Angela's Ashes: A Memoir Part 36

She keeps talking past me again to the boys on the bench.

Going to work for Easons he is, working for that pack of freemasons and Protestants above in Dublin.Too good for the post office but ready and willing to deliver all kinds of filthy English magazines all over Limerick.Every magazine he touches will be a mortal sin. But heas leaving now, so he is, and a sorry day it is for his poor mother that prayed for a son with a pension to take care of her in her latter days. So here, take your wages and go from the sight of us.

Miss Barry says, Heas a bad boy, isnat he, boys?

He is, Miss Barry.

I donat know what to say. I donat know what I did wrong. Should I say Iam sorry? Good-bye?

I lay my belt and pouch on Mrs. OaConnellas desk. She glares at me, Go on. Go to your job at Easons. Go from us. Next boy, come up for your telegrams.

Theyare back at work and Iam down the stairs to the next part of my life.

XVII.

Idonat know why Mrs. OaConnell had to shame me before the whole world,and I donat think Iam too good for the post office or anything else.

How could I with my hair sticking up, pimples dotting my face,my eyes red and oozing yellow,my teeth crumbling with the rot, no shoulders, no flesh on my a.r.s.e after cycling thirteen thousand miles to deliver twenty thousand telegrams to every door in Limerick and regions beyond?

Mrs. OaConnell said a long time ago she knew everything about every telegram boy. She must know about the times I went at myself on top of Carrigogunnell, milkmaids gawking, little boys looking up.

She must know about Theresa Carmody and the green sofa, how I got her into a state of sin and sent her to h.e.l.l, the worst sin of all,worse than Carrigogunnell a thousand times. She must know I never went to confession after Theresa, that Iam doomed to h.e.l.l myself.

A person that commits a sin like that is never too good for the post office or anything else.

The barman at Southas remembers me from the time I sat with Mr. Hannon, Bill Galvin, Uncle Pa Keating, black white black. He remembers my father, how he spent his wages and his dole while singing patriotic songs and making speeches from the dock like a condemned rebel.

And what is it youad like? says the barman.

Iam here to meet Uncle Pa Keating and have my first pint.

338.

Oh, beG.o.d, is that a fact? Heall be here in a minute and sure thereas no reason why I shouldnat draw his pint and maybe draw your first pint, is there now?

There isnat, sir.

Uncle Pa comes in and tells me sit next to him against the wall.The barman brings the pints, Uncle Pa pays, lifts his gla.s.s, tells the men in the pub,This is my nephew, Frankie McCourt, son of Angela Sheehan, the sister of my wife, having his first pint, hereas to your health and long life, Frankie,may you live to enjoy the pint but not too much.

The men lift their pints, nod, drink, and there are creamy lines on their lips and mustaches. I take a great gulp of my pint and Uncle Pa tells me, Slow down for the love oa Jasus, donat drink it all, thereas more where that came from as long as the Guinness family stays strong and healthy.

I tell him I want to stand him a pint with my last wages from the post office but he says, No, take the money home to your mother and you can stand me a pint when you come home from America flushed with success and the heat from a blonde hanging on your arm.

The men in the pub are talking about the terrible state of the world and how in G.o.das name Hermann Goering escaped the hangman an hour before the hanging. The Yanks are over there in Nuremberg declaring they donat know how the n.a.z.i b.a.s.t.a.r.d hid that pill.Was it in his ear? Up his nostril? Up his a.r.s.e? Surely the Yanks looked in every hole and cranny of every n.a.z.i they captured and still Hermann wiped their eye.There you are. It shows you can sail across the Atlantic, land in Normandy, bomb Germany off the face of the earth, but when allas said and done they canat find a little pill planted in the far reaches of Goeringas fat a.r.s.e.

Uncle Pa buys me another pint. Itas harder to drink because it fills me and makes my belly bulge.The men are talking about concentration camps and the poor Jews that never harmed a soul, men, women, children crammed into ovens, children, mind you, what harm could they do, little shoes scattered everywhere, crammed in, and the pub is misty and the voices fading in and out. Uncle Pa says, Are you all right? Youare as white as a sheet. He takes me to the lavatory and the two of us have a good long p.i.s.s against the wall which keeps moving back and forth. I canat go into the pub again, cigarette smoke, stale Guinness, Goeringas fat a.r.s.e, small shoes scattered, canat go in again, good night, Uncle Pa, thanks, and he tells me go straight home to my 339.

mother, straight home, oh, he doesnat know about the excitement in the loft or the excitement on the green sofa or me in such a state of doom that if I died now Iad be in h.e.l.l in a wink.

Uncle Pa goes back to his pint. Iam out on OaConnell Street and why shouldnat I take the few steps to the Jesuits and tell all my sins this last night Iall be fifteen. I ring the bell at the priestsa house and a big man answers,Yes? I tell him, I want to go to confession, Father. He says, Iam not a priest. Donat call me father. Iam a brother.

All right, Brother. I want to go to confession before Iam sixteen tomorrow. State oa grace on my birthday.

