Angela's Ashes: A Memoir Part 32

Virgin martyrs always died singing hymns and giving praise not minding one bit if lions tore big chunks from their sides and gobbled them on the spot.

How is it the priests never told us about St. Ursula and her eleven thousand maiden martyrs, October twenty-first? Her father wanted her to marry a pagan king but she said, Iall go away for awhile, three years, and think about it. So off she goes with her thousand n.o.ble ladiesin- waiting and their companions, ten thousand.They sailed around for awhile and traipsed through various countries till they stopped in Cologne where the chief of the Huns asked Ursula to marry him. Nay, she said, and the Huns killed her and the maidens with her.Why couldnat she say yes and save the lives of eleven thousand virgins? Why did virgin martyrs have to be so stubborn?

I like St. Moling, an Irish bishop. He didnat live in a palace like the bishop of Limerick. He lived in a tree and when other saints visited him for dinner they would sit around on branches like birds having a grand time with their water and dry bread.He was walking along one day and a leper said, Hoy, St. Moling, where are you going? Iam going to Ma.s.s, says St. Moling.Well, Iad like to go to Ma.s.s too, so why donat you hoist me up on your back and carry me? St. Moling did but he no sooner had the leper up on his back than the leper started to complain.Your hair s.h.i.+rt, he said, is hard on my sores, take it off. St. Moling took off the s.h.i.+rt and off they went again.Then the leper says, I need to blow my nose.

St. Moling says, I donat have any cla.s.s of a handkerchief, use your hand.

The leper says, I canat hold on to you and blow my nose at the same time.All right, says St. Moling, you can blow into my hand.That wonat do, says the leper, I barely have a hand left with the leprosy and I canat hold on and blow into your hand. If you were a proper saint youad twist around here and suck the stuff out of my head. St. Moling didnat want to suck the leperas snot but he did and offered it up and praised G.o.d for the privilege.

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I could understand my father sucking the bad stuff out of Michaelas head when he was a baby and desperate but I donat understand why G.o.d wanted St. Moling to go around sucking the snot out of lepersa heads. I donat understand G.o.d at all and even if Iad like to be a saint and have everyone adore me Iad never suck the snot of a leper. Iad like to be a saint but if thatas what you have to do I think Iall stay the way I am.

Still, Iam ready to spend my life in this library reading about virgins and virgin martyrs till I get into trouble with Miss OaRiordan over a book someone left on the table.The author is Lin Ytang.Anyone can tell this is a Chinese name and Iam curious to know what the Chinese talk about. Itas a book of essays about love and the body and one of his words sends me to the dictionary.Turgid. He says, The male organ of copulation becomes turgid and is inserted into the receptive female orifice.

Turgid.The dictionary says swollen and thatas what I am, standing there looking at the dictionary because I know now what Mikey Molloy was talking about all along, that weare no different from the dogs that get stuck in each other in the streets and itas shocking to think of all the mothers and fathers doing the likes of this.

My father lied to me for years about the Angel on the Seventh Step.

Miss OaRiordan wants to know what word Iam looking for. She always looks worried when Iam at the dictionary so I tell her Iam looking for canonize or beatific or any cla.s.s of a religious word.

And whatas this? she says.This is not the Lives of the Saints.

She picks up Lin Ytang and starts reading the page where I left the book face down on the table.

Mother oa G.o.d. Is this what you were reading? I saw this in your hand.

Well, Ia"Ia"only wanted to see if the Chinese, if the Chinese, ah, had any saints.

Oh, indeed, you did.This is disgraceful. Filth. No wonder the Chinese are the way they are. But what could you expect of slanty eyes and yellow skin and you, now that I look at you, have a bit of the slanty eye yourself.You are to leave this library at once.

But Iam reading the Lives of the Saints.

Out or Iall call the head librarian and sheall have the guards on you.

Out.You should be running to the priest and confessing your sins. Out, and before you go hand me the library cards of your poor mother and Mr. Griffin. I have a good mind to write to your poor mother and I 304.

would if I thought it wouldnat destroy her entirely. Lin Ytang, indeed.

