*
Mam takes Malachy and me to the St.Vincent de Paul Society to stand in the queue and see if there's any chance of getting something for the Christmas dinner--a goose or a ham, but the man says everyone in Limerick is desperate this Christmas. He gives her a docket for groceries at McGrath's shop and another one for the butcher.
No goose, says the butcher, no ham. No fancy items when you bring the docket from the St.Vincent de Paul. What you can have now, missus, is black pudding and tripe or a sheep's head or a nice pig's head. No harm in a pig's head, missus, plenty of meat and children love it, slice that cheek, slather it with mustard and you're in heaven, though I suppose they wouldn't have the likes of that in America where they're mad for the steak and all classes of poultry, flying, walking or swimming itself.
He tells Mam, no, she can't have boiled bacon or sausages and if she has any sense she'll take the pig's head before they're all gone the way the poor people of Limerick are clamoring for them.
Mam says the pig's head isn't right for Christmas and he says 'tis more than the Holy Family had in that cold stable in Bethlehem long ago. You wouldn't find them complaining if someone offered them a nice fat pig's head.
No, they wouldn't complain, says Mam, but they'd never eat the pig's head. They were Jewish.
And what does that have to do with it? A pig's head is a pig's head.
And a Jew is a Jew and 'tis against their religion and I don't blame them.
The butcher says, Are you a bit of an expert, missus, on the Jews and the pig.
I am not, says Mam, but there was a Jewish woman, Mrs. Leibowitz, in New York, and I don't know what we would have done without her.
The butcher takes the pig's head off a shelf and when Malachy says, Ooh, look at the dead dog, the butcher and Mam burst out laughing. He wraps the head in newspaper, hands it to Mam and says, Happy Christmas. Then he wraps up some sausages and tells her, Take these sausages for your breakfast on Christmas Day. Mam says, Oh, I can't afford sausages, and he says, Am I asking you for money? Am I? Take these sausages. They might help make up for the lack of a goose or a ham.
Sure, you don't have to do that, says Mam.
I know that, missus. If I had to do it, I wouldn't.
Mam says she has a pain in her back, that I'll have to carry the pig's head. I hold it against my chest but it's damp and when the newspaper begins to fall away everyone can see the head. Mam says, I'm ashamed of me life that the world should know we're having pig's head for Christmas. Boys from Leamy's National School see me and they point and laugh. Aw, Gawd, look at Frankie McCourt an' his pig's snout. Is that what the Yanks ate for Christmas dinner, Frankie?
One calls to another, Hey, Christy, do you know how to ate a pig's head?
No, I don't, Paddy.
Grab him by the ears an' chew the face offa him.
And Christy says, Hey, Paddy, do you know the only part of the pig the McCourts don't ate?
No, I don't, Christy.
The only part they don't ate is the oink.
After a few streets the newspaper is gone altogether and everyone can see the pig's head. His nose is flat against my chest and pointing up at my chin and I feel sorry for him because he's dead and the world is laughing at him. My sister and two brothers are dead, too, but if anyone laughed at them I'd hit them with a rock.
I wish Dad would come and help us because Mam has to stop every few steps and lean against a wall. She's holding her back and telling us she'll never be able to climb Barrack Hill. Even if Dad came he wouldn't be much use because he never carries anything, parcels, bags, packages. If you carry such things you lose your dignity. That's what he says. He carried the twins when they were tired and he carried the Pope, but that was not the same as carrying ordinary things like a pig's head. He tells Malachy and me that when you grow up you have to wear a collar and tie and never let people see you carry things.
He's upstairs sitting by the fire, smoking a cigarette, reading The Irish Press, which he loves because it's De Valera's paper and he thinks De Valera is the greatest man in the world. He looks at me and the pig's head and tells Mam it's a disgraceful thing to let a boy carry an object like that through the streets of Limerick. She takes off her coat and eases herself into the bed and tells him that next Christmas he can go out and find the dinner. She's worn out and gasping for a cup of tea so would he drop his grand airs, boil the water for the tea and fry some bread before his two small sons starve to death.
On Christmas morning he lights the fire early so that we can have sausages and bread and tea. Mam sends me to Grandma to see if we can borrow a pot for the pigs head. Grandma says, What are ye having for yeer dinner? Pigs head! Jesus, Mary an' Joseph, that's goin' beyond the beyonds. Couldn't your father get out and find a ham or a goose at least? What kind of man is he at all, at all?
