Angela's Ashes: A Memoir Part 23

Prams might be packed with four or five babies squalling away because the prams are old and the wheels bockety and the babies are rocked till they get sick and throw up their goody.

The men call to each other. Grand day, Mick. Lovely day for the journey, Joe. aTis, indeed, Mick. Arrah, we might as well have a pint before we go, Joe.We might as well, Mick. Might as well be drunk as the way we are, Joe.

They laugh and the women behind them are teary-eyed and red-nosed.

In the pubs around the railway station the men are packed in drinking the money the agents gave them for travel food.Theyare having the last pint, the last drop of whiskey on Irish soil, For G.o.d knows it might be the last weall ever have, Mick, the way the Jerries are bombing the bejesus outa England and not a minute too soon after what they did to us and isnat it a tragic thing entirely the way we have to go over there and save the a.r.s.e of the ancient foe.

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The women stay outside the pubs talking. Mam tells Mrs. Meehan, The first telegram money order I get Iall be in the shop buying a big breakfast so that we can all have our own egg of a Sunday morning.

I look at my brother Malachy. Did you hear that? Our own egg of a Sunday morning. Oh, G.o.d, I already had plans for my egg. Tap it around the top, gently crack the sh.e.l.l, lift with a spoon, a dab of b.u.t.ter down into the yolk, salt, take my time, a dip of the spoon, scoop,more salt, more b.u.t.ter, into the mouth, oh, G.o.d above, if heaven has a taste it must be an egg with b.u.t.ter and salt, and after the egg is there anything in the world lovelier than fresh warm bread and a mug of sweet golden tea?

Some men are already too drunk to walk and the English agents are paying sober men to drag them out of the pubs and throw them on a great horse-drawn float to be hauled to the station and dumped into the train.The agents are desperate to get everyone out of the pubs. Come on, men. Miss this train and youall miss a good job. Come on, men,we have the Guinness in England.We have the Jameson.Now, men, please, men.Youare drinking your food money and youall get no more.

The men tell the agents to kiss their Irish a.r.s.es, that the agents are lucky theyare alive, lucky theyare not hanging from the nearest lamppost after what they did to Ireland. And the men sing, On Mountjoy one Monday morning High upon the gallows tree, Kevin Barry gave his young life For the cause of liberty.

The train wails in the station and the agents beg the women to get their men out of the pubs and the men stumble out singing and crying and hugging their wives and children and promising to send so much money Limerick will be turned into another New York.The men climb the station steps and the women and children call after them, Kevin, love, mind yourself and donat be wearing damp s.h.i.+rts.

Dry your socks, Michael, or the bunions will destroy you entirely.

Paddy, go easy on the drink, are you listenina, Paddy?

Dad, Dad, donat go,Dad.

Tommy, donat forget to send the money.The children are skin and bones.

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Peter, donat forget to be takina the medicine for your weak chest, G.o.d help us.

Larry,mind them b.l.o.o.d.y bombs.

Christy, donat be talkina to them Englishwomen.Theyare full of diseases.

Jackie, come back. Sure weall manage somehow. Donat go, Jack-e-e, Jack-e-e, oh, Jesus, donat go.

Dad pats our heads. He tells us remember our religious duties but, above all, obey our mother. He stands before her. She has the baby Alphie in her arms. She says, Mind yourself. He drops the bag and puts his arms around her.They stay that way a moment till the baby yelps between them. He nods, picks up his bag, climbs the steps to the station, turns to wave and heas gone.

Back at home Mam says, I donat care. I know it sounds extravagant but Iam going to light the fire and make more tea for it isnat every day your father goes to England.

We sit around the fire and drink our tea and cry because we have no father, till Mam says, Donat cry, donat cry. Now that your father is gone to England surely our troubles will be over.

Surely.

Mam and Bridey Hannon sit by the fire upstairs in Italy smoking Woodbines, drinking tea, and I sit on the stairs listening.We have a father in England so that we can get all we want from Kathleen OaConnellas shop and pay when he starts sending the money in a fortnight.

Mam tells Bridey she canat wait to get out of this b.l.o.o.d.y lane to a place with a decent lavatory that we donat have to share with half the world.

Weall all have new boots and coats to keep off the rain so we wonat be coming home from school famished.Weall have eggs and rashers on Sunday for breakfast and ham and cabbage and potatoes for dinner.

