Angela's Ashes

by Frank McCourt

  Michael is across the street calling me. He's hungry and wonders if there's any chance he could go to The Abbot's for a bit of bread and stay there for the night instead of going all the way to Laman Griffin's. I tell him he doesn't have to worry about a bit of bread. We'll go to the Coliseum Cafe and have fish and chips, all he wants, lemonade galore, and then we'll go to see Yankee Doodle Dandy with James Cagney and eat two big bars of chocolate. After the film we have tea and buns and we sing and dance like Cagney all the way to The Abbot's. Michael says it must be great to be in America where people have nothing else to do but sing and dance. He's half asleep but he says he's going there some day to sing and dance and would I help him go and when he's asleep I start thinking about America and how I have to save money for my fare instead of squandering it on fish and chips and tea and buns. I'll have to save a few shillings from my pound because if I don't I'll be in Limerick forever. I'm fourteen now and if I save something every week surely I should be able to go to America by the time I'm twenty.

  There are telegrams for offices, shops, factories where there's no hope of a tip. Clerks take the telegrams without a look at you or a thank you. There are telegrams for the respectable people with maids along the Ennis Road and the North Circular Road where there's no hope of a tip. Maids are like clerks, they don't look at you or say thank you. There are telegrams for the houses of priests and nuns and they have maids, too, even if they say poverty is noble. If you waited for tips from priests or nuns you'd die on their doorstep. There are telegrams for people miles outside the city, farmers with muddy yards and dogs who want to eat your legs. There are telegrams for rich people in big houses with gate lodges and miles of land surrounded by walls. The gatekeeper waves you in and you have to cycle for miles up long drives past lawns, flower beds, fountains to reach the big house. If the weather is fine people are playing croquet, the Protestant game, or strolling around, talking and laughing, all decked out in flowery dresses and blazers with crests and golden buttons and you'd never know there was a war on. There are Bentleys and Rolls-Royces parked outside the great front door where a maid tells you go around to the servants' entrance don't you know any better.

  People in the big houses have English accents and they don't tip telegram boys.

  The best people for tips are widows, Protestant ministers' wives and the poor in general. Widows know when the telegram money order is due from the English government and they wait by the window. You have to be careful if they ask you in for a cup of tea because one of the temporary boys, Scrawby Luby, said an old widow of thirty-five had him in for tea and tried to take down his pants and he had to run out of the house though he was really tempted and had to go to confession the next Saturday. He said it was very awkward hopping up on the bike with his thing sticking out but if you cycle very fast and think of the sufferings of the Virgin Mary you'll go soft in no time.

  Protestant ministers' wives would never carry on like Scrawby Luby's old widow unless they're widows themselves. Christy Wallace, who is a permanent telegram boy and ready to be a postman any day, says Protestants don't care what they do even if they're ministers'wives. They're doomed anyway, so what does it matter if they have a bit of a romp with a telegram boy. All the telegram boys like Protestant ministers' wives. They might have maids but they answer doors themselves and say, One moment, please, and give you sixpence. I'd like to talk to them and ask them how it feels to be doomed but they might get offended and take back the sixpence.

  The Irishmen working in England send their telegram money orders on Friday nights and all day Saturday and that's when we get the good tips. The minute we deliver one batch we're out with another.

  The worst lanes are in the Irishtown, off High Street or Mungret Street, worse than Roden Lane or O'Keeffe's Lane or any lane I lived in. There are lanes with channels running down the middle. Mothers stand at doors and yell gardyloo when they empty their slop buckets. Children make paper boats or float matchboxes with little sails on the greasy water.

  When you ride into a lane the children call out, Here's the telegram boy, here's the telegram boy. They run to you and the women wait at the door. If you give a small child a telegram for his mother he's the hero of the family. Little girls know they're supposed to wait till the boys get their chance though they can get the telegram if they have no brothers. Women at the door will call to you that they have no money now but if you're in this lane tomorrow knock on the door for your tip, God bless you an' all belongin' to you.

