‘What the fuck are you doing?’
John Paul’s eyes wobbled: there was a guard at the back door, or a gargoyle; some shitebag in a suit blocking the brilliant plan, anyway.
‘I should have known you’d be fucked.’
Disappointment as much as anger in the words; of course it was bloody Damien.
‘Get out of my way,’ John Paul said, though his legs moved sideways instead of forwards, the bastards.
Damien had his patient face on, as bad as Clo’s.
‘You’re drunk,’ John Paul said, words clinging to the sight of the bottle in Damien’s hand.
Damien sliced at him with his smile.
‘Nearly.’
Damien was drunk, though: what else would have him gulping another glug straight from the bottle?
‘So, you’re planning a bonfire, are you?’ Damien said, a nasty sliver of a smile on his face, another I can’t be fucked cleaning up your mess swig straight from the bottle.
‘Get out of my way,’ John Paul said, remembering the brilliant plan, his legs finally obliging in a forward march.
You’re not getting in, the fold of Damien’s arms said.
Fucking joker, John Paul’s laugh said.
The laugh was not enough to budge Damien.
‘Go home,’ Damien said. ‘You’ve done enough damage here.’
Have I now? John Paul’s laugh said.
‘You’re lucky Mrs McGinty didn’t call the guards.’
‘Sure I’ll call them myself,’ John Paul said. ‘Tell them we’ve got one of the government fuckers who bailed out the banks here.’
I will not be taunted, the hardening of Damien’s face said.
‘You’re lucky Gran can’t see you like this.’
That wiped the smile from John Paul’s face.
You’ll not be slipping guilt on my shoulders, John Paul’s gulp said.
‘As if you ever gave a riddlers about her! How many times have you come here? You ever cleaned these windows or cut the grass for her? Sat with her on the porch? Get the fuck down from your high horse! You never did a thing for her!’
I never had the chance, the bob of Damien’s Adam’s apple said.
‘At least I didn’t kick her onto the street.’
Careful, boy, don’t test me, the ball of John Paul’s fist said.
You haven’t changed a bit, the shake of Damien’s head said.
‘I’ll call you a car,’ Damien said.
I’m going to fix this, the whirl of John Paul’s eyes said.
‘This is my house!’ John Paul shouted.
The curve of Damien’s lips was cruel.
‘Actually, it belongs to the bank now.’
‘Bank sent you to do their dirty business, did they? Suppose you’ve gotten a lot of practice at that, haven’t you?’
How dare you, Damien said, although the words didn’t come out, his arms pushed forwards instead.
What the …? John Paul’s gasp said as the back of his head dashed against the pebbles of the wall.
Oh shit, Damien’s gulp said but then finally John Paul’s smile said and fuck you, you cocky shite John Paul’s glare said and bring it on Damien’s headshake said and fuck you the lunge of their limbs said and that was that, the match sparked, the two of them tumbling onto the snow, the fight twenty-nine years in the making finally happening.
You brought this on yourself Damien’s fist said and you called me faggot Damien’s thump said and you punched Rory Damien’s kick said as you bailed out the banks John Paul’s push said and you’ve never had an ounce of cop-on John Paul’s shove said and you ratted me out John Paul’s roar said. Wine and petrol lay to the side as the pair of them flapped and flailed around the garden, fists and feet kicking up snow and curdled sentences: you couldn’t keep your gob shut and you broke her heart and you’re pathetic and you fight like a girl and I’ve been gyming it up and I actually hate you and you represent everything that’s wrong with the country and you never visited her and you haven’t a clue and all I want is your respect and this is your fault, you fucker batted forth and back, the two of them too fucked to break blood or bruise, the two of them rolling and raging on top of each other, knackered, the snow underneath them hard.
They were like that when Rosie woke up and came downstairs. Rosie stared at them for a moment but they were too absorbed in their own panting and punching to notice the arrival of their sister. It was their obliviousness to her existence that had Rosie scooping a handful of snow into her mitten, I hate you equally arcing through air.
