by Peter Murphy
“I don’t know if I will have the time. I’m going to be busy when I grow up.”
“Oh really?”
“Ya. I’m going to become the president first, and make the British give back the North. Then I’m going to play football for Ireland.”
Martin smiled and watched Danny chew on another big mouthful that pressed against the inside of his soft downy cheek.
“How’re things going at school? Have you had any more trouble with the Nutgrove crowd?”
They had been picking on Danny for months, waylaying him on his way home from school, or from the shops. When his granny heard about it she confronted them on the street, warning them that she would have the Guards on them if they didn’t stop. “I’ll have the lot of you in the Borstal. Let that be fair warning. Go on now and never bother my grandson again. If one of you as much as touches a hair on his head . . .”
They scattered and left him alone for a while but Martin knew that someday Danny would have to fight his own battles. Perhaps, Martin considered, he would get Danny some boxing gloves and teach him how to use them. That’s how he survived. He never went looking for trouble but when it found him he could send it home with a black eye and a bloody nose. He had gained a bit of a reputation as a hard man. Maybe it was enough to protect Danny, too, at least until he got a bit older. Maybe he should drop by and pick him up after school a few times so that everybody could see them together.
“Uncle Martin?” Danny asked after a few moments of silence. “Do you think that God doesn’t like my ma?”
Martin never really thought about stuff like that anymore and paused before he answered, to find the right words. “Danny, I don’t know, but everybody says that God’s supposed to love us all.”
“Why do you think that my ma is always sick?”
She had always been sickly, as long as Martin could remember. His mother always referred to her as “that poor little creature” and Jacinta was never expected to help out around the house. His other sisters always complained about that. “How come she never gets asked?”
“Because she gets nervous and drops things,” their mother would answer impatiently.
“She only does that to get out of doing anything,” Brenda would reply.
“And to get attention,” Linda would chime in.
Martin was the youngest so his opinions hadn’t really mattered. He had always known that Jacinta was nervous but he’d never believed there was something really wrong with her until she got put in the hospital. Then he wondered if he shouldn’t have been a little nicer to her, all along. He felt bad about that but he was young and couldn’t do much about anything. He’d make it up to her when he was older.
“I don’t know, Danny, I think she is getting better.”
“My granny says she’s a lost cause.”
“C’mon now and finish your chips. It’s getting late and your granny will be getting worried.”
He waited until Danny turned back to his plate; he didn’t want to show his concern. He knew how hard it was to grow up with parents but it must be awful to grow up without them. He wanted to tell Danny the truth—about everything, but what could he say? Instead, as they rode on the upper deck of the bus, all the way out to Rathfarnham, they talked about the cartoons and all the crazy things they had seen.
“Do you remember when Daffy Duck tried to shoot Bugs with the gun and Bugs stuck his carrot in the barrel? That was so funny.”
**
As Martin walked back toward Terenure, he kicked his trepidations along in front of him but he couldn’t do it: he couldn’t shatter Danny’s innocence. Life would do that, and probably brutally, but he couldn’t.
His own was shredded but he was okay with that. He was different. He had always known it but only in the last few years had he gained the ability to articulate it, even if only to himself.
He had gone to a priest, too, when his questions were bigger than his answers. And he was given the same old advice: Faith, Hope, Love and lots and lots of Prayer but it all lost its lustre as he grew into the world. It was a hard place where those who were different were singled out for special torment.
That’s why he took up boxing. He hated fighting, but growing up in Dublin demanded it. Boxing made him feel confident but most of all, it made sure they left him alone.
Danny was easy prey, wide eyed and trusting and coddled by his grandmother, and the street scuts were like piranha. He’d need to defend himself, and, in time, he’d need to grow a hard shell against the world and that was the greatest sadness of all—that it was the actions of other children that often shattered the innocence of childhood.
“It’s about time you got here,” his sisters greeted him when he got home. “The Lamb of God keeps phoning for you.”
“Don’t call him that. He’s your nephew, for Christ’s sake.”
“He would be, if that old bitch would let us near him.”
Martin answered when the phone burred again. Danny was calling to thank him for the evening out.
“Thanks Uncle Martin, I had a great time and the cartoons were so funny. I was telling Granny about them and she says that I’m the luckiest boy in the world to have an uncle like you.”
His manners were polished, probably at Granny’s insistence, and Martin admired that.
“You’re more than welcome, Danny, and do you know what I was just thinking? We should do this every week, you know? We can go to the pictures and then go for burgers. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? And then we can talk about things like mates.”
“I’d like that.” Danny’s voice was echoic, like he was holding his hand around the phone so no one else could hear their conversation. “But we can’t go on Fridays anymore.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because we had meat on a Friday and Granny would kill me if she found out.”
“Well, we’ll just have to keep that our secret.” Martin hadn’t even thought about it. He’d have to be more careful. “Maybe we’ll do it on Saturdays instead, in the afternoons. They have lots of Westerns on in the afternoon.”
“In the Grafton?”