  Mrs. O'Connell and Miss Barry at the post office tell us every day our job is to deliver telegrams and nothing else. We are not to be doing things for people, going to the shop for groceries or any other kind of message. They don't care if people are dying in the bed. They don't care if people are legless, lunatic or crawling on the floor. We are to deliver the telegram and that's all. Mrs. O'Connell says, I know everything ye do, everything, for the people of Limerick have their eye on ye and there are reports which I have here in my drawers.

  A fine place to keep reports, says Toby Mackey under his breath.

  But Mrs. O'Connell and Miss Barry don't know what it's like in the lane when you knock on a door and someone says come in and you go in and there's no light and there's a pile of rags on a bed in a corner the pile saying who is it and you say telegram and the pile of rags tells you would you ever go to the shop for me I'm starving with the hunger and I'd give me two eyes for a cup of tea and what are you going to do say I'm busy and ride off on your bike and leave the pile of rags there with a telegram money order that's pure useless because the pile of rags is helpless to get out of the bed to go to the post office to cash the bloody money order.

  What are you supposed to do?

  You're told never never go to the post office to cash one of those money orders for anyone or you'll lose your job forever. But what are you supposed to do when an old man that was in the Boer War hundreds of years ago says his legs are gone and he'd be forever grateful if you'd go to Paddy Considine in the post office and tell him the situation and Paddy will surely cash the money order and keep two shillings for yourself grand boy that you are. Paddy Considine says no bother but don't tell anyone or I'd be out on my arse and so would you, son. The old man from the Boer War says he knows you have telegrams to deliver now but would you ever come back tonight and maybe go to the shop for him for he doesn't have a thing in the house and he's freezing on top of it. He sits in an old armchair in the corner covered with bits of blankets and a bucket behind the chair that stinks enough to make you sick and when you look at that old man in the dark corner you want to get a hose with hot water and strip him and wash him down and give him a big feed of rashers and eggs and mashed potatoes with loads of butter salt and onions.

  I want to take the man from the Boer War and the pile of rags in the bed and put them in a big sunny house in the country with birds chirping away outside the window and a stream gurgling.

  Mrs. Spillane in Pump Lane off Carey's Road has two crippled twin children with big blond heads, small bodies, and bits of legs that dangle over the edges of the chairs. They look into the fire all day and say, Where's Daddy? They speak English like everybody else but they babble away to one another in a language they made up, Hung sup tea tea sup hung. Mrs. Spillane says that means, When are we getting our supper? She tells me she's lucky if her husband sends four pounds a month and she's beside herself with the abuse she gets from the Dispensary over him being in England. The children are only four and they're very bright even if they can't walk or take care of themselves. If they could walk, if they were any way normal, she'd pack up and move to England out of this godforsaken country that fought so long for freedom and look at the state of us, De Valera in his mansion above in Dublin the dirty oul' bastard and the rest of the politicians that can all go to hell, God forgive me. The priests can go to hell too and I won't ask God to forgive me for saying the likes of that. There they are, the priests and the nuns telling us Jesus was poor and 'tis no shame, lorries drivi
ng up to their houses with crates and barrels of whiskey and wine, eggs galore and legs of ham and they telling us what we should give up for Lent. Lent, my arse. What are we to give up when we have Lent all year long?

  I want to take Mrs. Spillane and her two blond crippled children and put them in that house in the country with the pile of rags and the man from the Boer War and wash everyone and let them all sit in the sun with the birds singing and the streams gurgling.

  I can't leave the pile of rags alone with a useless money order because the pile is an old woman, Mrs. Gertrude Daly, all twisted with every class of disease you can get in a Limerick lane, arthritis, rheumatism, falling hair, a nostril half gone from her jabbing at it with her finger, and you wonder what kind of a world is it when this old woman sits up from the rags and smiles at you with teeth that gleam white in the dark, her own teeth and perfect.

  That's right, she says, me own teeth, and when I rot in the grave they'll find me teeth a hundred years from now all white an' shiny an' I'll be declared a saint.

