ted. Your father walked every street in Limerick looking for you.
Mr. Clohessy says, Who's at the door?
It's my mother, Mr. Clohessy.
God above, is that Angela?
'Tis, Mr. Clohessy.
He struggles up on his elbows. Well, for the love of God, will you come in, Angela. Don't you know me?
Mam looks puzzled. It's dark in the room and she tries to make out who is in the bed. He says, 'Tis me, Dennis Clohessy, Angela.
Ah, no.
'Tis, Angela.
Ah, no.
I know, Angela. I'm changed. The cough is killin' me. But I remember the nights at the Wembley Hall. Aw, Jaysus, you were a great dancer. Nights at the Wembley Hall, Angela, and the fish and chips after. Oh, boys, oh, boys, Angela.
My mother has tears running down her face. She says, You were a great dancer yourself, Dennis Clohessy.
We could have won competitions, Angela. Fred and Ginger would have been lookin' over their shoulders but you had to run off to America. Aw, Jaysus.
He has another coughing fit and we have to stand and watch him hang over the bucket again and bring up the bad stuff from his insides. Guard Dennehy says, I think, missus, we found the by an' I'll be going. He says to me, If you ever go on the mooch again, by, we'll have you in the jail above. Are you listenin' to me, by?
I am, Guard.
Don't be tormentin' your mother, by. That's wan thing the guards won't put up with, the tormentin' of mothers.
I won't, Guard. I won't torment her.
He leaves and Mam goes to the bed to take Mr. Clohessy's hand. His face is caved in all around his eyes and his hair is shiny black with the sweat running from the top of his head. His children stand around the bed looking at him and looking at Mam. Mrs. Clohessy sits by the fire rattling the poker in the grate and pushing the baby away from the fire. She says, 'Tis his own bloody fault for not goin' into hospital, so 'tis.
Mr. Clohessy gasps, I'd be all right if I could live in a dry place. Angela, is America a dry place?
'Tis, Dennis.
The doctor told me go to Arizona. A funny man that doctor. Arizona how are you. I don't have the money to go around the corner for a pint.
Mam says, You'll be all right, Dennis. I'll light a candle for you.
Save your money, Angela. My dancin' days are done.
I have to go now, Dennis. My son has to go to school.
Before you go, Angela, will you do one thing for me?
I will, Dennis, if 'tis in my power.
Would you ever give us a verse of that song you sang the night before you went to America?
That's a hard song, Dennis. I wouldn't have the wind for it.
Ah, come on, Angela. I never hear a song anymore. There isn't a song in this house. The wife there doesn't have a note in her head an' no step in her foot.
Mam says, All right. I'll try.
Oh, the nights of the Kerry dancing, Oh, the ring of the piper's tune,
Oh, for one of those hours of gladness, gone, alas, like our youth too soon.
When the boys began to gather in the glen of a Summer night,
And the Kerry piper's tuning made us long with wild delight.
She stops and presses her hand to her chest, Oh, God, my wind is gone. Help me, Frank, with the song, and I sing along,
Oh, to think of it, Oh, to dream of it, fills my heart with tears.
Oh, the nights of the Kerry dancing, Oh, the ring of the piper's tune
Oh, for one of those hours of gladness, gone, alas, like our youth too soon.
Mr. Clohessy tries to sing with us, gone, alas, like our youth too soon, but it brings on the cough. He shakes his head and cries, I wouldn't doubt you, Angela. It takes me back. God bless you.
God bless you, too, Dennis, and thanks, Mrs. Clohessy, for having Frankie here off the streets.
'Twas no trouble, Mrs. McCourt. He's quiet enough.
Quiet enough, says Mr. Clohessy, but he's not the dancer his mother was.
Mam says, 'Tis hard to dance with one shoe, Dennis.
I know, Angela, but you'd wonder why he didn't take it off. Is he a bit strange?
Ah, sometimes he has the odd manner like his father.
Oh, yes. The father is from the North, Angela, and that would account for it. They'd think nothing of dancing with one shoe in the North.
We walk up Patrick Street and O'Connell Street, Paddy Clohessy and Mam and Michael and myself, and Mam sobs all the way. Michael says, Don't cry, Mammy. Frankie won't run away.