Weall have electric light and why shouldnat we? Werenat Frank and Malachy born to it in America where everyone has it?

All we have to do now is wait for two weeks till the telegram boy knocks at the door. Dad will have to settle into his job in England, buy work clothes and get a place to stay, so the first money order wonat be big, three pounds or three pounds ten, but soon weall be like other families in the lane, five pounds a week, paying off debts, buying new 221.

clothes, putting something in the savings against the time weall pack up and move to England entirely and save there to go to America. Mam herself could get a job in an English factory making bombs or something and G.o.d knows we wouldnat know ourselves with the money pouring in. She wouldnat be happy if we grew up with English accents but better an English accent than an empty belly.

Bridey says it doesnat matter what cla.s.s of an accent an Irishman has for heall never forget what the English did to us for eight hundred long years.

We know what Sat.u.r.days are in the lane.We know some families like the Downeses across from us get their telegram early because Mr.

Downes is a steady man who knows how to have a pint or two on a Friday and go home to his bed.We know men like him run to the post office the minute theyare paid so their families wonat know a minute of waiting or worry. Men like Mr.Downes send their sons RAF wings to wear on their coats.Thatas what we want and thatas what we told Dad before he left, Donat forget the RAF badges, Dad.

We see the telegram boys on their bicycles swing into the lane.

Theyare happy telegram boys because the tips they get in the lanes are bigger than anything they get in the grand streets and avenues where rich people will begrudge you the steam of their p.i.s.s.

The families that get the early telegrams have that contented look.

Theyall have all day Sat.u.r.day to enjoy the money.Theyall shop, theyall eat, theyall have all day to think about what theyall do that night and thatas almost as good as the thing itself because Sat.u.r.day night when you have a few s.h.i.+llings in your pocket is the most delicious night of the week.

There are families donat get the telegram every week and you know them by the anxious look. Mrs. Meagher has waited at her door every Sat.u.r.day for two months. My mother says shead be ashamed of her life to wait at the door like that. All the children play in the lane and keep an eye out for the telegram boy. Hoi, telegram boy, do you have anything for Meagher? and when he says no they say, Are you sure? and heall say, Course Iam sure. I know what I have in my f.e.c.kina pouch.

Everyone knows the telegram boys stop coming when the Angelus rings at six and darkness brings desperation to the women and children.

Telegram boy, will you look in your pouch again? Please.Aw, G.o.d.

I did. I have nothing for ye.

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Aw, G.o.d, please look. Our name is Meagher.Will you look?

I know b.l.o.o.d.y well yeer name is Meagher and I looked.

The children claw at him up on his bicycle and he kicks at them, Jesus, will ye get away from me.

Once the Angelus rings at six in the evening the day is over.The ones with the telegrams are having their supper with the electric light blazing away and the ones that didnat get the telegrams have to light candles and see if Kathleen OaConnell might let them have tea and bread till this time next week when surely with the help of G.o.d and His Blessed Mother the telegram will come.

Mr. Meehan at the top of the lane went to England with Dad and when the telegram boy stops at Meehanas we know weall be next.Mam has her coat ready to go to the post office but she wonat leave the chair by the fire in Italy till she has the telegram in her hand.The telegram boy rides down the lane and swings over to Downesesa. He hands them their telegram, takes the tip and turns his bicycle around to head back up the lane. Malachy calls,Telegram boy, do you have something for McCourt? Ours is coming today.The telegram boy shakes his head and rides away.

Mam puffs on her Woodbine.Well, we have all day though Iad like to do a bit of shopping early before the best hams are gone at Barry the butcher. She canat leave the fire and we canat leave the lane for fear the telegram boy might come and find no one at home.Then wead have to wait till Monday to cash the money order and that would destroy the weekend entirely.Wead have to watch the Meehans and everyone else parading around in their new clothes and staggering home with eggs and potatoes and sausages for Sunday and sailing off to the films on Sat.u.r.day night. No, we canat move an inch till that telegram boy comes.

Mam says donat be too worried between noon and two because so many telegram boys go for their dinner and there will surely be a big rush between two and the Angelus.We donat have a thing to worry about till six.We stop every telegram boy.We tell them our name is McCourt, that this is our first telegram, it should be three pounds or more, they might have forgotten to put our name on it or our address, is he sure? is he sure? One boy tells us heall inquire at the post office.

He says he knows what atis like to wait for the telegram because his own father is a drunken oula s.h.i.+t over in England that never sent a penny.

