by Peter Murphy
Everything was chopped and diced and carefully arranged on platters. The bowls of dips were in the fridge and she would take them out when he arrived, along with the corn chips—if Martin hadn’t devoured them already. She had time for a shower, but just a quick one. She wanted to be fresh and clean and relaxed when he got there. The kids were going to catch a late show afterwards and made a point of telling her that they’d be home late and would probably sleep in in the morning. “It’s no big deal, Mom,” Martin had assured her after she gave him some money to treat Rachael and his sister. “It’s your house too.” He was just returning the compliment; she had respected his privacy when he started taking Rachael to his room and closing his door.
Well, she did after Grainne caught her standing by his bedroom door with a basket of his laundry. She’d been watching her for a while and reminded her of that the next time Deirdre intruded on one of her phones calls. They were all trying to learn how to give each other more space.
Grainne and Rachael insisted on helping her get ready and did a wonderful job on her makeup, even if she looked a lot like Sophia Loren. But she couldn’t go along with them on the clothes. Rachael wanted something long and black and flowing, something alluring that would appeal to Eduardo’s “Romanesqueness.” And Grainne tried to dress her like one of the girls on Isabella Street long ago, the ones that all knew Danny by name. She overruled them and wore jeans. They were a little tight around her ass but she covered it with a light, lamb’s wool sweater, the powder blue one with the V-neck.
“Misdirection.” She winked at herself in the mirror and adjusted her breasts. The girls had insisted that she wear her smallest bra—everybody was doing it now. It gave her enough cleavage to keep his eyes above her waist and maybe, if he could find them in the gauze of shadow the girls had applied, look into her eyes. She was reconsidering her lipstick when he arrived. Martin had been posted to let him in and help break the ice, but she heard Grainne get there first.
Deirdre rose and checked herself one last time. The girls had assured her that her lipstick was a muted red, but in her reflection it looked more like something you might wear if you were dating a vampire. But it would have to do. Besides, she decided as she walked toward the stairs, she would leave a lot of it on her margarita glass.
He was standing in the hall, still in his expensive black coat, with his black leather gloves in one hand as he struggled with his overshoes with the other. When he finally peeled them off, he placed them on the rubber mat. He rose when he saw her coming down the stairs like a bride. “For the ladies.” He retrieved the three roses from the hall table. “And for the gentlemen.” He handed Martin an expensive bottle of wine.
*
Danny had gone into a right funk when he heard about it—Grainne had shared every detail until Billie deflected her.
And it wasn’t just that. The whole world was getting to him. It was getting to her, too, but she could have a drink. Danny had no outlet—nothing to blow off some steam when the pressure got to him. He hadn’t been going to meetings, but she didn’t think it was her place to say anything—not unless he brought it up. And he didn’t. He just sat in front of the TV every night watching as the world got ready to tear itself apart again. He said it reminded him of when he was a kid, right after Bloody Sunday.
She had to do something to snap him out of it. She tried sex, seducing him in black bustiers and long stockings, but it was becoming too much effort. She worked evenings and got home far too late. It was time to get his soul back on the road.
“Some friends are doing a gig on the seventeenth and wanted to do something Irish.”
“Tell them to do ‘The Black Velvet Band’ and ‘The Unicorn.’”
“They’re not that type of band. They’re more jazzy.”
“Tell them to do some Mary Coughlin then.”
“I told them you might consider doing a few songs with them.”
“Me? I don’t do that anymore. I’m too old for all that shite.”
“You’re only forty-five, much younger than Dylan and he’s still going strong—and Mick Jagger.”
“I couldn’t, Billie. I haven’t picked up the guitar in years.”
“Well, you’ll have a few weeks to get ready. The guys are even willing to do some rehearsals.”
“I don’t know, Billie. I’d probably be shite.”
“No you won’t and we can bring Grainne if you like.”
She knew that would get to him. Even he must be getting tired of his daughter going on and on. Everything was “Eduardo this . . . and Eduardo said that.” It was time the little brat saw what Billie had always seen in her father—an artist that never should have been burdened with the petty details of life.
*
They didn’t bring her but it was probably just as well. The Dominion on Queen was old, like a beer parlor, but reclaimed with eclectic touches that made it perfect for après-show parties. It was one of Billie’s regular haunts.
The band was good, too; a stand-up bassist with a pork-pie hat and a dour-looking drummer who kept time with practiced nonchalance. The sax player, Bobby, had wandered north from Alabama following the old freedom train. Marvin (The Moose) played piano or accordion depending on his mood. They were tight and played off each other, handing melodies and harmonies around like ear candy. They did their usual set before wandering into a dirgy, haunting version of “Molly Malone” in honor of the day.
“We’re gonna take a break,” the Moose advised as the song finished, “but don’t go anywhere. When we come back we’ll have a treat for all of you who are celebrating St Patrick’s Day.”
“Yeah, man,” Bobby agreed, “our brother Danny Boyle is gonna come by and lay something really Irish on your asses.”
