‘Mind you, you clean up smart enough when you want to, don’t you? This one is always dragging half of St Anne’s Park across my kitchen floor, aren’t you?’
John Paul made a mental note to stomp in mud before his next visit to Jason Donnelly’s.
‘Where did you get that suit? Dunnes, was it? Penneys? Mind you, they have some great bargains, don’t they! We had to go and get Jason’s in Louis Copeland, but isn’t it mad when you think about it, all that fuss for a Communion?’
Nobody was listening to Mrs Donnelly, though that never stopped her.
‘Mind you, quality is always worth the price tag, isn’t it?’
Mrs Donnelly’s face as she chewed on her charred fish finger made it clear that quality was not a noun one could associate with the Doyles. Behind her, Jason Donnelly rolled his eyes; it wasn’t his fault that his mother was a snob or that he had a Nintendo and an official Manchester United shirt, so John Paul only hated him sometimes.
Peg stayed in the corner of the room, watching. It was a miracle of sorts, the way the triplets had brought the street together. They worked the room, John Paul spinning the story of the Blessed Shells while Damien and Rosie cleared plates. Mr Geoghan had brought over some cans and Mrs Nugent had unearthed a bottle of brandy from her kitchen and everybody was getting more relaxed, cigarette smoke hovering across the sitting room, chat and craic filling the air and soon Mr Geoghan was getting ready to sing some old union songs and Mrs Nugent was insisting that she saw an outline of Our Lady on the cushion she’d just sat up from and everybody was laughing, even Granny Doyle. Peg stared across the room at her grandmother, who was digging into a fish finger sandwich as if it were a Sunday dinner at Clontarf Castle. Granny Doyle beamed at her man of the house, a great lad, she agreed, love having achieved what the cigarettes hadn’t: the regulation of her breathing, the relaxation of her shoulders, the sensation that everything, against all odds, might be just fine.
11
Blarney Stone (2007)
‘Have you seen Pope John Paul III’s loaves and fishes video?’ Peg asked, one night.
Rosie should have smiled. They could bond over the villainy of John Paul Doyle; her mission was working. She had seen the video, some awful neocolonial thing where John Paul grinned as cheap special effects made loaves and fishes abound around him, all in aid of getting people to send money to Ethiopia, and, incidentally, support whichever company was organizing this bread sale.
‘Yeah, it’s awful,’ Rosie said, although her heart wasn’t in it.
I buy a scratchcard every year on Dad’s anniversary, Rosie wanted to say, but the words stayed furled inside, because mentioning Danny Doyle would not be strategic for her mission. She did, though, scratching the card on his tombstone if she was in Dublin, promising to spend whatever winnings there were on fags and ice cream, stubbing her butt on the flowers that Granny Doyle left, because the bitch knew he hated chrysanthemums. Though at least Granny Doyle remembered the date. Rosie had bought a scratchcard the other day, some bright American thing, and had sat on Peg’s fire escape, waiting for her sister to mention the anniversary.
‘Did you see the video about the World Cup?’ Peg asked now.
Rosie had seen it, from last year, when Ireland had reverted to hopeless form, knocked out of the World Cup before it began and Pope John Paul III had to controversially bless Italy as the team to root for, Mamma Mia-ing his way through the video.
‘I did,’ Rosie said quietly, realizing where the talk was headed.
12
Daniel Timofte Jersey (1990)
The mania began with the Holland match. The tension was unbearable: Holland a goal ahead, Ireland about to exit the World Cup in twenty minutes, despite all the pluck of them. Danny Doyle had already snapped the head off the Ciao keyring he was kneading in his hands, leaving a miniature soccer ball head stuck in the folds of his armchair. In desperation, he turned to his son.
‘Say a prayer, J.P., what?’
It is true that John Paul responded. This history cannot verify the exact nature of that mumbled response, whether it was a ‘Hail Mary’ or a ‘Fuck off, Da’. Relations between the pair had continued to sour: if John Paul had his way, fists would be involved soon. And yet, despite his feelings for his father, what happened next is undeniable. The ball sailed through the air, finding its way to Niall Quinn’s head. Velocity took over as Quinn lunged his lanky body forwards, the ball whizzing past the outstretched hand of the Dutch goalie and bouncing satisfactorily into the back of the net. The Seventh Unofficial Miracle of John Paul Doyle: the Irish saved from elimination.