She lifts him up and hugs him. Oh, no, Michael, 'tisn't Frankie I'm crying about. 'Tis Dennis Clohessy and the dancing nights at the Wembley Hall and the fish and chips after.
She comes into the school with us. Mr. O'Neill looks cross and tells us sit down he'll be with us in a minute. He talks a long time at the door with my mother and when she leaves he walks between the seats and pats Paddy Clohessy on the head.
I'm very sorry for the Clohessys and all their troubles but I think they saved me from getting into trouble with my mother.
VII
There are Thursdays when Dad gets his dole money at the Labour Exchange and a man might say, Will we go for a pint, Malachy? and Dad will say, One, only one, and the man will say, Oh, God, yes, one, and before the night is over all the money is gone and Dad comes home singing and getting us out of bed to line up and promise to die for Ireland when the call comes. He even gets Michael up and he's only three but there he is singing and promising to die for Ireland at the first opportunity. That's what Dad calls it, the first opportunity. I'm nine and Malachy is eight and we know all the songs. We sing all the verses of Kevin Barry and Roddy McCorley, "The West's Asleep," "O'Donnell Abu," "The Boys of Wexford." We sing and promise to die because you never know when Dad might have a penny or two left over from the drinking and if he gives it to us we can run to Kathleen O'Connell's next day for toffee. Some nights he says Michael is the best singer of all and he gives him the penny. Malachy and I wonder what's the use of being eight and nine and knowing all the songs and ready to die when Michael gets the penny so that he can go to the shop next day and stuff his gob with toffee galore. No one can ask him to die for Ireland at the age of three, not even Padraig Pearse, who was shot by the English in Dublin in 1916 and expected the whole world to die with him. Besides, Mikey Molloy's father said anyone who wants to die for Ireland is a donkey's arse. Men have been dying for Ireland since the beginning of time and look at the state of the country.
It's bad enough that Dad loses jobs in the third week but now he drinks all the dole money once a month. Mam gets desperate and in the morning she has the bitter face and she won't talk to him. He has his tea and leaves the house early for the long walk into the country. When he returns in the evening she still won't talk to him and she won't make his tea. If the fire is dead for the want of coal or turf and there's no way of boiling water for the tea, he says, Och, aye, and drinks water out of a jam jar and smacks his lips the way he would with a pint of porter. He says good water is all a man needs and Mam makes a snorting sound. When she's not talking to him the house is heavy and cold and we know we're not supposed to talk to him either for fear she'll give us the bitter look. We know Dad has done the bad thing and we know you can make anyone suffer by not talking to him. Even little Michael knows that when Dad does the bad thing you don't talk to him from Friday to Monday and when he tries to lift you to his lap you run to Mam.
I'm nine years old and I have a pal, Mickey Spellacy, whose relations are dropping one by one of the galloping consumption. I envy Mickey because every time someone dies in his family he gets a week off from school and his mother stitches a black diamond patch on his sleeve so that he can wander from lane to lane and street to street and people will know he has the grief and pat his head and give him money and sweets for his sorrow.
But this summer Mickey is worried. His sister, Brenda, is wasting away with the consumption and it's only August and if she dies before September he won't get his week off from school because you can't get a week off from school when there's no school. He comes to Billy Campbell and me to ask if we'll go around the corner to St. Joseph's Church and pray for Brenda to hang on till September.
What's in it for us, Mickey, if we go around the corner praying?
Well, if Brenda hangs on and I get me week off ye can come to the wake and have ham and cheese and cake and sherry and lemonade and everything and ye can listen to the songs and stories all night.
Who could say no to that? There's nothing like a wake for having a good time. We trot around to the church where they have statues of St. Joseph himself as well as the Sacred Heart of Jesus, the Virgin Mary and St. Therese of Lisieux, the Little Flower. I pray to the Little Flower because she died of the consumption herself and she'd understand.
One of our prayers must have been powerful because Brenda stays alive and doesn't die till the second day of school. We tell Mickey we're sorry for his troubles but he's delighted with his week off and he gets the black diamond patch which will bring the money and sweets.
My mouth is watering at the thought of the feast at Brenda's wake. Billy knocks on the door and there's Mickey's aunt. Well?
