onto the counter the bottle of Guinness would appear and someone would say, ‘Well, Packie – who do you think will win the match?’ Then Packie would scratch his chin for a while. ‘Do you know what it is – I’d say Cork!’ ‘Now you’re talking, Packie!’ they’d say. ‘And of course you’re the man’d know!’
They’d smile when they said that and ask him did he want another drink. It was good sitting there with him. For a long time they’d sit there together and Malachy would try his best not to think about what was behind his father’s eyes. But somehow he always seemed to see that day, when the sun was splitting the stones and there were flowers and confetti and the organ was playing glorious, holy music and Malachy’s mother was saying to his father ‘I love you’ instead of ‘I used to love Packie Dudgeon but I don’t any more. I don’t any more and I don’t know why. If only there was some way I could stop this happening but I can’t. I’m going to hurt you, Packie. I’m going to hurt you and there’s nothing I can do. Oh, Packie – where have they gone? Where have they gone, those days? When you held my hand along the seafront, when you took me in the boat out to the island where we thought we’d live for ever. I don’t want to do it, Packie! I don’t want it to happen! Why can’t I love you the way I used to? Tell me, Packie – please tell me!’
There wouldn’t have been much point in asking Malachy’s father that question for how was he supposed to know? All he could do was sit there nursing his Guinness and stare at something far away and try to stop the shine that was coming into his eye. Which even Sunday morning couldn’t stop, no matter how good it was. It probably would have done Packie no harm at all if Malachy had gently tugged his sleeve and whispered, ‘I love you,’ or something like that. But, with all his thinking about love in the grave, it had got to the stage now that he wouldn’t have been able to say so if he tried. He was too afraid that the minute he opened his mouth the words would wither up and die there on the spot. And he wasn’t going to let that happen – oh, no. It might have happened to Packie but it wasn’t going to happen to him. Not to Malachy Dudgeon. No, sir. Not in a million years.
And so, after three nice tasty bottles of Guinness, it was time to go home. They had hardly turned the corner when they smelt the beauti
ful aroma of bursting sausages and heard the musical sizzle of frying rashers. ‘There you have it!’ laughed Packie. ‘You have to admit it – she’s a good one. I’ll bet you a dime to a dollar there’s not another pair of boys sitting down to a breakfast the like of what you and me are going to have right now! Do you think I’d be right there?’ And Malachy grinned from ear to ear as he replied, ‘I do, Da! I just can’t wait to get home!’ ‘Nor me either, son!’ said his father and right at that very moment who should they see standing at the door only the bold Cissie, waving to them as much as to say, ‘It’s all ready!’ As soon as she got them inside it was straight down to business, buzzing around them asking had they enough of this, had they enough of that and slicing up soda bread and pouring out tea to beat the band. ‘Have youse enough bacon?’ she called from the scullery. ‘Don’t forget now – there’s plenty more where that came from!’ By the time they were finished, they were as full as ticks and could just about move and no more. Then what does she do? Stands there with her hands on her hips and starts giving out! ‘You pair of rascals!’ she said. ‘Youse haven’t eaten a stitch!’ But she was only joking and went away off out into the scullery saying she would make another drop of tea and laughing away to herself.
After breakfast Malachy sat on the sofa for a while as his father read the papers. He was at it again this Sunday morning, chuckling away to himself at all the daft carry-on that was going on in The Looneys. Of all the cartoon strips and comics and funnies that you could get in the Sunday papers, they were his favourite. ‘Boys Oh boys, our Malachy!’ he said. ‘I just don’t know what we’re going to do with these Looneys! As God is my judge I’ll have a blooming stroke if I laugh any more!’ They really were the bee’s knees, the little Looney kids. Always playing tricks on their father – putting buckets of water over the door, leaving banana skins lying around for him to slip on – doing all sorts of things like that to try and catch him out. But it was OK because in the end they always had a good laugh. That was because they were a happy family and once you are a happy family that’s all you need to care about. When he was finished reading, Packie would often say that. ‘Just you remember, Malachy – once you are a happy family that’s all you need,’ he’d say, folding the paper like he was about to deliver some really important fatherly advice, but it was no use, or at least it wasn’t any more, for unless you were blind right now you could see that if you jabbed him with a feather far from giving anybody advice about anything, he’d probably have gone and burst into tears.
Cork were leading Kerry by a point and Michael O’Hehir was really going out of his mind when Cissie came in from the scullery. It was the first time that Malachy had noticed her limping. Herself and Packie started talking then. It turned out she was having a lot of trouble with her veins lately. She said that the pain could be unbearable at times. As she described it, Packie held her hand. ‘You’ve no idea, Packie,’ she said, biting her lip. He nodded sympathetically. ‘I don’t like bothering Dr Wilding on account of it being a Sunday but I can’t go through another night with them, Packie – I just can’t.’ ‘I want to hear no more of it, daughter. You’re to go up that street now to Dr Wilding’s and don’t come back here until he’s given you something – do you hear me now? And if you have to sit in that surgery from now till doomsday, you make sure he does that – for no wife of mine’ll be put through the like of that while there’s doctors in this town.’
She smiled and gave his hand a gentle squeeze as she said, ‘Thanks, Packie, love.’ Then, in a low voice, she added ‘You’re so kind’ and went out into the hall to get her coat.
After she was gone, Malachy and Packie sat for a long time without saying anything. In the distance you could hear the protestants still singing away as the Sunday morning bells rang out over the town.