‘You beauty!’ Danny Doyle screamed, hugging John Paul ferociously.
In the absence of support from Granny Doyle, who did not approve of such secular miracles, Mrs Nugent became John Paul’s chief evangelist. Her telly permanently ‘on the blink’, Mrs Nugent watched the game with the Doyles, recounted the prayer John Paul said, reported the goal that followed immediately afterwards, held out her arm to demonstrate the chills she had felt.
So, it was no surprise that Mrs Nugent turned up to watch the next Ireland match in an extra-large World Cup T-shirt.
‘They’re on special offer at Guineys at the minute, brilliant aren’t they?’
Granny Doyle snorted.
‘I think it’s a shame to focus on a foreign sport when people could be playing GAA,’ Mrs McGinty offered.
‘Ah, it’s only a bit of gas,’ Mrs Nugent said. ‘Anyways, I thought John Paul could sign it!’
Of course he could, John Paul was ever eager to please his fans. Granny Doyle didn’t even try to stop him, distracted by the betting slips poking out of her son’s jeans.
‘Danny, what are you at?’
‘Ah, Ma, everybody’s doing it. It’s only a bit of fun.’
‘Fun’ was something that Danny Doyle was learning to appreciate again. He hardly ever spent days in the box room and did the odd nixer for the neighbours; he strolled down the street with pride: the father of John Paul Doyle!
‘What do you reckon, J.P. – Ireland 2, Romania nil?’
A shrug from John Paul, his shoulders stiffening immediately afterwards.
‘What do you think, J.P., Houghton might get one this time?’
‘Maybe.’
John Paul would have been happier spending the afternoon on Jason Donnelly’s Nintendo. But there was no avoiding Ireland’s showdown with Romania, especially as Mrs Nugent had rallied most of the street into 7 Dunluce Crescent, the better to witness another miracle. Even Mrs Donnelly had to have a look, thrilled by the prospect of disappointment, which seemed to beckon, as the match trudged along in a scoreless draw.
‘Ah, they haven’t a hope, do they?’ Mrs Donnelly said, once the match dragged into extra time. ‘Mind you, you wouldn’t have thought they’d make it here in the first place, would you?’
‘Peg, keep it down!’
Danny Doyle couldn’t tell Mrs Donnelly to shut up, much as he would have liked to tell her and her lamentations of doom to fuck off home next door, where Mr Donnelly was having a quiet field day.
Peg shared an eye-roll with Denise Donnelly at the deficiencies of their parents. Best friends by proximity, Peg and Denise had finally found a shared interest: the legs of Italy’s best striker, Salvatore Schillaci. It was clear that ‘Nessun Dorma’ played only for Schillachi. He was the player that encapsulated all that operatic drama: the skid to the grass in despair, the leap to the stars in jubilation when he scored, which he did, often, an intoxicating joy as he ran around the pitch in celebration. Unfortunately, Schillaci hadn’t been drafted to the Irish squad yet, so Peg and Denise were left with disappointing specimens to admire, Peg responding to Denise’s whispered question of ‘which of those manky things would you ride?’ with her usual answer (Paul McGrath; Tony Cascarino) while she waited for Denise to extol the virtues of Steve Staunton, ‘if you had to, you know?’
Schillaci might have been a benefit to the Irish team for other reasons
too; the minutes raced by and the ball trudged up and down but still no sign of a goal.
‘Will they not bring on yokeymepuss to save the day?’ Mrs Nugent said, pointing at the screen.
‘Jack Charlton’s the manager,’ Danny Doyle said, a sigh abandoned, for now was the time for action; he made it off his armchair and rubbed John Paul’s shoulders.
‘Come on, J.P., say another prayer, what?’
The seconds of extra time ticked away.
‘It’s going to be one of those sudden death penalty shoot-outs,’ Mrs Nugent shouted excitedly.
‘Now’d be the time for a miracle,’ Danny Doyle said.
‘It will be a penalty shoot-out,’ John Paul said, a pronouncement taken as prophecy.