Mam hears him inside and tells us you should never talk about your father like that. The same telegram boy comes back just before the 223.

Angelus at six and tells us he asked Mrs. OaConnell at the post office if they had anything for McCourt all day and they didnat. Mam turns toward the dead ashes in the fire and sucks at the last bit of goodness in the Woodbine b.u.t.t caught between the brown thumb and the burnt middle finger. Michael who is only five and wonat understand anything till heas eleven like me wants to know if weare having fish and chips tonight because heas hungry. Mam says, Next week, love, and he goes back out to play in the lane.

You donat know what to do with yourself when the first telegram doesnat come.You canat stay out in the lane playing with your brothers all night because everyone else is gone in and youad be ashamed to stay out in the lane to be tormented with smells of sausages and rashers and fried bread.You donat want to look at electric light coming through the windows after dark and you donat want to hear the news from the BBC or Radio Eireann from other peopleas wirelesses.Mrs.Meagher and her children are gone in and thereas only the dim light of a candle from their kitchen.Theyare ashamed too.They stay inside on Sat.u.r.day nights and they donat even go to Ma.s.s on Sunday mornings. Bridey Hannon told Mam that Mrs. Meagher is in a constant state of shame over the rags they wear and so desperate she goes down to the Dispensary for the public a.s.sistance. Mam says thatas the worst thing that could happen to any family. Itas worse than going on the dole, itas worse than going to the St.Vincent de Paul Society, itas worse than begging on the streets with the tinkers and the knackers. Itas the last thing youad do to keep yourself out of the poor house and the children from the orphanage.

Thereas a sore at the top of my nose between my eyebrows, gray and red and itching. Grandma says, Donat touch that sore and donat put water near it or itall spread. If you broke your arm shead say donat touch that with water itall spread.The sore spreads into my eyes anyway and now theyare red and yellow from the stuff that oozes and makes them stick in the morning.They stick so hard I have to force my eyelids open with my fingers and Mam has to scrub off that yellow stuff with a damp rag and boric powder.The eyelashes fall off and every bit of dust in Limerick blows into my eyes on windy days. Grandma tells me I have naked eyes and she says itas my own fault, all that eye trouble comes from sitting up there at the top of the lane under the light pole in all kinds of weather with my nose stuck in books and the same thing will happen 224.

to Malachy if he doesnat give over with the reading.You can see little Michael is getting just as bad sticking his nose in books when he should be out playing like a healthy child. Books, books, books, says Grandma, ye will ruin yeer eyes entirely.

Sheas having tea with Mam and I hear her whisper,The thing to do is give him St.Anthonyas spit.

Whatas that? says Mam.

Your fasting spit in the morning. Go to him before he wakes and spit on his eyes for the spit of a fasting mother has powerful cures in it.

But Iam always awake before Mam. I force my eyes open long before she stirs.I can hear her coming across the floor and when she stands over me for the spit I open my eyes. G.o.d, she says, your eyes are open.

I think theyare getting better.

Thatas good, and she goes back to bed.

The eyes donat heal and she takes me to the Dispensary where the poor people see doctors and get their medicines. Itas the place to apply for public a.s.sistance when a father is dead or disappeared and thereas no dole money, no wages.

There are benches along the walls by the doctorsa offices. The benches are always packed with people talking about their ailments.

Old men and women sit and groan and babies scream and mothers say hush, love, hush.Thereas a high platform in the middle of the Dispensary with a counter circling it chest-high. When you want anything you stand in a queue before that platform to see Mr. Coffey or Mr.

Kane.The women in the queue are like the women at the St.Vincent de Paul Society.They wear shawls and theyare respectful to Mr. Coffey and Mr. Kane because if theyare not they might be told go away and come back next week when itas this minute you need the public a.s.sistance or a docket to see the doctor.Mr. Coffey and Mr. Kane love to have a good laugh with the women.Theyall decide if youare desperate enough for the public a.s.sistance or if youare sick enough to see a doctor.

You have to tell them in front of everyone whatas wrong with you and they often have a good laugh with that.Theyall say, And what is it you want, Mrs. OaShea? A docket for the doctor, is it? And what is your trouble,Mrs. OaShea? A pain, is it? A touch of the wind, maybe.

Or maybe too much cabbage. Oh, the cabbage will do it right enough.