Out.

Thereas no use trying to talk to librarians when theyare in that state.

You could stand there for an hour telling them all youave read about Brigid and Wilgefortis and Agatha and Ursula and the maiden martyrs but all they think about is one word on one page of Lin Ytang.

The Peopleas Park is behind the library. Itas a sunny day, the gra.s.s is dry, and Iam worn out begging for chips and putting up with librarians who get into a state over turgid and Iam looking at the clouds drifting above the monument and drifting off myself all turgid till Iam having a dream about virgin martyrs in bathing suits in the News of the World pelting Chinese writers with sheepsa bladders and I wake up in a state of excitement with something hot and sticky pumping out of me oh G.o.d my male organ of copulation sticking out a mile people in the park giving me curious looks and mothers telling their children come over here love come away from that fella someone should call the guards on him.

The day before my fourteenth birthday I see myself in the gla.s.s in Grandmaas sideboard.The way I look how can I ever start my job at the post office. Everything is torn, s.h.i.+rt, gansey, short pants, stockings, and my shoes are ready to fall off my feet entirely. Relics of oula decency,my mother would call them. If my clothes are bad Iam worse. No matter how I drench my hair under the tap it sticks out in all directions.The best cure for standing up hair is spit, only itas hard to spit on your own head.You have to let go with a good one up in the air and duck to catch it on your poll. My eyes are red and oozing yellow, there are matching red and yellow pimples all over my face and my front teeth are so black with rot Iall never be able to smile in my life.

I have no shoulders and I know the whole world admires shoulders.

When a man dies in Limerick the women always say, Grand man he was, shoulders that big and wide he wouldnat come in the door for you, had to come in sideways.When I die theyall say, Poor little divil, died without a sign of a shoulder. I wish I had some sign of a shoulder so that people would know I was at least fourteen years of age. All the boys in Leamyas had shoulders except for Fintan Slattery and I donat want to be like him with no shoulders and knees worn away from prayer. If I had any money left Iad light a candle to St. Francis and ask him if thereas any chance G.o.d could be persuaded to perform a miracle on my shoulders.

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Or if I had a stamp I could write to Joe Louis and say, Dear Joe, Is there any chance you could tell me where you got your powerful shoulders even though you were poor?

I have to look decent for my job so I take off all my clothes and stand naked in the backyard was.h.i.+ng them under the tap with a bar of carbolic soap. I hang them on Grandmaas clothesline, s.h.i.+rt, gansey, pants, stockings, and pray to G.o.d it wonat rain, pray theyall be dry for tomorrow, which is the start of my life.

I canat go anywhere in my pelt so I stay in bed all day reading old newspapers, getting excited with the girls in the News of the World and thanking G.o.d for the drying sun.The Abbot comes home at five and makes tea downstairs and even though Iam hungry I know heall grumble if I ask him for anything. He knows the one thing that worries me is he might go to Aunt Aggie and complain Iam staying in Grandmaas house and sleeping in her bed and if Aunt Aggie hears that sheall come over and throw me into the street.

He hides the bread when heas finished and I can never find it.You would think that one who was never dropped on his head would be able to find the hidden bread of one who was dropped on his head.

Then I realize if the bread is not in the house he must take it with him in the pocket of the overcoat he wears winter and summer.The minute I hear him clumping from the kitchen to the backyard lavatory I run downstairs, pull the loaf from the pocket, cut off a thick slice, back into the pocket, up the stairs and into bed. He can never say a word, never accuse me.Youad have to be a thief of the worst cla.s.s to steal one slice of bread and no one would ever believe him, not even Aunt Aggie.

Besides, shead bark at him and say, What are you doing anyway going around with a loaf of bread in your pocket? Thatas no place for a loaf of bread.

I chew the bread slowly. One mouthful every fifteen minutes will make it last and if I wash it down with water the bread will swell in my belly and give me the full feeling.