  The telegram money order, three pounds, is from her son. It has a message, Happy Birthday, Mammy, Your fond son, Teddy. She says, A wonder he can spare it, the little shit, trottin' around with every tart in Piccadilly. She asks if I'd ever do her a favor and cash the money order and get her a little Baby Powers whiskey at the pub, a loaf of bread, a pound of lard, seven potatoes, one for each day of the week. Would I boil a potato for her, mash it up with a lump of lard, give her a cut of bread, bring her a drop of water to go with the whiskey? Would I go to O'Connor the chemist for ointment for her sores and while I'm at it bring some soap so she can give her body a good scrub and she'll be forever grateful and say a prayer for me and here's a couple of shillings for all my troubles.

  Ah, no thanks, ma'am.

  Take the money. Little tip. You did me great favors.

  I couldn't, ma'am, the way you are.

  Take the money or I'll tell the post office you're not to deliver my telegram anymore.

  Oh, all right, ma'am. Thanks very much.

  Good night, son. Be good to your mother.

  Good night, Mrs. Daly.

  *

  School starts in September and some days Michael stops at The Abbot's before the walk home to Laman Griffin's. On rainy days he says, Can I stay here tonight? and soon he doesn't want to go back to Laman Griffin's at all. He's worn out and hungry with two miles out and two miles back.

  When Mam comes looking for him I don't know what to say to her. I don't know how to look at her and I keep my eyes off to one side. She says, How's the job? as if nothing ever happened in Laman Griffin's and I say, Grand, as if nothing ever happened in Laman Griffin's. If the rain is too heavy for her to go home she stays in the small room upstairs with Alphie. She goes back to Laman's the next day but Michael stays and soon she's moving in herself bit by bit till she stops going to Laman's altogether.

  The Abbot pays the rent every week. Mam gets the relief and the food dockets till someone informs on her and she's cut off from the Dispensary. She's told that if her son is bringing in a pound a week that's more than some families get on the dole and she should be grateful he has a job. Now I have to hand over my wages. Mam says, A pound? Is that all you get for riding around in all kinds of weather? This would be four dollars in America. Four dollars. And you couldn't feed a cat for four dollars in New York. If you were delivering telegrams for Western Union in New York you'd be earning twenty-five dollars a week and living in luxury. She always translates Irish money into American so that she won't forget and tries to convince everyone times were better over there. Some weeks she lets me keep two shillings but if I go to a film or buy a secondhand book there's nothing left, I won't be able to save for my fare, and I'll be stuck in Limerick till I'm an old man of twenty-five.

  Malachy writes from Dublin to say he's fed up and doesn't want to spend the rest of his life blowing a trumpet in the army band. He's home in a week and complains when he has to share the big bed with Michael, Alphie and me. He had his own army cot up there in Dublin with sheets and blankets and a pillow. Now he's back to overcoats and a bolster that sends up a cloud of feathers when you touch it. Mam says, Pity about you. I'm sorry for your troubles. The Abbot has his own bed, and my mother has the small room. We're all together again, no Laman tormenting us. We make tea and fried bread and sit on the kitchen floor. The Abbot says you're not supposed to be sitting on kitchen floors, what are tables and chairs for? He tells Mam that Frankie is not right in the head and Mam says we'll all catch our death from the damp of the floor. We sit on the floor and sing and Mam and The Abbot sit on chairs. She sings "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" and the Abbot sings "The Road to Rasheen" and we still don't know what his song is about. We sit on the floor and tell stories about things that happened, things that never happened and things that will happen when we all go to America.

  There are slow days at the post office and we sit on the bench and talk. We can talk but we are not to laugh. Miss Barry says we should be grateful we're getting paid to sit there, bunch of idlers and streetboys that we are, and that there is to be no laughing. Getting paid for sitting and chatting is no laughing matter and the first titter out of any of us and out we go till we come to our senses and if the tittering continues we'll be reported to the proper authorities.

  The boys talk about her under their breath. Toby Mackey says, What that oul' bitch needs is a good rub o' the relic, a good rub o' the brush. Her mother was a streetwalking flaghopper and her father escaped from a lunatic asylum with bunions on his balls and warts on his wank.

  There is laughing along the bench and Miss Barry calls to us, I warned ye against the laughing. Mackey, what is it you're prattling about over there?

  I said we'd all be better off out in the fresh air on this fine day delivering telegrams, Miss Barry.