Billie could tell Danny was nervous as he strapped on his old battered Guild and checked levels. “Happy St. Patrick’s Day,” he greeted the room when he was ready. “I hope you’re all getting shit-faced.” The crowd roared back in approval and raised their glasses.
It was almost the way it used to be—only everything had changed. He looked more like a real musician now and not the young man flirting with it all. He tentatively strummed a G chord for a while as the band settled in around him. Then a couple times through G, D, E-minor as they found a funky groove. Then through G, D and B-flat, with Bobby beginning to add some flourish as they repeated it and finished on an A-minor—the chord that always set the mood.
“This is a song written about a fella that went out to America and didn’t do so well,” Danny said without looking out at the crowd. But Billie could tell; it was all starting to come back to him.
“He should’ve come here, instead,” a drunken voice heckled.
“Yeah,” Danny laughed. “Yeah, he should have.” And after a few runs through A-minor, F and E, he began to sing:
Here’s you boys, do take my advice
To America I’d have you not be coming.
For there’s nothing here but war
Where the murdering cannons roar
And I wish I was at home in dear old Erin.
His voice was a little rusty and shaky, but Bobby wrapped sweet sounds around it and The Moose smoothed over any cracks.
And it’s by the hush my boys, and that’s to hold your noise
And listen to poor Paddy’s narration.
I was by hunger pressed and in poverty distressed
So I took a thought I’d leave the Irish nation.
Pork-Pie was bowing his bass and the drummer added chimes, blocks and cow-bells.
Well I sold my horse and plough, I sold my pig and cow
And from that farm of land I parted.
And my sweetheart Biddy Magee oh I’m sure I’ll never see
For I left her on that morning broken-hearted.
Then myself and a hundred more to America sailed o’er
Our fortunes to be makin
g we were thinking.
When we landed in Yankeeland they shoved a gun into our hands
Saying, Paddy you must go and fight for Lincoln.
General Meagher to us said, If you get shot and lose your head
Every mother’s son of you will get a pension.
In the war I lost my leg, all I’ve now is a wooden peg
By my soul it is the truth to you I mention.
Now I think myself in luck to be fed on Indian buck
In old Ireland the country I delight in.
And with the devil I do say, Oh Christ curse America
For I’m sure I’ve had enough of your hard fighting.
Bobby soloed for a while and Danny seemed lost, but the band carried on, ducking and diving and exploring all that the melody could yield. But they brought it all back together for one more chorus.
Here’s you boys, do take my advice
To America I’d have you not be coming.
For there’s nothing here but war
Where the murdering cannons roar
And I wish I was at home in dear old Erin.
“My brother, Danny,” Bobby announced when the crowd settled back down. “Let’s get him to do another ’cos the Irish, man, they got soul.”
They followed with “The Fairytale of New York” even though it was out of season, and everyone loved it and joined in where they could. The Moose pounded the piano and the whole place shook like an old music hall. And when it was done, when the drunks at the back finally let the chorus end, Danny smiled and tried to leave the stage but they wouldn’t let him. “One more?” The Moose asked the crowd and they roared back.
After a hurried confab the drummer started a brisk tattoo on his snare.
“With all this talk of war, and all,” Danny spoke in time to the rhythm, “I was thinking of an old song that sums it all up.”
Danny and Pork-Pie joined in, adding chords and a bass line and raising the intensity as if they were ready to march into battle. Bobby twirled bugle notes in the background as The Moose squeezed away on the accordion. And when it all melded together, Danny began to sing:
While goin’ the road to sweet Athy, hurroo, hurroo
While goin’ the road to sweet Athy, hurroo, hurroo
While goin’ the road to sweet Athy
A stick in me hand and a tear in me eye
A doleful damsel I heard cry,
Johnny I hardly knew ye.
With your drums and guns and guns and drums, hurroo, hurroo
With your drums and guns and guns and drums, hurroo, hurroo
With your drums and guns and guns and drums
The enemy nearly slew ye
Oh my darling dear, ye look so queer
Johnny I hardly knew ye.
Where are the eyes that looked so mild, hurroo, hurroo
Where are the eyes that looked so mild, hurroo, hurroo
Where are the eyes that looked so mild
When my poor heart you first beguiled
Why did ye skedaddle from me and the child
Oh Johnny, I hardly knew ye.
Where are your legs that used to run, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your legs that used to run, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your legs that used to run
When you went to carry a gun
Indeed your dancing days are done
Oh Johnny, I hardly knew ye.
I’m happy for to see ye home, hurroo, hurroo
I’m happy for to see ye home, hurroo, hurroo
I’m happy for to see ye home
All from the island of Ceylon
So low in the flesh, so high in the bone
Oh Johnny I hardly knew ye.
Ye haven’t an arm, ye haven’t a leg, hurroo, hurroo
Ye haven’t an arm, ye haven’t a leg, hurroo, hurroo
Ye haven’t an arm, ye haven’t a leg
Ye’re an armless, boneless, chickenless egg
Ye’ll have to be put with a bowl out to beg
Oh Johnny I hardly knew ye.
“Sad verse,” Danny called back over his shoulder and they all toned it down.