I look out the back window to make sure the evening sun is drying my clothes. Other backyards have lines with clothes that are bright and colorful and dance in the wind. Mine hang from the line like dead dogs.

The sun is bright but itas cold and damp in the house and I wish I had something to wear in the bed. I have no other clothes and if I touch anything of The Abbotas heall surely run to Aunt Aggie. All I can find 306.

in the wardrobe is Grandmaas old black woolen dress.Youare not supposed to wear your Grandmotheras old dress when sheas dead and youare a boy but what does it matter if it keeps you warm and youare in bed under the blankets where no one will ever know. The dress has the smell of old dead grandmother and I worry she might rise from the grave and curse me before the whole family and all a.s.sembled. I pray to St. Francis, ask him to keep her in the grave where she belongs, promise him a candle when I start my job, remind him the robe he wore himself wasnat too far from a dress and no one ever tormented him over it and fall asleep with the image of his face in my dream.

The worst thing in the world is to be sleeping in your dead grandmotheras bed wearing her black dress when your uncle The Abbot falls on his a.r.s.e outside Southas pub after a night of drinking pints and people who canat mind their own business rush to Aunt Aggieas house to tell her so that she gets Uncle Pa Keating to help her carry The Abbot home and upstairs to where youare sleeping and she barks at you,What are you doina in this house, in that bed? Get up and put on the kettle for tea for your poor uncle Pat that fell down, and when you donat move she pulls the blankets and falls backward like one seeing a ghost and yelling Mother oa G.o.d what are you doina in me dead motheras dress?

Thatas the worst thing of all because itas hard to explain that youare getting ready for the big job in your life, that you washed your clothes, theyare drying abroad on the line, and it was so cold you had to wear the only thing you could find in the house, and itas even harder to talk to Aunt Aggie when The Abbot is groaning in the bed, Me feet is like a fire, put water on me feet, and Uncle Pa Keating is covering his mouth with his hand and collapsing against the wall laughing and telling you that you look gorgeous and black suits you and would you ever straighten your hem.You donat know what to do when Aunt Aggie tells you, Get out of that bed and put the kettle on downstairs for tea for your poor uncle. Should you take off the dress and put on a blanket or should you go as you are? One minute sheas screaming,What are you doina in me poor motheras dress? the next sheas telling you put on that b.l.o.o.d.y kettle. I tell her I washed my clothes for the big job.

What big job?

Telegram boy at the post office.

She says if the post office is hiring the likes of you they must be in a desperate way altogether, go down and put on that kettle.

The next worse thing is to be out in the backyard filling the kettle 307.

from the tap with the moon beaming away and Kathleen Purcell from next door perched up on the wall looking for her cat. G.o.d, Frankie McCourt, what are you doina in your grandmotheras dress? and you have to stand there in the dress with the kettle in your hand and explain how you washed your clothes which are hanging there on the line for all to see and you were so cold in the bed you put on your grandmotheras dress and your uncle Pat, The Abbot, fell down and was brought home by Aunt Aggie and her husband, Pa Keating, and she drove you into the backyard to fill this kettle and youall take off this dress as soon as ever your clothes are dry because you never had any desire to go through life in your dead grandmotheras dress.

Now Kathleen Purcell lets out a scream, falls off the wall, forgets the cat, and you can hear her giggling into her blind mother, Mammy, Mammy,wait till I tell you about Frankie McCourt abroad in the backyard in his dead grandmotheras dress.You know that once Kathleen Purcell gets a bit of scandal the whole lane will know it before morning and you might as well stick your head out the window and make a general announcement about yourself and the dress problem.

By the time the kettle boils The Abbot is asleep from the drink and Aunt Aggie says she and Uncle Pa will have a drop of tea themselves and she doesnat mind if I have a drop myself. Uncle Pa says on second thought the black dress could be the ca.s.sock of a Dominican priest and he goes down on his knees and says, Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.Aunt Aggie says, Get up, you oula eejit, and stop makina a f.e.c.k of religion.Then she says,And you what are you doina in this house?