  I'm sure you did, Mackey. Your mouth is a lavatory. Did you hear me?

  I did, Miss Barry.

  You have been heard on the stairs, Mackey.

  Yes, Miss Barry.

  Shut up, Mackey.

  I will, Miss Barry.

  Not another word, Mackey.

  No, Miss Barry.

  I said shut up, Mackey.

  All right, Miss Barry.

  That's the end of it, Mackey. Don't try me.

  I won't, Miss Barry.

  Mother o' God give me patience.

  Yes, Miss Barry.

  Take the last word, Mackey. Take it, take it, take it.

  I will, Miss Barry.

  Toby Mackey is a temporary telegram boy like me. He saw a film called The Front Page and now he wants to go to America some day and be a tough newspaper reporter with a hat and a cigarette. He keeps a notebook in his pocket because a good reporter has to write down what happens. Facts. He has to write down facts not a lot of bloody poetry, which is all you hear in Limerick with men in pubs going on about our great sufferings under the English. Facts, Frankie. He writes down the number of telegrams he delivers and how far he travels. We sit on the bench making sure we don't laugh and he tells me that if we deliver forty telegrams a day that's two hundred a week and that's ten thousand a year and twenty thousand in our two years at the job. If we cycle one hundred and twenty-five miles in a week that's thirteen thousand miles in two years and that's halfway around the world, Frankie, and no wonder there isn't a scrap of flesh on our arses.

  Toby says nobody knows Limerick like the telegram boy. We know every avenue, road, street, terrace, mews, place, close, lane. Jasus, says Toby, there isn't a door in Limerick we don't know. We knock on all kinds of doors, iron, oak, plywood. Twenty thousand doors, Frankie. We rap, kick, push. We ring and buzz bells. We shout and whistle, Telegram boy, telegram boy. We drop telegrams in letter boxes, shove them under doors, throw them over the transom. We climb in windows where people are bedridden. We fight off every dog who wants to turn us into dinner. You never know what's going to happen when you hand people their telegrams. They laugh and sing and dance and cry and scream a
nd fall down in a weakness and you wonder if they'll wake up at all and give you the tip. It's not a bit like delivering telegrams in America where Mickey Rooney rides around in a film called The Human Comedy and people are pleasant and falling over themselves to give you a tip, inviting you in, giving you a cup of tea and a bun.

  Toby Mackey says he has facts galore in his notebook and he doesn't give a fiddler's fart about anything and that's the way I'd like to be myself.

  Mrs. O'Connell knows I like the country telegrams and if a day is sunny she gives me a batch of ten that will keep me away all morning and I don't have to return till after the dinner hour at noon. There are fine autumn days when the Shannon sparkles and the fields are green and glinting with silver morning dew. Smoke blows across fields and there's the sweet smell of turf fires. Cows and sheep graze in the fields and I wonder if these are the beasts the priest was talking about. I wouldn't be surprised because there's no end to the bulls climbing on cows, rams on sheep, stallions on mares, and they all have such big things it makes me break out in a sweat to look at them and I feel sorry for all the female creatures in the world who have to suffer like that though I wouldn't mind being a bull myself because they can do what they like and it's never a sin for an animal. I wouldn't mind going at myself here but you never know when a farmer might come along the road driving cows and sheep to a fair or to another field raising his stick and bidding you, Good day, young fella, grand morning, thank God and His Blessed Mother. A farmer that religious might be offended if he saw you breaking the Sixth Commandment forninst his field. Horses like to stick their heads over fences and hedges to see what's passing by and I stop and talk to them because they have big eyes and long noses that show how intelligent they are. Sometimes two birds will be singing to each other across a field and I have to stop and listen to them and if I stay long enough more birds will join till every tree and bush is alive with birdsong. If there's a stream gurgling under a bridge on the road, birds singing and cows mooing and lambs baaing, that's better than any band in a film. The smell of dinner bacon and cabbage wafting from a farmhouse makes me so weak with the hunger I climb into a field and stuff myself with blackberries for half an hour. I stick my face into the stream and drink icy water that's better than the lemonade in any fish and chip shop.