Mam puts the head in the pot, just covered with water, and while the pig is boiling away Dad takes Malachy and me to Mass at the Redemptorist church. It's warm in the church and sweet with flowers and incense and candles. He takes us to see the Baby Jesus in the crib. He's a big fat baby with fair curls like Malachy. Dad tells us that's Jesus' mother there, Mary, in the blue dress, and his father, St. Joseph, the old man with the beard. He says they're sad because they know Jesus will grow up and be killed so that we can all go to heaven. I ask why the Baby Jesus has to die and Dad says you can't ask questions like that. Malachy says, Why? and Dad tells him be quiet.
Mam is in a terrible state at home. There isn't enough coal to cook the dinner, the water isn't boiling anymore and she says she's demented with worry. We'll have to go down the Dock Road again to see if there's any coal or turf lying around from the lorries. Surely we'll find something on the road this day of all days. Even the poorest of the poor don't go out on Christmas Day picking coal off the road. There's no use asking Dad to go because he will never stoop that low and even if he did he won't carry things through the streets. It's a rule he has. Mam can't go because of the pain in her back.
She says, You'll have to go, Frank, and take Malachy with you.
It's a long way to the Dock Road but we don't mind because our bellies are filled with sausages and bread and it's not raining. We carry a canvas bag Mam borrowed from Mrs. Hannon next door and Mam is right, there is no one on the Dock Road. The poor are all at home having pig's head or maybe a goose and we have the Dock Road to ourselves. We find bits of coal and turf stuck in cracks on the road and in the walls of the coal yards. We find bits of paper and cardboard that will be useful in starting the fire again. We're wandering around trying to fill the bag when Pa Keating comes along. He must have washed himself for Christmas because he's not as black as he was when Eugene died. He wants to know what we're doing with that bag and when Malachy tells him he says, Jesus, Mary and Holy St. Joseph! Christmas Day and ye don't have a fire for yeer pig's head. That's a bloody disgrace.
He takes us to South's pub, which is not supposed to be open, but he's a regular customer and there's a back door for men who want their pint to celebrate the birthday of the Baby Jesus above in the crib. He orders his pint and lemonade for us and asks the man if there's any chance of getting a few lumps of coal. The man says he's been serving drink for twenty-seven years and nobody ever asked him for coal before. Pa says it would be a favor and the man says if Pa asked for the moon he'd fly up and bring it back. The man leads us to the coal hole under the stairs and tells us take what we can carry. It's real coal and not bits from the Dock Road and if we can't carry it we can drag it along the ground.
It takes us a long time to go from South's pub to Barrack Hill because of a hole in the bag. I pull the bag and it's Malachy's job to pick up the lumps that fall through the hole and put them back again. Then it starts to rain and we can't stand in a doorway till it passes because we have that coal and it's leaving a black trail along the pavement and Malachy is turning black from picking up the lumps, pushing them into the bag and wiping the rain from his face with his wet black hands. I tell
him he's black, he tells me I'm black, and a woman in a shop tells us get away from that door, 'tis Christmas Day and she doesn't want to be looking at Africa.
We have to keep dragging the bag or we'll never have our Christmas dinner. It will take ages to get a fire going and ages more to get our dinner because the water has to be boiling when Mam puts in the head of cabbage and the potatoes to keep the pig company in the pot. We drag the bag up O'Connell Avenue and we see people in their houses sitting around tables with all kinds of decorations and bright lights. At one house they push up the window and the children point and laugh and call to us, Look at the Zulus. Where are yeer spears?
Malachy makes faces at them and wants to throw coal at them but I tell him if he throws coal there's less for the pig and we'll never get our dinner.
The downstairs in our house is a lake again from the rain pouring under the door but it doesn't matter because we're drenched anyway and we can wade through the water. Dad comes down and drags the bag upstairs to Italy. He says we're good boys for getting so much coal, that the Dock Road must have been covered with it. When Mam sees us she starts to laugh, and then she cries. She's laughing because we're so black and crying because we're sopping wet. She tells us take off all our clothes and she washes the coal off our hands and faces. She tells Dad the pig's head can wait a while so that we can have a jam jar of hot tea.
It's raining outside and there's a lake downstairs in our kitchen but up here in Italy the fire is going again and the room is so dry and warm that, after our tea, Malachy and I doze off in the bed and we don't wake till Dad tells us the dinner is ready. Our clothes are still wet, so Malachy sits on the trunk at the table wrapped in Mam's red American overcoat and I'm wrapped in an old coat that Mam's father left behind when he went to Australia.
There are delicious smells in the room, cabbage, potatoes, and the pig's head, but when Dad lifts the head from the pot to a plate Malachy says, Oh, the poor pig. I don't want to eat the poor pig.