They’re rolling out the guns again, hurroo, hurroo
They’re rolling out the guns again, hurroo, hurroo
They’re rolling out the guns again
But they never will take my sons again.
They all stopped abruptly except the drummer who began to build to a crescendo. And when he was there, Danny raised his head to the ceiling and sang from the depths of his battered heart: “No, they’ll never take my sons again, Johnny I’m swearing it to ye.”
Billie kissed him when he sat back down, even though her lips were wet with wine. “Danny boy, that was beautiful.” He became shy and flustered but Billie could tell—he was happier than he’d been since . . . before.
“Do you think,” he asked with a smirk, “the world would get any worse if I had a beer?”
*
Dim Sum in The Bright Pearl on St. Andrew Street was always busy. Bustling with carts of steamed tidbits, forcing their way through the babble of Babel, but a few words pierced the din: Har gow, Guotie and Char siu baau. After Mexican, it was their second favorite way to eat together, sitting at round tables covered with sheets of brilliant white plastic, easy to peel off when stained by chopstick mishaps. Deirdre, Grainne and Martin were all experts, but Eduardo struggled and ended up using his like spears. Rachael didn’t even try and asked for a fork. And, as the dishes were placed on their table, they all ate furiously to try to make space for whatever was coming next. Deirdre didn’t mind. They were all together and they were all happy.
“Oh, my god, I need a Coke. I have all this like . . . grease in my mouth.”
“Then eat some of the vegetables.” Deirdre had ordered them though they rarely touched them. She’d eat a few but they were so bitter. Martin would eat some, too, coated in soya and any other hot pastes the servers had left.
“Oh, Mom. I’m not a kid anymore.”
“Sorry, but I’m still your mom. Rachael, would you like some vegetables before Martin devours them all?”
Poor Rachael. She had tried everything, even the pork before Deirdre could tell her what was what. She smiled like she was really enjoying herself but sometimes, after popping something strange into her mouth, she looked a little frightened. Eduardo was doing much better and was taking chopstick lessons from Martin. “So this is why you are so good at stick handling. Show me again.”
Martin looked chuffed and plucked at the rings of slippery squid. He caught one and effortlessly dipped it in the dark, tangy sauce before raising it to his mouth, winking at Rachael as he did.
“Okay.” Eduardo shook out his shoulders and stretched his arms with his fingers locked until they cracked. “Now I have it.” He went for the squid, too, and chased one around the plate. He stuck with it and raised it near his mouth before it began to wobble. He panicked, rushed and lost it, right into his tea cup, causing it to spill. The watery green tea pooled for a moment before joining the watery yellow mess Deirdre had made when she tipped over the little bowl of curried tripe.
“And this,” Eduardo announced after he had fished the flying squid from his tea and popped it into his mouth, “is why the Portuguese invented the fork.”
“Some people”—Deirdre smiled around her tea cup so the kids couldn’t see—“would have realized what the little bowl is for. You place the food in it and raise it to your mouth. Or you can go on using your tea cup.”
He smiled back and didn’t care who saw. “And this, this is just one of the reasons why I love you.”
“Ew.”
“Grainne, are you embarrassed when people say they love each other?”
“Yeah, especially when one of them is my mother. And it’s all like . . . emo.”
“Martin?” Eduardo turned to him, pleading his case. “You agree with me
?”
“She’s just jealous no one will ever say it to her.”
He had probably meant it as a joke but it lingered like a fart. Before Deirdre could dispel it, Eduardo did. “Martin. You’re her brother and she’s not supposed to look like a woman to you, but to other men she will be very beautiful. After she turns sixteen, you’ll see. The boys will be lined up around the block.”
It was a bit creepy to think about but it worked. Grainne’s growing breasts heaved and she was smiling as she put her head down to her straw.
When they had eaten as much as they could, and had segregated what they wanted to take home, the dessert cart passed. Deirdre tried to shake it off but Eduardo insisted and ordered more.
“This”—he held up a po taat—“is what we in Portugal call a Pasteis de Nata”
“Do you get them delivered?”
Martin could be very dry, and if Eduardo noticed he didn’t let on. “These were invented in Belem for our sailors to take around the world.
“You’re welcome,” he added when no one responded. The proud Portuguese in him could get a little tiring, but he did try to balance it with saying great things about being Irish too. Only the kids didn’t like being reminded.
“Well, I think they’re delicious.” Rachael smiled at them all and finally looked as if she could eat something without fear.
*
Deirdre and the girls went back into Courage My Love for the second time. They had seen a few items but had wanted to check the other stores first. Rachael had her heart set on a bright pink angora with little yellowed pearls. Grainne thought it was too girly, but Deirdre thought Rachael could pull it off. “It’s probably from the fifties, or early sixties.”
Eduardo motioned Martin to hang back. “Let the ladies shop and you and I can talk. Your mother tells me you haven’t decided yet.”
Martin had applied to four different universities. “I haven’t been accepted yet.”
“You will. You’ll have your pick.”
He probably would. He had maintained an A average and was particularly strong in math and science. Western or Waterloo were obvious choices, but Rachael was hoping to go to McGill, in Montreal.