Maggie's Breakfast

by Gabriel Walsh

  Biddy’s throaty voice was also the alarm for Mrs. Mack. Mrs. Mack spent her entire day if not her entire life looking out of her upraised window. The woman couldn’t travel or go anywhere because she had only one leg. It was rumoured she kept her severed leg in the back yard and that was the reason for the peculiar smell on the street. On Saturday mornings when the priest came to hear Mrs. Mack’s confession he had to listen and bless her through the front window because of the whiff. He often told neighbours on his way back to the church that his time as a missionary in Africa was an easier task than having to stand outside Mrs. Mack’s window while she confessed to nothing. After about two or three years of being Mrs. Mack’s spiritual adviser he requested a transfer to the Australian outback.

  Friday evening, the end of the work week . . .

  Men with their wages in their pockets would rush from the foundry like a stampede of cows fleeing the slaughterhouse and hasten to the nearby pub. Once inside, the ritual of drinking and singing would begin. Sons covered with engine oil joined fathers at the bar and displayed their youthful and inherited prowess for the consumption of Guinness. When the pub closed the men would stagger out, drunk and incoherent. Some got up on their bicycles and began the risky wobble home. A few would tumble and end up on the street, feeling their sore arses. At the same time women would hurry in the direction of the pub only to find their men sprawled on the street. The women would frantically search their husbands’ pockets, hoping their men hadn’t spent every penny on the drink. With the shock of finding empty pockets the women would unleash a painful lament, their screams greeted with rambling and incoherent apologies from the men.

  * * *

  My mother looked through the curtains, saw who was at the door and without looking back at me said “Hide!”

  I was sitting in front of the fireplace counting the sparks that were floating up the chimney. As the front door was opened, I ran and hid under the small table.

  The priest entered the house and my mother greeted him with a reverential bow.

  With a voice that was known to knock cups off their saucers Father Joe Devine bellowed out, “Mornin’, Missus!” With hat in hand he stepped into the middle of the room and viewed all the holy pictures and statues my mother had accumulated over the years. He probably thought it was as good a place as any for a miracle to occur.

  Father Joe Devine was referred to by my father as ‘Holy Divine’ and by us thereafter as ‘Father Divine’. He was also known as ‘Sheep Dog’ because of his habit of roaming about on his bicycle rounding up errant parishioners and herding them with due violence into the church for ‘retreats’ and other ‘devotions’.

  Rumour in the neighbourhood had it that in his earlier years he had been thrown out of a cloistered order in County Waterford because of his unnatural fixation on the Virgin Mary. Instead of money, he carried around in his pockets small mini-statues of the religious figure. It was believed that when he went to bed at night he placed a life-size statue of the Virgin next to the foot of his bed. The religious order required Joe ‘Divine’ to take a vow of silence but he couldn’t stop talking about the Blessed Virgin and he was asked to leave the monastery. The irrational relationship Joe had with the Virgin Mary tarnished the image of the holy order. A hundred or so reclusive men who were pledged to a vow of silence in a hidden-away monastery didn’t appreciate Joe Devine’s very vocal obsession. Also, when Joe left the cloistered monastery, his fellow monks made sure he took his collection of plaster statues with him.

  Now the Oblates Parish of Mary Immaculate in Inchicore was blessed with Father Joe, a man with deep roots in County Waterford who preferred to speak Gaelic rather than English and had little sympathy for Dublin people. He was a replacement for a priest who was exiled to Donegal by the Bishop of Dublin after he was accused by several of his parishioners of unpriestly activities. The nature of his unpriestly conduct was never made public and no one who attended Mass or received Communion in the parish ever asked why. Some parishioners were heard to say that he had plans to “Christianise Ireland properly”. The parish in North Donegal was at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean and, because of the fierce cold weather there, it was said that it was only accessible during the summer months. So whatever his crimes or misdemeanours, the errant priest was well out of the way of the Bishop of Dublin.