We came to say a prayer for Brenda and Mickey said we could come to the wake.
She yells, Mickey!
What?
Come here. Did you tell this gang they could come to your sister's wake?
No.
But, Mickey, you promised ...
She slams the door in our faces. We don't know what to do till Billy Campbell says, We'll go back to St. Joseph's and pray that from now on everyone in Mickey Spellacy's family will die in the middle of the summer and he'll never get a day off from school for the rest of his life.
One of our prayers is surely powerful because next summer Mickey himself is carried off by the galloping consumption and he doesn't get a day off from school and that will surely teach him a lesson.
Proddy Woddy ring the bell,
Not for heaven but for hell.
On Sunday mornings in Limerick I watch them go to church, the Protestants, and I feel sorry for them, especially the girls, who are so lovely, they have such beautiful white teeth. I feel sorry for the beautiful Protestant girls, they're doomed. That's what the priests tell us. Outside the Catholic Church there is no salvation. Outside the Catholic Church there is nothing but doom. And I want to save them. Protestant girl, come with me to the True Church. You'll be saved and you won't have the doom. After Mass on Sunday I go with my friend Billy Campbell to watch them play croquet on the lovely lawn beside their church on Barrington Street. Croquet is a Protestant game. They hit the ball with the mallet, pock and pock again, and laugh. I wonder how they can laugh or don't they even know they're doomed? I feel sorry for them and I say, Billy, what's the use of playing croquet when you're doomed?
He says, Frankie, what's the use of not playing croquet when you're doomed?
Grandma says to Mam, Your brother Pat, bad leg an' all, was selling papers all over Limerick by the time he was eight and that Frank of yours is big and ugly enough to work.
But he's only nine and still in school.
School. 'Tis school that has him the way he is talkin' back an' goin' around with the sour puss an' the odd manner like his father. He could get out an' help poor Pat of a Friday night when the Limerick Leader is a ton weight. He could run up the long garden paths of the quality an' save Pat's poor legs an' earn a few pennies into the bargain.
He has to go to the Confraternity on Friday nights.
Never mind the Confraternity. There's nothin' in the catechism about confraternities.
I meet Uncle Pat at the Limerick Leader on Friday evening at five. The man handing out the papers says my arms are that skinny I'd be lucky to carry two stamps but Uncle Pat sticks eight papers under each arm. He tells me, I'll kill you if you drop 'em for 'tis raining abroad, pelting out of the heavens. He tells me hug the walls going up O'Connell Street to keep the papers dry. I'm to run in where there's a delivery, climb the outside steps, in the door, up the stairs, yell Paper, get the money they owe him for the week, down the stairs, give him the money and on to the next stop. Customers give him tips for his troubles and he keeps them for himself.
We make our way up O'Connell Avenue, out Ballinacurra, in by the South Circular Road, down Henry Street and back to the office for more papers. Uncle Pat wears a cap and a thing like a cowboy poncho to keep his papers dry but he complains his feet are killing him and we stop in a pub for a pint for his poor feet. Uncle Pa Keating is there all black and having a pint and he says to Uncle Pat, Ab, are you going to let that boy stand there with his face hanging out for the want of a lemonade?
Uncle Pat says, Wha? and Uncle Pa Keating gets impatient. Christ, he's dragging your feckin' papers all over Limerick and you can't--Oh, never mind. Timmy, give the child a lemonade. Frankie, don't you have a raincoat at home?
No, Uncle Pa.
You're not supposed to be out in this weather. You're drenched entirely. Who sent you out in this muck?
Grandma said I had to help Uncle Pat because of his bad leg.
Course she did, the oui' bitch, but don't tell them I said that.
Uncle Pat is struggling off the seat and gathering up his papers. Come on, 'tis gettin' dark.
He hobbles along the streets calling, Anna Lie Sweets Lie, which doesn't sound a bit like Limerick Leader and it doesn't matter because everyone knows this is Ab Sheehan that was dropped on his head. Here, Ab, give us a Leader, how's your poor leg, keep the change an' get yourself a fag for 'tis an awful feckin' night to be out sellin' the feckin' papers.