He says,Go away.Youare drunk. Child like you drunk as a lord ringing for a priest at this hour. Go away or Iall call the guards.

Ah, donat.Ah, donat. I only want to go to confession. Iam doomed.

Youare drunk and youare not in a proper spirit of repentance.

He closes the door in my face.Another door closed in the face, but Iam sixteen tomorrow and I ring again. The brother opens the door, swings me around, kicks my a.r.s.e and sends me tripping down the steps.

He says, Ring this bell again and Iall break your hand.

Jesuit brothers are not supposed to talk like that.Theyare supposed to be like Our Lord, not walking the world threatening peopleas hands.

Iam dizzy. Iall go home to bed. I hold on to railings along Barrington Street and keep to the wall going down the lane. Mam is by the fire smoking a Woodbine,my brothers upstairs in the bed. She says,Thatas a nice state to come home in.

Itas hard to talk but I tell her I had my first pint with Uncle Pa.No father to get me the first pint.

Your Uncle Pa should know better.

I stagger to a chair and she says, Just like your father.

I try to control the way my tongue moves in my mouth. Iad rather be, Iad rather, rather be like my father than Laman Griffin.

She turns away from me and looks into the ashes in the range but I wonat leave her alone because I had my pint, two pints, and Iam sixteen tomorrow, a man.

Did you hear me? Iad rather be like my father than Laman Griffin.

She stands up and faces me. Mind your tongue, she says.

Mind your own b.l.o.o.d.y tongue.

Donat talk to me like that. Iam your mother.

Iall talk to you any b.l.o.o.d.y way I like.

You have a mouth like a messenger boy.

340.

Do I? Do I? Well, Iad rather be a messenger boy than the likes of Laman Griffin oula drunkard with the snotty nose and his loft and people climbing up there with him.

She walks away from me and I follow her upstairs to the small room. She turns, Leave me alone, leave me alone, and I keep barking at her, Laman Griffin, Laman Griffin, till she pushes me, Get out of this room, and I slap her on the cheek so that tears jump in her eyes and thereas a small whimpering sound from her,Youall never have the chance to do that again, and I back away from her because thereas another sin on my long list and Iam ashamed of myself.

I fall into my bed, clothes and all, and wake up in the middle of the night puking on my pillow, my brothers complaining of the stink, telling me clean up, Iam a disgrace. I hear my mother crying and I want to tell her Iam sorry but why should I after what she did with Laman Griffin.

In the morning my small brothers are gone to school, Malachy is out looking for a job, Mam is at the fire drinking tea. I place my wages on the table by her elbow and turn to go. She says,Do you want a cup of tea?

No.

aTis your birthday.

I donat care.

She calls up the lane after me,You should have something in your stomach, but I give her my back and turn the corner without answering.

I still want to tell her Iam sorry but if I do Iall want to tell her sheas the cause of it all, that she should not have climbed to the loft that night and I donat give a fiddleras fart anyway because Iam still writing threatening letters for Mrs. Finucane and saving to go to America.

I have the whole day before I go to Mrs. Finucane to write the threatening letters and I wander down Henry Street till the rain drives me into the Franciscan church where St. Francis stands with his birds and lambs. I look at him and wonder why I ever prayed to him. No, I didnat pray, I begged.

I begged him to intercede for Theresa Carmody but he never did a thing, stood up there on his pedestal with the little smile, the birds, the lambs, and didnat give a fiddleras fart about Theresa or me.

Iam finished with you, St. Francis.Moving on. Francis. I donat know why they ever gave me that name. Iad be better off if they called me Malachy, one a king, the other a great saint. Why didnat you heal 341.

Theresa? Why did you let her go to h.e.l.l? You let my mother climb to the loft.You let me get into a state of doom. Little childrenas shoes scattered in concentration camps. I have the abscess again. Itas in my chest and Iam hungry.

St. Francis is no help, he wonat stop the tears bursting out of my two eyes, the sniffling and choking and the G.o.d oh G.o.ds that have me on my knees with my head on the back of the pew before me and Iam so weak with the hunger and the crying I could fall on the floor and would you please help me G.o.d or St. Francis because Iam sixteen today and I hit my mother and sent Theresa to h.e.l.l and w.a.n.ked all over Limerick and the county beyond and I dread the millstone around my neck.

There is an arm around my shoulders, a brown robe, click of black rosary beads, a Franciscan priest.

My child,my child,my child.

Iam a child and I lean against him, little Frankie on his fatheras lap, tell me all about Cuchulain, Dad, my story that Malachy canat have or Freddie Leibowitz on the swings.

My child, sit here with me.Tell me what troubles you. Only if you want to. I am Father Gregory.

Iam sixteen today, Father.

Oh, lovely, lovely, and why should that be a trouble to you?

I drank my first pint last night.

Yes?

I hit my mother.

G.o.d help us, my child. But He will forgive you. Is there anything else?

I canat tell you, Father.

Would you like to go to confession?