  “Mornin’, Father,” my mother finally and humbly said to the man who stood in front of her, dressed from head to toe in black.

  Father Joe stood in the centre of the room, spoke about the Virgin Mary and looked like he was about to burst and drown the whole country in holy water.

  “The blessed Mother of God stands alone and crownless watching over all of us who pray to go to Heaven. The Mother of God has withstood storms and bitter cold winters, facing and comforting all who come by Her feet to pray.”

  The big old statue he was referring to was there since the local church was built and nobody paid much attention to it before Father Divine arrived.

  From under the old wooden table I could hear the priest’s notorious voice and I trembled with fear. When he stepped close to the table I noticed his black shiny shoes. They had thick soles on them as if they had been repaired twice.

  “The Virgin Mary is the closest to God that any imaginable person or thing could be. Anything she says, you can be sure God pays attention to.” Father Joe then knocked on the table with his knuckles. “Mrs.Walsh, I’m here on a duty to honour Our Lady. How many times, and I needn’t ask you this, but how many times have you knelt down before the Mother of God and asked her for guidance and blessings?”

  My mother’s voice rang out, “Many times, Father!”

  “I know you have, Mrs. Walsh, and I also know that the Mother of God hasn’t forgotten. She keeps a long and remembered record of your prayers.”

  My mother, feeling blessed, stepped closer to the man in black. “Wasn’t I only there meself this mornin’ after Mass offerin’ up me prayers, Father. That’s as true as Christ is in Heaven!”

  Our Lady’s statue outside the church was standing on a high pedestal surmounting the gate that led into the churchyard. She had a big rosary beads over her arm but she didn’t have a crown or a halo over her head. What she did have was a man who was resolved to do something about it.

  “Have you anything to offer, honour and beautify the statue of Our Holy Mother?” he asked my mother.

  My mother’s response was typical of her. “The few ha’pence I’ve left over wouldn’t be enough to buy a bottle of holy water, Father.”

  Father Divine wasn’t satisfied with my mother’s answer so he walked about the room inspecting everything in the place. From where I was sitting under the table, I could smell the polish on his shiny shoes. He continued to walk about looking at everything – the pictures on the wall and every bit of furniture my mother had collected since she was married. He even lifted up the kettles and pots in the fireplace.

  Finally convinced that my mother had nothing of value in the house to offer the Virgin, he walked to the door and, turning, reached out as if to shake her hand. But he took her left hand, not her right hand.

  On the fourth finger of her left hand was her wedding ring. The ring that bonded my parents in marriage and perhaps more than anything else the object that kept them in the holy miserable state of matrimony. Maybe the only happy memory my parents ever experienced together. Perhaps the one thing of value in my mother’s life, the thing that empowered her to endure pain and discomfort. The wedding ring on her finger was more than a bond to her: it was a sacrament. Whatever the pain, anger, and confusion, the ring held my parents together like no other force. It might even have been the only worthy thing she admired about my father. My mother’s life was reflected in its shine. The band of gold had endured countless floor-scrubbings and thousands of laundry-washes. It had been there when arses were wiped and piss-pots emptied. It had been there when potatoes were peeled and when pigs’ cheeks were cooked. It had touched shop stalls and meat counter
s when she reached out for bargains or charity. It felt my mother’s breath when she prayed a thousand prayers with her hands joined. Every saint and statue in Dublin had had their image reflected in my mother’s wedding ring when she prayed to them at one time or another.

  Father Joe held onto my mother’s hand as if he was proposing marriage to her. When he spoke his voice had changed dramatically.

  “The Holy Mother of God would be eternally grateful if you could donate this ring to her crown, Mrs. Walsh. I know she’d look down on you and anoint you. If you do, it would be placed in her crown with other gold rings from other women and wives in the parish.”

  “Ah, Paddy put that on me finger,” my mother said sadly.

  “Our Blessed Lady will be crowned in May – the month of Our Blessed Virgin, Mrs. Walsh.”