Rosie gathered up quite a few handfuls of snow – Why did I come here? and stop! and I am here – before one of her missiles finally connected with John Paul’s face. What the …? John Paul’s laugh said and Huh? Damien’s face said. The three of them looked at each other, John Paul and Damien, side by side on the ground, panting, while Rosie stood with a fistful of snow in her mitten.
And then, miraculously, the elastic band snapped back into place. Bring it on John Paul’s laugh said and fuck it the whoosh of snow through the air said and who knew what the snow that scurried back and forth in the next minute said, there wasn’t time to think; there were the triplets, ducking and diving around the tiny back garden of 7 Dunluce Crescent, which had once seemed as enormous as a universe. Damien aimed too far and a snowball whooshed over the back wall towards the Donnellys’ house, prompting the twitch of a curtain and laughs from John Paul, who immediately scooped up a hard clump of snow and flung it towards 5 Dunluce Crescent, fuck you written in its arc, echoed by Damien’s and Rosie’s snowballs, I want to smash something so it might as well be this curved through the air, thud thud thud against the wall, prompting the opening of the window, the rare appearance of Mr Donnelly, whose face shouted I’ll call the police as the triplets collapsed upon each other in fits.
Back in the day, this might have prompted a miracle from John Paul Doyle. Perhaps the triplets would have escaped together, dashing down Dunluce Crescent and sending snowballs and giggles into the air, the three of them thief-thick, united against the world, back on that day. Or, their small hands might have reached the ground together, three snowballs shooting through the Donnellys’ open window, precise missiles that found their mark miraculously: the open mouth of Mrs Donnelly, about to exclaim that mind you, I always said the Doyles had it coming.
But John Paul had lost the knack of miracles. They did not skip through the streets, sending snowballs on perfect arcs as tensions melted underfoot. No snowball curved through the Donnellys’ window. The elastic band broke; they barely even talked. Rosie and Damien got John Paul into a bed and Damien took a taxi home and Rosie smoked into the early hours, eventually falling into a shaky sleep in an armchair.
When John Paul awoke, dragged into the day by the hammering in his head, Rosie was asleep. Dunluce Crescent was coming to life. Mr Okorocho was heading out in his car, while Mrs Okorocho stood at the door of Mrs Nugent’s house, shooing away the snow with her scowl. Two schoolbagged young things slouched out of Irene Hunter’s house, disgusted at the melting snow. Curtains twitched in Mrs McGinty’s window, though no figure appeared. Out in the back garden, the petrol can and empty wine bottle lay forlorn on scraps of grass, the brilliant plan evaporating too. John Paul had failed to burn the house down, just as he had failed to kill himself all those years ago: he couldn’t even succeed at being a failure. This thought, coupled with the danger that Rosie might wake up – a look from her that morning would be enough to slay him, he was sure of it – sent John Paul out the front door, the memory of his coat only hitting him as he turned the corner, when it was impossible to go back, unnecessary too: the St Vincent de Paul would be glad to have it in one of their bags.
13
Brooklyn Botanic Garden Annual Pass (2009)
Peg stood on Dev’s balcony and took in an exhilarating breath of crisp, snowy air. She loved her fire escape but there was something luxurious about a balcony, especially with snowy-roofed houses laid out as if
in a fairy tale. Only in Brooklyn, a place assuming a magical dimension for Peg, who imagined it as a Narnia without witches, every house festooned with wreaths, children bicycling by, every day a Saturday. Dev emerged from the shower, a different Dev; that was what moving to Brooklyn had achieved. Divorce had been the making of them, the grind of bills and bin-bags replaced with two available people in their lives’ prime, cuddled under covers on a Saturday morning.
Peg handed him some fresh coffee.
‘I should get going soon,’ Dev said.
Peg pulled Dev into a kiss.
‘Okay,’ Peg said, followed by her new favourite word. ‘Soon.’
Months passed but ‘soon’ hovered just outside of time, a word to swoon inside.
Soon, she would get dressed and go.
Soon, they would see each other again.
Soon, they would talk about whatever it was they were doing.
*
‘Breakfast?’ Dev said.