“No, but it’s good to see different kinds of films.”
“Well okay, but I’d prefer the cartoons. Do you think that my granny will say yes?”
“Don’t worry about Granny. I’ll have a word with her and I’m sure she’ll agree. Anyway, go on to bed now and I’ll talk with you next week.”
Martin was sure that Granny wouldn’t be a problem. He’d heard that she was unwell. His sisters went as far as saying that she was dying—and not before time—but Jacinta didn’t want Danny to know, not until he had to. Until then, Granny would need his help with Danny. Granny had always liked him, saying he was “a cut above the rest” and Martin liked her for that.
“Good night, Uncle Martin.”
“Good night, Danny. And don’t forget to brush your teeth.”
He couldn’t let his sisters know that he was helping her. “She was the one that broke them apart with all of her meddling,” they always said when the old woman was mentioned. “And she drove poor Jacinta into the asylum, even if it is only for treatment. It’s not like she’s really mad or anything.”
“Ah, but maybe she is better off in there—her being so delicate and all.”
“Of course she’s better off in there. Not like the rest of us trying to find husbands and the pickings of men getting slimmer each year.”
The years were taking their toll on his sisters, but Martin had little pity for them. They had all been in a hurry to leave school assured that their youth was all they needed—and that it would last. They were, as they often boasted, not the learning type. Martin was ashamed of them and the reputations they cultivated. “I hear your sisters are all rides,” cruel voices would jibe as he passed on the street but they never dared to say it to his face. He’d burst them if they did.
He couldn’t wait to get away from them all and their narrow little minds. He’d show them all th
ough—after he had made it big in New York. He’d come back and rub their smug little faces in their own shitty little lives.
But he’d look after Danny until then—at least until he was able to look out for himself.
**
Nora still remembered how happy she was the day that he dropped by.
It was a Sunday and she had been listening to the radio and the news just made her angry. The government was caving in to the British again and rounding up the men who had tried to get guns into the hands of those who’d defend the poor people of the North.
It had split “the Cause” and the country. The Republic that Bart had fought for was being taken over by Gombeens and Quislings, again. He said that it might. “We can only lead the people to the water,” he used to say, “but we can’t make them drink.” It was his favorite saying when he was out canvassing in the pubs, buying drinks for feckless voters.
“Now Nora,” he would remind her when she chided him. “The people want politicians now and have no time for statesmen. But we can rest knowing that we did our part, however it might turn out.”
She missed him more and more as his like became fewer and fewer.
“Are you sure that I’m not putting you to any bother?” Martin had hesitated when she insisted that he come in for a cup of tea and have a little chat while Danny was out playing football. “I could help you make it, if you like.”
She always thought he was such a fine young man. It was hard to believe that he was from the same parish as the rest of them—let alone the same family. “We can have chocolate biscuits, too, as long as we leave a few for Danny. He does love his chocolate biscuits.”
“Okay, so?” Martin agreed, and followed her into the kitchen and helped as much as she let him. He handled the Belleek with care and that brought a smile to her face. “They’ve been in the family for years. I don’t get much cause for using them anymore. Danny’s not ready and would probably chip them.”
“They are very fine,” Martin agreed as he placed the delicate cups on the thin saucers on either side of a platter of biscuits and carried the whole tray into the parlor. “Can I pour for you?”
“Well now,” she beamed as she settled into her musty old Queen Anne. “This is a treat—a fine young gentleman over for tea. I haven’t had the likes since . . .”
“Ah now, Mrs. Boyle, it’s me that should be thanking you for all you have done for Danny. He always has a good word for you.”
“And well he should, but he is a little angel, my Danny. And he speaks very highly of you, too. It’s all ‘Uncle Martin said this’ and ‘Uncle Martin did that.’ It’s very good of you to take such an interest in the boy.”
“It’s my pleasure, I can assure you.”
“Well it’s still very good of you. There’s not many your age that would do that. Most of them are off chasing girls and learning to drink pints. Do you have a girlfriend?”
“I don’t,” Martin hesitated for a moment. “I think it’s best to leave all of that until after I do my exams, you know?”
“And you’re right too,” Granny gushed to put the young man at ease. “There’s plenty of time for that later. Here,” she held the plate between them. “Have another biscuit and don’t worry; I have put a few aside for Danny so you can eat as many as you like.”
“Ah thanks, Mrs. Boyle. That’s very kind of you.”
Granny nibbled her biscuit and watched Martin over the rim of her teacup but he didn’t look up.
“I’m a bit worried about Danny,” she finally announced to break the settling silence of the afternoon. “Something happened recently that has me a bit uneasy.”
“About Danny?” Martin sat forward on the edge of his chair to be closer.
“Yes. It was very strange. I was just sitting here when someone called on the telephone. I don’t get many calls that late; it was almost half-past-nine.”
Martin nodded in commiseration but not so much to cause distraction.
“‘Hello’ says I, dreading that it might be bad news—that late in the evening, you know?”
Martin remained still until she continued.