I canat tell her about Mam and Laman Griffin and the excitement in the loft. I tell her I was thinking of staying here a while because of the great distance from Laman Griffinas house to the post office and as soon as I get on my feet weall surely find a decent place and weall all move on,my mother and brothers and all.

Well, she says, thatas more than your father would do.

XV.

Itas hard to sleep when you know the next day youare fourteen and starting your first job as a man. The Abbot wakes at dawn moaning.

Would I ever make him some tay and if I do I can have a big cut of bread from the half loaf in his pocket which he was keeping there out of the way of the odd rat and if I look in Grandmaas gramophone where she used to keep the records Iall find a jar of jam.

He canat read, he canat write, but he knows where to hide the jam.

I bring The Abbot his tea and bread and make some for myself. I put on my damp clothes and get into the bed hoping that if I stay there the clothes will dry from my own heat before I go to work. Mam always says itas the damp clothes that give you the consumption and an early grave.The Abbot is sitting up telling me he has a terrible pain in his head from a dream where I was wearing his poor motheras black dress and she flying around screaming, Sin, sin, atis a sin. He finishes his tea and falls into a snore sleep and I wait for his clock to say half-past eight, time to get up and be at the post office at nine even if the clothes are still damp on my skin.

On my way out I wonder why Aunt Aggie is coming down the lane. She must be coming to see if The Abbot is dead or needing a doctor. She says,What time do you have to be at that job?

Nine.

All right.

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She turns and walks with me to the post office on Henry Street.

She doesnat say a word and I wonder if sheas going to the post office to denounce me for sleeping in my grandmotheras bed and wearing her black dress. She says, Go up and tell them your aunt is down here waiting for you and youall be an hour late. If they want to argue Iall go up and argue.

Why do I have to be an hour late?

Do what youare b.l.o.o.d.y well told.

There are telegram boys sitting on a bench along a wall.There are two women at a desk, one fat, one thin.The thin one says,Yes?

My name is Frank McCourt, miss, and Iam here to start work.

What kind of work would that be now?

Telegram boy, miss.

The thin one cackles, Oh, G.o.d, I thought you were here to clean the lavatories.

No, miss. My mother brought a note from the priest, Dr. Cowpar, and thereas supposed to be a job.

Oh, there is, is there? And do you know what day this is?

I do,miss. aTis my birthday. Iam fourteen.

Isnat that grand, says the fat woman.

Today is Thursday, says the thin woman.Your job starts on Monday.

Go away and wash yourself and come back then.

The telegram boys along the wall are laughing. I donat know why but I feel my face turning hot. I tell the women,Thank you, and on the way out I hear the thin one, Jesus above, Maureen, who dragged in that specimen? and they laugh along with the telegram boys.

Aunt Aggie says,Well? and I tell her I donat start till Monday. She says my clothes are a disgrace and what did I wash them in.

Carbolic soap.

They smell like dead pigeons and youare making a laughingstock of the whole family.

She takes me to Rocheas Stores and buys me a s.h.i.+rt, a gansey, a pair of short pants, two pairs of stockings and a pair of summer shoes on sale. She gives me two s.h.i.+llings to have tea and a bun for my birthday.

She gets on the bus to go back up OaConnell Street too fat and lazy to walk. Fat and lazy, no son of her own, and still she buys me the clothes for my new job.

I turn toward Arthuras Quay with the package of new clothes under 310.

my arm and I have to stand at the edge of the River Shannon so that the whole world wonat see the tears of a man the day heas fourteen.

Monday morning Iam up early to wash my face and flatten my hair with water and spit.The Abbot sees me in my new clothes. Jaysus, he says, is it gettina married you are? and goes back to sleep.

Mrs. OaConnell, the fat woman, says,Well,well, arenat we the height of fas.h.i.+on, and the thin one, Miss Barry, says, Did you rob a bank on the weekend? and thereas a great laugh from the telegram boys sitting on the bench along the wall.