Peg nodded. They went inside, to Dev’s kitchen, where Peg didn’t mind that sometimes knives found their way to the fork compartment. He’d made eggs and pesto, this new Dev.
Soon, she would tell him how much she liked this.
Soon, she would say, why don’t we walk to the Botanic Garden and sit in the warm greenhouses and hold hands.
Soon, she would tell him how much she loved him.
Dev checked the time on his phone. He had a meeting with some radical economics group he’d become part of, the world to be saved with meetings and mathematics and the overthrow of capitalism, soon.
Brooklyn had made a revolutionary of Dev, or the times had, more meetings and marches than ever necessary to put affairs to rights. Dev had been all in on Team Obama, the most enthusiastic canvasser in Brooklyn, but this was when they weren’t talking, so Peg didn’t know the new friends that Dev had amassed, his support group now that Obama had bailed out the banks and failed to pass a carbon tax and proved mortal, after all. Even so, Dev kept the Obama poster up in his kitchen; he would take it down, soon.
‘There’s a foreclosure protest tomorrow afternoon,’ Dev said, some unpleasant questions from the past lurking underneath, don’t you want to come? and why can’t you be the person I want? there, even as Dev’s voice was light.
‘I have to work,’ Peg lied.
Dev stabbed out a response to somebody on his phone. Peg tensed; she could still tell when Devansh Sabharwal was gearing up to something. She was worried it might have something to do with Rosie. Peg wasn’t on Facebook, so she didn’t know if Rosie had joined or poked at Dev’s radical economics group. A Brooklyn kitchen was no place for the Doyles, so Peg nuzzled into Dev’s chest and sipped her coffee.
Soon, there would be lovely heat in the greenhouses, where they would hold hands under brightly coloured vines.
Soon, there would be bluebells to walk through.
Soon, there would be pillows of cherry blossom under their heads.
Dev was happier now that he was teaching at a hippie school in Brooklyn where radical math was part of the curriculum. Peg had finished her Master’s. She had her job in the library. She had the money from the house in Clougheally, enough to set them both up for a time. She had Robert and Tom and Enrique, for this was the twenty-first century, and here they were in New York, a city with all its secrets in plain view, and divorce had been the making of them, an open relationship the way they could stay together. Peg felt a sliver of longing for a world where people got to live more than one life; here she was at thirty-four, having only just figured some things out. What things she could do were she to go through it all again!
Dev looked at his phone; another text had arrived, but he didn’t say from whom. He scrolled through his phone, working up to something. Peg drained her coffee and wondered if it was late enough to get away with mimosas (she would evaluate her behaviour and learn to love juice made from kale, soon).
‘Peg …’
She sensed them then, the words that Dev was collecting. He’d met somebody, somebody to be serious about, and the soon we have to stop had come now and Dev and Whoever would be wed within two years and have a baby within three and Peg wouldn’t even get to read about it on Facebook.
‘Peg …’
Other words were coming first, unfortunately: she could tell the pause Devansh Sabharwal took before he broached the topic of the Doyles (who had no space in a Brooklyn kitchen). Peg looked out the window, where snow had started to fall again (perhaps they might be stuck in this apartment, for ever). She knew that things weren’t going well in Ireland, everybody asked her about it, from the supervisor to the bodega clerk. She knew that things weren’t going well for the Doyles. But what business did they have clambering onto this balcony, intruding upon this kitchen: couldn’t they leave her be?
‘Peg …’
She brought her eyes back to Dev. This was hard for him too, because he hated being the messenger and he didn’t understand how she felt about her family, he never had, and he should have given up years ago, but here he was, one last time, a sentence he’d spoken before, though it had accumulated weight, tenderness too.
‘I think you should call Rosie …’
Series X:
Last Rites
(2010–2011)
1
‘What’s the Craic, Barack?’ T-Shirt (2011)
It was May 2011 when Barack Obama brought hope to Ireland. For the first time in his life, John Paul longed to be in Moneygall. It looked brilliant on the TV: the Obamas stepping out of their limo onto Moneygall’s main street, as cool as could be, babies lifted up and hands shaken and sweet shops strolled into. Obama demonstrated the best parts of his heritage: casually cracking jokes across pints like an Irishman; smiling until his teeth cracked like a good American, no crisis that optimism couldn’t defeat.