They laugh and Mrs. OaShea laughs and all the women laugh and say Mr. Coffey and Mr. Kane are funny men, theyad give Laurel and Hardy a run for their money.

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Mr. Coffey says,Now,woman, whatas your name?

Angela McCourt, sir.

And whatas up with you?

aTis my son, sir. He has two bad eyes.

Oh, by G.o.d, he does,woman.Theyare desperate-looking eyes altogether.

They look like two rising suns.The j.a.ps could use him on their flag, ha ha ha. Did he pour acid on his face or what?

aTis some cla.s.s of infection, sir. He had the typhoid last year and then this came.

All right, all right, we donat need the life story. Hereas your docket to Dr.Troy.

Two long benches are filled with patients for Dr.Troy. Mam sits next to a woman who has a big sore on her nose that wonat go away. I tried everything, missus, every known cure on G.o.das lovely earth. Iam eightythree years of age and Iad like to go to my grave healthy. Is it too much to ask that I meet my Redeemer with a healthy nose? And whatas up with yourself, missus?

My son.The eyes.

Ah, G.o.d bless us and save us, look at them eyes.Theyare the sorest two eyes I ever seen in me life. I never seen that color red before.

aTis an infection, missus.

Sure thereas a cure for that.You need the caul.

Whatas that now?

Babies are born with this thing on their heads, a cla.s.s of a hood, rare and magical. Get a caul and put that on his head any day that has a three in it, make him hold his breath for three minutes even if you have to clap your hand over his face, sprinkle him with holy water three times head to toenail and his two eyes will s.h.i.+ne in the dawn.

And where would I get a caul?

Donat all the midwives have cauls, missus.Whatas a midwife without a caul? It cures all cla.s.ses of disease and keeps off more.

Mam says sheall talk to Nurse OaHalloran and see if she has a spare caul.

Dr.Troy looks at my eyes. Into the hospital with this boy at once.

Take him to the eye ward at the City Home. Hereas the docket to get him in.

What does he have,Doctor?

The worst case of conjunctivitis Iave ever seen in my life and something else in there I canat make out. He needs the eye man.

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How long will he be in, Doctor?

Only G.o.d knows that. I should have seen this child weeks ago.

There are twenty beds in the ward and there are men and boys with bandages around their heads, black patches on their eyes, thick gla.s.ses.

Some walk around tapping at beds with sticks.A man cries all the time that heall never see again, heas too young, his children are babies, heall never see them again. Jesus Christ, oh, Jesus Christ, and the nuns are shocked at the way he takes the name of the Lord in vain. Stop that, Maurice, stop the blasphemy.You have your health.Youare alive.We all have our problems. Offer it up and think of the sufferings of Our Lord on the cross, the crown of thorns, the nails in His poor hands and feet, the wound in His side.Maurice says,Oh,Jesus, look down and have pity on me. Sister Bernadette warns him if he doesnat mind his language theyall put him in a ward alone and he says,Heavenly G.o.d, and that isnat as bad as Jesus Christ so sheas satisfied.

In the morning I have to go downstairs for drops.The nurse says, Sit in this high chair and hereas a nice sweet. The doctor has a bottle with brown stuff in it. He tells me put my head back, thatas right, now open up, open your eyes and he pours the stuff into my right eye and itas a flame going through my skull.The nurse says,Open the other eye, come on be a good boy, and she has to force the eyelids open so the doctor can set fire to the other side of my skull. She wipes my cheeks and tells me run along upstairs but I can barely see and I want to stick my face into an icy stream.The doctor says, Run along, be a man, be a good trooper.

The whole world is brown and blurry on the stairs. The other patients are sitting by their beds with dinner trays and mine is there too but I donat want it with the way my skull is raging. I sit by my bed and a boy across the way says,Hoi, donat you want your dinner? Iall take it, and he comes for it.

I try to lie on the bed but a nurse says,Now, now, no lying on the bed in the middle of the day.Your case isnat that serious.

I have to sit with my eyes closed and everything going brown and black, black and brown and Iam sure I must be having a dream because Lord G.o.d above, is that the little fella with the typhoid, little Frankie, the moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, is that yourself, Frankie, for wasnat I promoted out of the Fever Hospital, thank G.o.d, where thereas every cla.s.s of disease and you never know what germs you might be bringing home to the wife in your clothes and 227.

whatas up with you, Frankie, and the two eyes in your head all gone brown?