“‘Hello,’ says he. ‘It’s Father Reilly here. Is it too late to talk with Danny?’”
“What was he calling about at that hour?”
“True for you, Martin, calling like that and putting the fear across me and me having a few troubles right now. Anyways, I told him that Danny was in bed and he shouldn’t be calling this late. But he says that he and Danny had a little chat and that he was thinking about it and wanted to make sure that everything was okay. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ I asked him and then I asked him why he left it so late to call.”
She watched Martin closely and nodded at his reaction. He was nobody’s fool and she liked that.
“Anyway, he told me that he had been trying to come up with the right things to say.”
She waited again as she studied Martin’s reaction. She didn’t want to think badly of the poor young priest. She wanted to believe him. She could just picture him, sitting by the phone, twisting himself into knots. “He’s very young, you know? And he gets terrible shy around people. I usually avoid him in case he starts piddling himself.” She never told him her confession—he’d be too shocked by what she had to say.
Instead she went to Fr. Brennan, the parish priest, who was old enough to understand her motives, and wise enough to see her wisdom. She had done what she had to do and, if penance was required, she’d leave her house and her bonds to the Church—after Danny was finished with them.
Fr. Brennan always gave her absolution with a smile, and well he should. It was the least he could do for all that she and Bart had done in the service of the Lord.
They had him installed as parish priest and it wasn’t a bad parish. He made a good living out of it and he could look after his curate who, God love him, needed looking after—fresh faced from the seminary, full of Jesus and looking after the sick and the poor.
That was all very well, but, as Fr. Brennan often confided to Granny, someone had to pay the bills: mortgage and heating, the cost of wine and hosts, candles burning like they grew on trees, and all the other costs of the ritual to remember a poor man’s supper.
Bart had known Fr. Brennan since his days on the run when the priest’s family often sheltered him. Fr. Brennan often reminisced about that when he came by on Thursdays for afternoon tea.
Granny looked forward to his visits. It was good to be able to talk with someone who knew and understood. He often said that Bart and Granny had been his closest friends for years, and that they were very generous, too. Always ready to help out when a young girl had to be sent away before her shame was there for all to see. They used to send them off to England—to convents where they could leave their babies in the good care of the nuns—but they needed the fare.
She had faith in the parish priest but she wasn’t sure about the curate.
**
“Of course,” Granny continued when she returned from her thoughts. “I wouldn’t let him talk with Danny at that hour. Says I, ‘I’m the boy’s guardian and you can tell me whatever it is that you wanted to say to him.’ At first he was reluctant and said that it was a confessional matter and that he couldn’t discuss it with me. Can you believe it? And me the child’s only love in the world. Present company excepted, or course. Then I said to him: ‘You can tell me or you can tell Father Brennan.’ That put the skids under him, I can tell you,” she nodded in satisfied agreement with her own sentiment. “Then he tells me that Danny was asking him about God and why He doesn’t help his mother.”
She paused again to pour more tea but it wouldn’t warm her. Despite her best efforts the past was reaching out again like a restless ghost. She had been putting off thinking about it but now she had to face it: she was going to die and Danny was going to be left alone in the world.
“Has Danny ever mentioned any of this to you?”
Martin had been watching her, like he could sense s
ome of the things that passed behind her impassive face. “He did, yes, but I told him not to think about stuff like that. I told him he was too young to understand, but that, in time, when he was bigger, it would all make sense to him.”
“You’re a very wise and decent young man, Martin, and I thank you for saying that to Danny.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Boyle, and it was no bother at all. Danny’s like a little brother to me.”
“Well I’m so glad that he has you in his corner.”
“Mrs. Boyle. Would you mind if Danny and I went out every week to see a picture? I can take him out for burgers and chips after, too, if that’s all right with you?”
“I don’t mind a bit as long as you let me pay for both of you.”
“I wasn’t asking you to do that, Mrs. Boyle.”
“I know you weren’t and that’s why I’m happy to offer.”
“Well,” Martin rose to take his leave. “In that case I’ll be very happy to accept, and this way Danny will have someone to talk with. Someone else,” he added so as not to give offence.
“Grand so,” Granny agreed as she showed him to the door. “And God bless you, Martin, for doing this.”
“It’s no bother, Mrs. Boyle. Danny and I are becoming mates, you know?”
“I do indeed,” she reached out and placed a ten-pound note in the young man’s hand. “That’s for the next time; only don’t be going for burgers on a Friday. People might start thinking we’re Protestants.”
CHAPTER 4
Fr. Reilly’s late night call had not sat well and Nora Boyle had called the Bishop about her concerns. And while they both agreed that there was nothing to worry about, he did. “I’m so glad that you told me, Mrs. Boyle,” he had said as he held the bridge of his nose between his fingers to deflect a nagging headache. “No. Not at all, Mrs. Boyle. You did the right thing and I’ll make sure that there’s nothing in it. And thanks very much again. I couldn’t function without the help of concerned people like yourself. I’ll have him in for a little chat and we’ll get to the bottom of this in no time.”