  My mother then knelt down on the scrubbed wooden floor and offered a prayer. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I offer you me heart and me soul!” Her thick brown stockings had holes in them and her knees were showing.

  She then arose and in an obedient manner presented her hand to the priest.

  As he stood by the door in his crusade to undo contentment, Father Devine separated the wedding ring from my mother’s finger. He told her it would be forever a star in the new crown of the Virgin Mary. God would look with special affection on her for giving such a gift to his Mother and she could have a front-row seat when the time came for the consecration of the Virgin’s crown.

  After a quick blessing and the Sign of the Cross Father Divine made a hasty exit.

  My mother, who couldn’t afford a pint of milk, felt she had achieved something close to sainthood.

  Within a few minutes of Father Divine’s departure my father came hurrying in the door. He looked pale and exhausted. He had encountered the man from Waterford who had told him about the wedding ring sacrificed so the Virgin Mary could have her crown. When my father entered the house he walked to the table I was still sitting under. He then called to my mother who was cleaning out the fireplace.

  “I want to talk to ya! I want to talk to ya now!”

  “About what?” my mother responded with a tone of guilt that you could cut with a knife.

  My father raised his voice louder than I had ever heard in my entire life. “Isn’t there somethin’ missing from your finger?”

  “What?” my mother answered.

  It was the first direct confrontation I had witnessed in a long time.

  “You had a ring on there, didn’t ya?”

  “I had.”

  “Where’s it?”

  “Me weddin’ ring?”

  “Yes. You only had one bloody ring!” my father yelled. “Where’s the bloody ring I bought ya?”

  Molly began to peel a potato as if to avoid his wrath. After a second or two Paddy took the potato from her hand and threw it across the room. It landed in the fireplace.

  My father was then hit with what he hated to hear most.

  “What good are you? You’re just a labourer! You’ve no trade! Nobody has any need for ex-soldiers. And if they served in the English army they have even less use for them. All of Ireland knows that!”

  Paddy retreated like a soldier who had run out of ammunition or one who’d got fed up with firing at the same target.

  “Where’s the ring I bought ya? Where’s the wedding ring I spent me savin’s on? Where is it?”

  He then began to cry.

  I wanted to crawl out from under the table but I was afraid to.

  My mother, with a sense of sacrament in her voice, continued: “The Holy Mother of God will be wearing the ring in her crown.”

  My father fired off one last shot. “Why the hell didn’t you give her the wedding dress as well?” Holding on to his suspenders he retreated like a wounded soldier to the bedroom. It was the only place he could hide.

  * * *

  Murphy’s barbershop was located not too far from the foundry. At the time it was Inchicore’s only beauty salon. I was sitting on the curb outside the shop with Danny Murphy, a boy about the age of seven, the same age as myself and the son of the owner.

  “Come in here, Danny, and mind the shop.” Mr. Murphy’s hands were shaking and his tongue was sticking out of his mouth. “I need to go get a pint before I drop dead on the floor. I’m goin’ across the street for a drop of porter. Keep the lock on the door and let nobody in. I’ll be back in a bit. Y’hear me, son?”

  “Yis,” Danny said.

  Mr. Murphy took off his apron, shook the hairs off it, put his overcoat on, reached for his hat, covered his bald head and walked out the door.

  Danny looked at me. “Give me a hand with the hair,” he said, imitating his father’s demanding voice.

  “What d’ya want me t’do?” I asked.

  “Put the dirty hair in the barrel in the back room.”

  I grabbed as much hair off the floor as my hands could hold, walked to the back room and pushed the stack of greasy hair into a big cardboard barrel. Half of the hair stuck to me. My face, ears and nose were covered with it. I walked back to the front room and saw Danny wearing his father’s apron and holding the hair-snippers in his hand.

  “When I grow up I’m goin’ to be the barber here. And if you’re me pal you’ll help me get a start.”

  For a second or two I wasn’t sure what Danny was talking about.

  “Let me do it,” he said.

  “Do what?” I asked.

  “Let me give you a haircut.”