When overtime ran into penalties there wasn’t a sound in the room. Even Mrs Donnelly suppressed her queries about how penalty shoot-outs worked and her conviction that Kevin Sheedy looked a bit old in the tooth to be taking the first one. John Paul had a knack for ceremony. He said the ‘Hail Mary’ before each Irish penalty, the room with him. If Ireland won the game, they would make it into the top eight teams of the World Cup for the first time. If Ireland won, there would be no more rain, no more recession. Or, if they won, the rain and the recession and the tedium of Live at 3 looping into the Angelus wouldn’t matter because for one moment a whole nation had walked among gods. Number 7 Dunluce Crescent wasn’t the only house to share some credit for Ireland’s fate; sitting rooms and pubs across the country shouldered the same responsibility. If ever the collective prayers of a nation convinced a god to intervene in a sporting event, this was the day.
Sheedy scored. Houghton scored. Townsend scored. Cascarino scored. So did all the Romanians. It was 4–4, the last Romanian penalty. Daniel Timofte stepped up to take it. John Paul broke out an unprecedented ‘Glory Be’. He had been silent for the previous Romanian penalties, but some instinct kicked in – cunning? luck? providence? – and he said a prayer.
‘Glory be to the Father and to the Son and the Holy Ghost, let this damn Romanian choke!’
Timofte ran forward. Packie Bonner dived to the ground, hand reached out. The ball thudded across the grass, the back of the net unruffled.
‘There you go, there you go! That’s my boy!’ Danny Doyle screamed in savage triumph.
Everybody else was looking at David O’Leary.
‘Who’s he now?’ asked Mrs Donnelly, who would have been pushed to name more than two of the squad. ‘Ah, God love him, he’s going to bottle it!’
‘No, he can do it, can’t he, son?’
John Paul didn’t respond, launched into the ‘Hail Mary’. The whole room responded, even Granny Doyle. David O’Leary stepped forward.
The rest is documented history, legs in sitting rooms around Ireland leaping up in delight at the Eighth Unofficial Miracle of John Paul Doyle.
Peg Doyle stayed on the floor, transfixed by the pictures of Daniel Timofte, the poor Romanian bugger who had missed. He had lovely eyes, a face that was made to brood, only more beautiful in defeat. He swapped shirts with one of the Irish players, the regular ritual. Peg was struck by the oddness of the sweat-soaked shirt of the defeated being used as a talisman of success but everybody else olé olé oléd away, Danny Doyle replacing olé with ‘J.P.’ Peg continued to stare at Daniel Timofte, whose gorgeous face crumpled while Peg recognized the darker side of miracles: misery.
13
Italia ’90 Shirt (1990)
No coroner would have blamed John Paul. The culprit in the death of Daniel Doyle was clearly one asphyxiation-inducing peanut (a final insult, that the object that ended his life was even more modest than his dreams. Of all the things people said would be the death of him – gambling, sadness, the children – peanuts were never mentioned; he wasn’t even allergic). But Peg knew better. Perhaps no prosecutor would have convicted John Paul of murder, but the death of two parents was evidence enough: aggravated assault in the first instance, criminal neglect in the second.
The decline of Danny Doyle began five days after the Romanian match, on the morning of Ireland’s fateful quarter-final showdown with Italy. The jersey he’d bought for John Paul, so clean it even smelled official, didn’t quite have the result he’d hoped for upon its unveiling.
‘Danny, where did you get the money for that?’
‘It’s grand, Ma. What do you think, J.P.? Thought you were due a new one.’
John Paul didn’t let his eyes meet his father’s.
‘Should get you on the pitch more, too, you’d be a grand little midfielder. Maybe I could come coach, what? I didn’t use to be half bad in my day, before I banjaxed this knee anyway, would have made the Rovers’ reserves otherwise. Played in Lansdowne the one time, though, didn’t I, Ma?’
‘You did.’
Granny Doyle’s mouth was tight, she could see sense the storm building. John Paul threw his new Ireland jersey on the back of the kitchen chair.
‘Football’s for losers. I’m going to play on Jason’s Nintendo.’
Danny Doyle held on to the back of the chair for support as the door slammed.
‘We’ll play with you, Dad,’ Rosie said.