I canat, Father. I did terrible things.

G.o.d forgives all who repent. He sent His only Beloved Son to die for us.

I canat tell, Father. I canat.

But you could tell St. Francis, couldnat you?

He doesnat help me anymore.

But you love him, donat you?

I do. My name is Francis.

Then tell him.Weall sit here and youall tell him the things that trouble you. If I sit and listen it will only be a pair of ears for St. Francis and Our Lord.Wonat that help?

342.

I talk to St. Francis and tell him about Margaret, Oliver, Eugene,my father singing Roddy McCorley and bringing home no money, my father sending no money from England, Theresa and the green sofa, my terrible sins on Carrigogunnell, why couldnat they hang Hermann Goering for what he did to the little children with shoes scattered around concentration camps, the Christian Brother who closed the door in my face, the time they wouldnat let me be an altar boy,my small brother Michael walking up the lane with the broken shoe clacking,my bad eyes that Iam ashamed of, the Jesuit brother who closed the door in my face, the tears in Mamas eyes when I slapped her.

Father Gregory says,Would you like to sit and be silent, perhaps pray a few minutes?

His brown robe is rough against my cheek and thereas a smell of soap.He looks at St. Francis and the tabernacle and nods and I suppose heas talking to G.o.d. Then he tells me kneel, gives me absolution, tells me say three Hail Marys, three Our Fathers, three Glory Bes. He tells me G.o.d forgives me and I must forgive myself, that G.o.d loves me and I must love myself for only when you love G.o.d in yourself can you love all G.o.das creatures.

But I want to know about Theresa Carmody in h.e.l.l, Father.

No,my child. She is surely in heaven. She suffered like the martyrs in olden times and G.o.d knows thatas penance enough.You can be sure the sisters in the hospital didnat let her die without a priest.

Are you sure, Father?

I am,my child.

He blesses me again, asks me to pray for him, and Iam happy trotting through the rainy streets of Limerick knowing Theresa is in heaven with the cough gone.

Monday morning and itas dawn in the railway station. Newspapers and magazines are piled in bundles along the platform wall. Mr. McCaffrey is there with another boy,Willie Harold, cutting the twine on the bundles, counting, entering the count in a ledger. English newspapers and The Irish Times have to be delivered early, magazines later in the morning.

We count out the papers and label them for delivery to shops around the city.

Mr. McCaffrey drives the van and stays at the wheel while Willie and I run into shops with bundles and take orders for the next day,add or drop 343.

in the ledger. After the papers are delivered we unload the magazines at the office and go home to breakfast for fifty minutes.

When I return to the office there are two other boys, Eamon and Peter, already sorting magazines, counting and stuffing them into newsagentsa boxes along the wall. Small orders are delivered by Gerry Halvey on his messenger bicycle, big orders in the van. Mr. McCaffrey tells me stay in the office so that I can learn to count magazines and enter them in the ledger.The minute Mr. McCaffrey leaves Eamon and Peter pull out a drawer where they hide cigarette b.u.t.ts and light up.They canat believe I donat smoke. They want to know if thereas something wrong with me, the bad eyes or the consumption maybe. How can you go out with a girl if you donat smoke? Peter says,Wouldnat you be a right eejit if you were going out the road with the girl and she asked you for a f.a.g and you said you didnat smoke, wouldnat you be a right eejit then? How would you ever get her into a field for a bit of a feel? Eamon says, aTis what my father says about men who donat drink, theyare not to be trusted. Peter says if you find a man that wonat drink or smoke thatas a man thatas not even interested in girls and youad want to keep your hand over the hole of your a.r.s.e, thatas what youad want to be doing.

They laugh and that brings on the cough and the more they laugh the more they cough till theyare holding on to one another banging one another between the shoulder blades and wiping tears from their cheeks.When the fit pa.s.ses we pick out English and American magazines and look at the advertis.e.m.e.nts for womenas underwear, bra.s.sieres and panties and long nylon stockings. Eamon is looking at an American magazine called See with pictures of j.a.panese girls who keep the soldiers happy so far away from home and Eamon says he has to go to the lavatory and when he does Peter gives me a wink,You know what heas up to in there, donat you? and sometimes Mr.McCaffrey gets into a state when boys linger in the lavatory interfering with themselves and wasting the valuable time for which Easons is paying them and on top of it putting their immortal souls in danger.Mr.McCaffrey wonat come right out and say, Stop that w.a.n.king, because you canat accuse someone of a mortal sin unless you have proof. Sometimes he goes snooping in the lavatory when a boy comes out. He comes back himself with the threatening look and tells the boys,Ye are not to be looking at those dirty magazines from foreign parts.Ye are to count them and put them in the boxes and thatas all.

344.

Eamon comes back from the lavatory and Peter goes in with an American magazine, Collieras, that has pictures of girls in a beauty contest.

Eamon says,Do you know what heas doing in there? At himself.Five times a day he goes in. Every time a new American magazine comes in with the womenas underwear he goes in. Never done going at himself.