  I crawled into the chair in front of the big mirror. Danny tied a striped apron around my neck and within seconds he was snipping away at my head. Twice he snipped my ears and made me bleed. I had hair and blood-spots all over me. I looked like Magua, in The Last of the Mohicans. I started to cry.

  As Danny tried to reassure me about my bleeding ears, a knock came to the door. “Me dad is back,” he mumbled.

  Mr. Murphy’s voice yelled out, “Open the damn door, Danny!”

  Danny sat down on the floor and began to cry. “I’ll be kill’t! I’ll be kill’t!” he moaned painfully. He was so frightened he couldn’t shake the scissors out of his hand and stabbed me with it again and again as he tried. He looked like he was lock-jawed and dead at the same time.

  Mr. Murphy’s voice bellowed even louder than before. “Open the fuckin’ door!”

  Danny started to cry and pray at the same time. “Holy Mary, full of something, and Jesus, say something to me father!”

  I became so frightened I began to pray also. “Oh my God, I’m heartily sorry for having offended Thee!”

  Danny stuck his hand to my mouth. “Don’t pray so loud! He’ll hear you!”

  I was now very worried and choking at the same time. For what seemed to be forever, I couldn’t talk. Danny shifted his hand a bit and now I couldn’t breathe either but I could hear Mr. Murphy yelling.

  “Open the damn door or I’ll whip the shite out of ya! I swear to Christ you won’t sit on your arse for a month!”

  Danny then pissed in his trousers. Mr. Murphy kicked on the door again. In panic I leaped from the chair, ran to the back room and jumped into the big barrel of hair. I had hair in my ears, my nose, my eyes, my mouth, my pockets, my shoes and down the back of my neck. I closed my eyes and hoped I could just fall asleep and forget everything.

  “Open the door! Open the blasted door! Y’hear me? Open the bloody door, Danny!” Mr. Murphy yelled again.

  Danny rushed into the back room and looked down at me hiding under a mountain of hair.

  “Me father’s drunk and I’ll be kill’t if he finds out what I did to ya.”

  I wasn’t able to help him. I was imprisoned in a barrel of dirty hair that up until a few hours earlier belonged to half the men of Inchicore.

  Mr. Murphy was going crazy. “Open the bloody door before I kick the thing in! Y’hear me? D’y’hear me? Open the door!”

  Danny ran back to the front room. I heard the sound of the front door opening and said a few prayers to myself – “Glor
y be to the Father and to the Son and the Holy Ghost!” and “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee, blessed art Thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of Thy womb, Jesus!”

  From the front room I heard a loud noise. It sounded as if Mr. Murphy had thrown the wooden bench at Danny.

  Danny let out a scream. “Don’t hit me! Don’t hit me!”

  There was a loud grunt from Mr. Murphy as if he had missed hitting Danny with the wooden bench. “What in the name of Christ are ya up to? Why didn’t ya open up for me? Why? You’re a right git, ya scruffy little bollocks! Get home with yourself!”

  The door slammed. All was quiet again. They were both gone.

  I was terrified of what my mother would say about my hair when I got home. I planned on telling her that I’d been praying all evening and had said more prayers in one hour than I had in a week. I wanted to tell her I said the Act of Contrition and the Our Father so many times I could sing them backwards.

  After about fifteen minutes I climbed out of the container and walked into the front room. I tried to open the front door but it was locked. I then went into the back room, climbed to the small ventilator window, crawled out sideways and fell into the back alley.

  * * *

  “Sacred Heart of Jesus, what happened to you?”

  My ears had two red streaks of blood dripping down the sides of my neck and face. My head looked even worse. My mother’s face appeared to turn purple when she saw me. She quickly grabbed my hand, led me to the big mirror that was hanging over the picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. I stared at the plaster statue and for a moment wondered if it had real blood dripping from its heart. For a very short time I was dreaming that Danny Murphy hadn’t really operated on my head and the greasy snippets of hair that were pasted to every part of my body weren’t really there at all.