‘That’s right, love, that’s right, all on board! Just you wait until we win the World Cup, I’ll get ones for you and Damo, I’ll get new jerseys for us all.’
He didn’t, of course. The rest of the day was spent brooding, cans shared with Mr Geoghan, as the match drew closer, and still John Paul stayed at the Donnellys’, his fondness for video games involving Italian plumbers further proof of treachery. John Paul came home for the match, along with half the street, but he was in some mood, a gleam of triumph in his eyes when Schillaci scored, Danny Doyle could have sworn on it. John Paul sat calm as Buddha for the rest of the game, no expression on his face when the final whistle blew.
Danny Doyle went into the dining room, needing to escape from the shots of Schillaci racing around the field in triumph, the cries of ‘Toto, Toto’ in the stadium, Italy bound to win the World Cup. He felt the neighbours’ judgement on the back of his neck, their eyes burning him: John Paul deficient, a fraud, a flop. Was it anger or sadness that got him in the end? Did his kicks and curses cause the peanut to go down the wrong way? Was it despair that kept him on the ground when he fell?
The sympathetic might have understood John Paul’s actions: the beleaguered child was only right to shake off the mantle of responsibility. He hadn’t asked to be the receptacle of his father’s hopes; the pressure was too much for anybody. Peg rejected this reading, convinced that the little shit knew what he was doing.
(Schillaci, too, bore some of the blame, for Danny Doyle would have been too busy cheering to bother with peanuts had Schillaci’s tears been ones of despair rather than joy. Later, Peg felt a squirm of guilt at her divided loyalties, aware that she had spent her father’s final moments on earth admiring the legs of the enemy.)
It was Rosie who found her father’s body, several minutes too late, his face a terrible colour.
‘Dad!’
Nobody heard through the ‘Nessun Dorma’ and the cheers.
‘Dad!’
The sighs of the commentators were equally indifferent to events in 7 Dunluce Crescent.
‘Daddy! Daddy, wake up! Daddy!’
This summoned a crowd. Granny Doyle’s hands rushed to her face. She’d seen enough dead bodies as a nurse to know. It was too late.
‘Daddy! Help him!’
The men talked about doing CPR but Granny Doyle’s arm stopped them: no point putting him through that, he hadn’t a pulse.
‘Daddy!’
Somebody called the ambulance (Mrs Fay?) Somebody put on the kettle (Mrs Nugent?) Somebody cleared the house (Mrs McGinty?) But even with the ambulance on its way and a fresh pot of tea made and the house nice and peaceful for once, Danny Doyle remained dead on the floor. He couldn’t hear her any more; still, Rosie called.
‘Dad!’
John Paul’s face twisted. He should go over
and hold his sister, that’s what a man of the house would do. He felt his shoulders slump, his face twitch with guilt. He’d wished his father gone many a time – which of his friends hadn’t wished the same? – but he hadn’t wanted this, of course he hadn’t. He stayed still as Rosie wailed and Granny Doyle leant against the wall with her hands up in her face, while he was stuck watching, not able to do a thing.
‘Daddy!’
Damien needed to leave the house immediately. Come on, now, let’s leave space for the doctors to work. That’s what the voice was saying (Mrs Donnelly? Mrs Nugent? Some grown-up who knew what they were doing, at least) and Damien clung to this protocol. Chaos had entered the house; the best thing was to restore order. They needed to leave immediately, Rosie too, but she wouldn’t stop crying.
‘Daddy, wake up!’
Peg walked over to her sister and held her. She didn’t always understand her sister but here was something she could appreciate: pain. Somebody had turned off the television – they must have – but Peg was sure that ‘Nessun Dorma’ was still playing, for nothing else could capture the depth of Rosie’s grief. Peg saw its swell and storm on Rosie’s red face, as the poor child seemed to move in tune with the song, sinking to the ground with racking sobs, raising her head for an anguished wail, finding the strength to yell one more ‘Daddy!’ though the word was hard to make out. It was too much for the grown-ups, but Peg gripped onto her sister. She didn’t try to ssh her or say things would be okay. She couldn’t even say that she knew what she was feeling, for what Peg felt was detachment, an awareness that she should have the same well of grief inside her, even as she failed to find it.
Future Popes of Ireland Page 11