You could still hear Michael O’Hehir but he was far away now. As indeed were Malachy and poor old Packie, thanks to what had just happened. Maybe if she had said it was Dr Kennedy or Dr Hamill she was going to, they might have been able to believe her. But she had gone and made the same mistake again, as she had for God knows how many Sunday mornings lately. Maybe if she had never mentioned Dr Wilding’s name, they might never have known. But she had, however. And everyone – even the dogs in the street – knew that his surgery didn’t open on Sundays.
The Detective
It was approximately twenty minutes later that Master Malachy Dudgeon, son of Packie who was now spreadeagled beneath the Sunday Press and snoring away with his mouth open and all the little Looneys running harum scarum across his chest, decided that he wanted to become a world famous detective. Quite why he came to this conclusion I have not the foggiest notion, but one thing I do know is that if he had had any idea of the effect it was going to have on him for the rest of his days, he would have been more than happy to stay right where he was! But he didn’t, did he? Yes sir, he had to go off out the door, talking away to himself in an American accent and pretending that he was Tony Rome the famous detective he had seen at the pictures. Off up the town and down along the shore with the sea breeze in his face, then across the cliffs and away out the country on the trail of his mother. Which shouldn’t surprise us because that’s what detectives do, isn’t it? Of course it is – and why should he be any different? After all, he was the big detective! Sure he was, stomping away there beneath the blue sky on a beautiful sunny Sunday morning, thinking he was Tony Rome, just about the coolest gumshoe in the business. ‘I’m Tony Rome,’ he said to himself and tipped his imaginary sailor’s cap to one side. Tony lived by the sea too, in a little houseboat down by the marina. Tony was swell. He was just about the best detective going. One thing you did not want to do and that was mess with Tony. He hung out in all the cool joints, with women flocking around him telling him what a great guy he was. When he wasn’t blowing away hoodlums and busting up cop cars, that is. Yeah – you name it, Tony had done it. Was it any wonder Malachy would want to be him? Especially now that he had arrived at the boatshed where he could hear some mysterious noises that needed investigating. ‘I wonder what this could be, guys,’ he said to himself in his American accent. But he needn’t have worried. He needn’t have worried his head. He was going to find out all right.
At first he couldn’t see anything through the slats at the back of the shed but then he heard a clatter and when he looked again he saw someone just standing there in the gloom. At first he thought it was her but when he looked again he saw that it was Jemmy, standing there beside a pile of old nets with his cock sticking out in front of him. A sort of a faint hope leaped in him that maybe she wasn’t there after all but then she appeared out of nowhere, coming out of the shadows and falling into his arms and running her fingers through his hair. The sound of Jemmy’s breathing seemed to fill the entire boatshed. ‘I’ve been waiting days for this,’ he said as he ran his hands up and down her back. ‘Oh, Jemmy! Jemmy!’ she cried and then somehow they fell backwards onto the top of the nets and all Malachy could see was the whiteness of the cowman’s body as he cried, ‘Oh, Jesus! Oh, Christ! Christ, Jesus, but I love you, Cissie Dudgeon! I fucking love you!’ Malachy covered his ears in case he’d hear what she’d say. But it didn’t matter what he did because he heard it anyway. ‘Oh, Jemmy! Jemmy, darling! Come on! Come on!’
It was around four or thereabouts when Cissie came home. She said there had been a big crowd up at the doctor’s. Of all the days that had ever been spent in the house, Malachy felt that that was the saddest. Mainly because he could tell by his father’s eyes that whatever fight there had been left in him, there was certainly none now. If she had said ‘Why don’t you go and drown yourself right now this very minute? Wouldn’t it make more sense to go and do it now and be done with it?’ he would probably have gone ahead. As far as Malachy was concerned, it would have been better if she had, instead of sitting there laughing and handing liquorice allsorts around, blowing shite about the doctor’s.
That was the worst part of love dying and going into the
grave. That on its own wasn’t enough for people. They had to go and dig you up so that you would have to go to the funeral all over again. They had to press liquorice allsorts into your mouth.
Which was why Malachy didn’t get so much as a wink of sleep that night. How could he, with Jemmy Brady and Cissie standing there beside a granite tombstone with love on it, waving a pair of spades and falling about the place saying to one another ‘Let’s dig the old bollocks up and put him astray in the head altogether. Yoo-hoo! Packie! Are you down there? Are you down there, Dudgeon? Are you down there, boy? Look what we have for you-oo!’
The Fishing Stand
So, as you can imagine, that little episode didn’t exactly help things in the Dudgeon household, what with Malachy turning arctic on his mother and poor old Cissie at her wit’s end to know what to do about it. I mean, it did pose a bit of a problem you have to admit. What was she supposed to do – turn around to him and say, ‘Excuse me, Malachy – you weren’t by any chance spying on me on Sunday morning were you?’ Which, even if she could have done it, would only have made things worse, considering she had no excuse – none in the wide world. Not that it mattered all that much in the long run anyway, as it happened, for events, as they say, soon overtook them.
To say that people were surprised when The Dummy who lived in Maguire’s loft went out to the lake and threw himself in would be an understatement, because of all the people in the town who were likely to drown themselves, he was just about the last you would expect. As indeed was Packie, who did the very same thing no more than a week later, for although the whole town knew about his troubles and all the rest of it, they never really seriously considered that he might go that far. But he did. He went that far all right, as Malachy found out one day when he was on his way home from school. One of the young McKiernans of Harbour Terrace came running up to him and said, ‘Your father’s dead! He was fishing on the stand out at the Dummy’s Water. It broke and he fell in!’ When he heard this, Malachy felt like laughing in the young fellow’s face, for the McKiernans were well known for their mad yarns and tall stories. But, as he discovered when he got home, it was anything but a mad yarn or a tall story. He stood in the hallway for well over a minute as the world turned sideways. It was like being hit with a hammer.
The Dead School Page 2