Tanks, says Ab, my uncle. Tanks, tanks, tanks, and it's hard to keep up with him on the streets bad as his leg is. He says, How many Leaders have you under your oxter?
One, Uncle Pat.
Take that Leader in to Mr. Timoney. He owes me for a fortnight now. Get that money an' there's a tip. He's a good man for the tip an' don't be shovin' it in your pocket like your cousin Gerry. Shoved it in his pocket, the little bugger.
I bang on the door with the knocker and there's a great howl from a dog so big he makes the door shake. A man's voice says, Macushla, quit the bloody racket or I'll give you a good fong in the arse for yourself. The racket stops, the door opens and the man is there, white hair, thick glasses, white sweater, a stick in his hand. He says, Who is it? Who do we have?
The paper, Mr. Timoney.
We don't have Ab Sheehan here, do we?
I'm his nephew, sir.
Is it Gerry Sheehan we have here?
No, sir. I'm Frank McCourt.
Another nephew? Does he make them? Is there a little nephew factory in the backyard? Here's the money for the fortnight and give me the paper or keep it. What's the use? I can't read anymore and Mrs. Minihan that's supposed to read to me didn't come. Legless with the sherry, that's what she is. What's your name?
Frank, sir.
Can you read?
I can, sir.
Do you want to earn a sixpence?
I do, sir.
Come here tomorrow. Your name is Francis, isn't it?
Frank, sir.
Your name is Francis. There was never a St. Frank. That's a name for gangsters and politicians. Come here tomorrow at eleven and read to me.
I will, sir.
Are you sure you can read?
I am, sir.
You can call me Mr. Timoney.
I will, Mr. Timoney.
Uncle Pat is mumbling at the gate, rubbing his leg. Where's me money an' you're not supposed to be chattin' with the customers an' me here with the leg destroyed be the rain. He has to stop at the pub at Punch's Cross to have a pint for the destroyed leg. After the pint he says he can't walk another inch and we get on a bus. The conductor says, Fares, please, fares, but Uncle Pat says, Go 'way an' don't be botherin' me, can't you see the state o' me leg?
Oh, all right, Ab, all right.
The bus stops at the O'Connell Monument and Uncle Pat goes to the Monument Fish and Chip Cafe where the smells are so delicious my stomach beats with the hunger. He gets a shilling's worth of fish and chips and my mouth is watering but when we get to Grandma's door he gives me a threepenny bit, tells me meet him again next Friday and go home now to my mother.
The dog Macushla is lying outside Mr. Timoney's door and when I open the little garden gate to go up the path she rushes at me and knocks me back out on the pavement and she'd eat my face if Mr. Timoney didn't come out and flail at her with his stick and yell, Come in out of it, ye hoor, ye overgrown man-eatin' bitch. Didn't you have your breakfast, you hoor? Are you all right, Francis? Come in. That dog is a right Hindu, so she is, and that's where I found her mother wandering around Bangalore. If ever you're getting a dog, Francis, make sure it's a Buddhist. Good-natured dogs, the Buddhists. Never, never get a Mahommedan. They'll eat you sleeping. Never a Catholic dog. They'll eat you every day including Fridays. Sit down and read to me.
The Limerick Leader, Mr. Timoney?
No, not the bloody Limerick Leader. I wouldn't wipe the hole of my arse with the Limerick Leader. There's a book over there on the table, Gulliver's Travels. That's not what I want you to read. Look in the back for another thing, A Modest Proposal. Read that to me. It begins, It is a melancholy object to those who walk ... Do you have that? I have the whole bloody thing in my head but I still want you to read to me.
He stops me after two or three pages. You're a good reader. And what do you think of that, Francis, that a young healthy child well nursed is at a year old a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled, eh? Macushla would love a dinner of a nice plump Irish infant, wouldn't you, you oul' hoor?
He gives me sixpence, and tells me return next Saturday.
Mam is delighted I earned sixpence for reading to Mr. Timoney and what was it he wanted read, the Limerick Leader? I tell her I had to read A Modest Proposal from the back of Gulliver's Travels and she says, That's all right, 'tis only a children's book. You'd expect him to want something strange for he's a little off in the head after years in the sun in the English army in India and they say he was married to one of them Indian women and she was accidentally shot by a soldier during some class of a distur