John Paul might have been there. It was easy to imagine Pope John Paul III standing in the Moneygall drizzle and shaking hands with the President of the United States. No, Obama was too cool for that: fist-bumps and back-slaps it would have been. They would have clinked pints in the pub and John Paul would have made a brilliant video. Instead, he’d had the lunch-hour rush to get through and the hands that might have fist-bumped a president filled baguettes with sliced tomatoes and shredded cheese.
Not to worry: it would have been mad to trek to Moneygall, anyway. Obama was here in Dublin and John Paul was ready, his shift in Spar finished, Sophie with her legs around his shoulders, a giant shamrock hat on her head.
‘That’s the President, look!’ John Paul said, as Sophie looked around the College Green crowd, more interested in another girl’s Peppa Pig backpack than whatever it was the giant man on the screen was saying.
‘That’s President Obama!’ John Paul said, sure that Sophie would wow the teachers at her playschool with her vocabulary.
He cast his eye around the crowd for the press. Other toddlers were also sporting shamrock hats, but none of them were as cute as Sophie; he could see her, beaming from the front page of the Irish Independent. He’d keep his head out of the frame, hoping that people wouldn’t recognize him. He was glad of his beard and sunglasses and the thick of the crowd, not a space where Mrs Donnelly could squeeze through to say that she had a second cousin from Moneygall or, would you believe it, Jason had an invite to the dinner at the American ambassador’s.
Sophie wanted her chocolate buttons.
‘Don’t tell your mammy,’ John Paul said, finding the contraband.
Clodagh was fighting a daily battle with her mother about Sophie’s sugar intake, the big house off the Coast Road too small for all of them. There they were, though, and whatever tensions Clodagh carried were stored in her shoulders; she did not complain about her mother to John Paul, because they didn’t talk. They were in the civil stage; sentences were to be kept short and measured. They had done their fighting and crying and smashing. If Clodagh Reynolds felt any sadness as she looked at her reflection in the same mirror that she and John Paul Doy
le had cracked when they were teenagers, she did not share it with John Paul. She kept her feelings stored in that small bedroom, let any tears fall on the same floorboards where once John Paul had taken off her bra and told her he’d love her for ever.
‘… And, Ireland, as trying as these times are, I know our future is still as big and as bright as our children expect it to be.’
The crowd erupted in another cheer, Sophie joining in, sticky hands waving at the President.
‘He’s talking about you, so he is,’ John Paul said.
‘… And today, Ireland’s youth, and those who’ve come back to build a new Ireland, are now among the best-educated, most entrepreneurial in the world. And I see those young people here today. And I know that Ireland will succeed.’
‘Yeah, you will, won’t you?’ John Paul said.
Sophie would be up there one day, a president or a taoiseach, whatever she wanted.
She was the thing that that got him off the couch. It didn’t matter how other people looked at him, or how he looked at himself: through Sophie’s eyes he could rebuild himself. And they were great eyes, blue like her mother’s, full of love and curiosity and wonder for the world, gawping at all the mad ones in College Green, taking it all in. He felt humbled that she even looked at him at all, with so many things to be stared at, and he cherished every glance and gaze, pocketed them like notes into a wallet.
‘This little country, that inspires the biggest things – your best days are still ahead. Our greatest triumphs – in America and Ireland alike – are still to come.’
It was brilliant, Obama finding the words to lift a nation. Hard times always came, that was history. But up people got; on they went. That was the story of his ancestor, Falmouth Kearney, who had fled the Famine on a ship, looked across an empty American field and thought: here I start. Start he did, and look at where his great-great-great-grandson stood now, proof that sweat and tears could take you far, eventually. Obama was brilliant, John Paul thought, chorusing out ‘Is Féidir Linn’ with the rest of the crowd, encouraging Sophie to do the same; she’d be top of the class at Irish, a translator for the United Nations, an award-winning linguist.
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