Iam told to sit at the end of the bench and wait for my turn to go out with telegrams. Some telegram boys in uniforms are the permanent ones who took the exam.They can stay in the post office forever if they like, take the next exam for postman and then the one for clerk that lets them work inside selling stamps and money orders behind the counter downstairs.The post office gives permanent boys big waterproof capes for the bad weather and they get two weeks holiday every year. Everyone says these are good jobs, steady and pensionable and respectable,and if you get a job like this you never have to worry again in your whole life, so you donat.

Temporary telegram boys are not allowed to stay in the job beyond the age of sixteen.There are no uniforms, no holidays, the pay is less, and if you stay out sick a day you can be fired. No excuses.There are no waterproof capes. Bring your own raincoat or dodge the raindrops.

Mrs. OaConnell calls me to her desk to give me a black leather belt and pouch. She says thereas a great shortage of bicycles so Iall have to walk my first batch of telegrams. Iam to go to the farthest address first,work my way back, and donat take all day. Sheas long enough in the post office to know how long it takes to deliver six telegrams even by foot. Iam not to be stopping in pubs or bookies or even home for a cup of tea and if I do Iall be found out. Iam not to be stopping in chapels to say a prayer.

If I have to pray do it on the hoof or on the bicycle. If it rains pay no attention. Deliver the telegrams and donat be a sissy.

One telegram is addressed to Mrs. Clohessy of Arthuras Quay and that couldnat be anyone but Paddyas mother.

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Is that you, Frankie McCourt? she says. G.o.d, I wouldnat know you youare that big. Come in, will you.

Sheas wearing a bright frock with flowers all over and s.h.i.+ny new shoes.There are two children on the floor playing with a toy train. On the table there is a teapot, cups with saucers, a bottle of milk, a loaf of bread, b.u.t.ter, jam.There are two beds over by the window where there were none before. The big bed in the corner is empty and she must know what Iam wondering. Heas gone, she says, but heas not dead.Gone ta England with Paddy.Have a cup oa tay ana a bit oa bread.You need it, G.o.d help us.You look like one left over from the Famine itself.Ate that bread ana jam ana build yourself up. Paddy always talked about you and Dennis, my poor husband that was in the bed, never got over the day your mother came ana sang the song about the Kerry dancing. Heas over in England now making sandwiches in a canteen and sending me a few bob every week.Youad wonder what the English are thinking about when they take a man that has the consumption and give him a job making sandwiches. Paddy has a grand job in a pub in Cricklewood, which is in England. Dennis would still be here if it wasnat for Paddy climbina the wall for the tongue.

Tongue?

Dennis had the craving, so he did, for a nice sheepas head with a bit of cabbage and a spud so up with me to Barry the butcher with the last few s.h.i.+llings I had. I boiled that head ana sick ana all as he was Dennis couldnat wait for it to be done. He was a demon there in the bed callina for the head ana when I gave it to him on the plate he was delighted with himself suckina the marrow outa every inch of that head.Then he finishes ana he says,Mary, where is the tongue?

What tongue? says I.

The tongue of this sheep. Every sheep is born with a tongue that lets him go ba ba ba and thereas a great lack of tongue in this head. Go up to Barry the butcher and demand it.

So up with me to Barry the butcher and he said,That b.l.o.o.d.y sheep came in here bleatina ana cryina so much we cut the tongue from her and thrun it to the dog who gobbled it up and ever since ba bas like a sheep and if he doesnat quit Iall cut his tongue and throw it to the cat.

Back I go to Dennis and he gets frantic in the bed. I want that tongue, he says.All the nourishment is in the tongue.And what do you think happens next but my Paddy, that was your friend, goes up to Barry 312.

the butcher after dark, climbs the wall, cuts the tongue of a sheepas head thatas on a hook on the wall and brings it back to his poor father in the bed. Of course I have to boil that tongue with salt galore and Dennis, G.o.d love him, ates it, lies back in the bed a minute, throws back the blanket and stands out on his two feet announcing to the world that consumption or no consumption, heas not going to die in that bed, if heas going to die at all it might as well be under a German bomb with him making a few pounds for his family instead of whining in the bed there beyond.