Mam says, If you were hungry you'd eat it. Now stop the nonsense and eat your dinner.
Dad says, Wait a minute. He takes slices from the two cheeks, places them on our plates and smears them with mustard. He takes the plate that holds the pig's head and puts it on the floor under the table. Now, he says to Malachy, that's ham, and Malachy eats it because he's not looking at what it came from and it isn't pig's head anymore. The cabbage is soft and hot and there are plenty of potatoes with butter and salt. Mam peels our potatoes but Dad eats his skin and all. He says all the nourishment of a potato is in the skin and Mam says it's a good thing he's not eating eggs, he'd be chewing the shells and all.
He says he would, and it's a disgrace that the Irish throw out millions of potato skins every day and that's why thousands are dying of consumption and surely there's nourishment in the shell of an egg since waste is the eighth deadly sin. If he had his way, and Mam says, Never mind your way. Eat your dinner.
He eats half a potato with its skin on and puts the other half back in the pot. He eats a small slice of the pig's cheek and a leaf of cabbage and leaves the rest on his plate for Malachy and me. He makes more tea and we have that with bread and jam so that no one can say we didn't have a sweet on Christmas Day.
It's dark now and still raining outside and the coal is glowing in the grate where Mam and Dad sit and smoke their cigarettes. There's nothing to do when your clothes are wet but get back into bed where it's cozy and your father can tell you a story about how Cuchulain became a Catholic and you fall asleep and dream about the pig standing in the crib at the Redemptorist church crying because he and the Baby Jesus and Cuchulain all have to grow up and die.
The angel that brought Margaret and the twins comes again and brings us another brother, Michael. Dad says he found Michael on the seventh step of the stairs to Italy. He says that's what you have to watch for when you ask for a new baby, the Angel on the Seventh Step.
Malachy wants to know how you can get a new brother from the Angel on the Seventh Step if you don't have any stairs in your house and Dad tells him that asking too many questions is an affliction.
Malachy wants to know what an affliction is.
Affliction. I'd like to know what that word means. Affliction, but Dad says, Och, child, the world is an affliction and everything in it, puts on his cap and goes to the Bedford Row Hospital to see Mam and Michael. She's in the hospital with the pain in her back and she has the baby with her to make sure he was healthy when he was left on the seventh step. I don't understand this because I'm sure angels would never leave a sick baby on the seventh step. There's no use asking Dad or Mam about this. They say, You're getting as bad as your brother for asking questions. Go play.
I know that big people don't like questions from children. They can ask all the questions they like, How's school? Are you a good boy? Did you say your prayers? but if you ask them did they say their prayers you might be hit on the head.
Dad brings Mam home with the new baby and she has to stay in bed for a few days with the pain in her back. She says this baby is the spitting image of our sister who died, with his wavy black hair, his lovely blue eyes, and the gorgeous eyebrows. That's what Mam says.
I want to know if the baby will be spitting. I also want to know which is the seventh step because there are nine steps on the stairs and I'd like to know if you count from the bottom or the top. Dad doesn't mind answering this question. Angels come down from above, he says, and not up from kitchens like ours which are lakes from October till April.
So I find the seventh step by counting from the top.
*
The baby Michael has a cold. His head is stuffed and he can barely breathe. Mam worries because it's Sunday and the Dispensary for the poor is closed. If you go to the doctor's house and the maid sees you're from the lower classes she tells you go to the Dispensary where you belong. If you tell her the child is dying in your arms she'll say the doctor is in the country riding his horse.
Mam cries because the baby is struggling to get air through his mouth. She tries to clear his nostrils with a bit of rolled-up paper but she's afraid to push it too far up. Dad says, There's no need for that. You're not supposed to be pushing things inside a child's head. It looks like he's going to kiss the baby. Instead, he has his mouth on the little nose and he's sucking sucking the bad stuff out of Michael's head. He spits it into the fire, Michael gives out a loud cry and you can see him drawing the air into his head and kicking his legs and laughing. Mam looks at Dad as if he just came down from heaven and Dad says, That's what we did in Antrim long before there were doctors riding their horses.
Michael entitles us to a few extra shillings on the dole but Mam says it isn't enough and now she has to go to the St.Vincent de Paul Society for food. One night there is a knock on the door and Mam sends me down to see who it is. There are two men from the St.Vincent de Paul and they want to see my mother and father. I tell them my parents are upstairs in Italy and they say, What?
Upstairs where 'tis dry. I'll tell them.
They want to know what that little shed is beside our front door. I tell them it's the lavatory. They want to know why it isn't in the back of the house and I tell them it's the lavatory for the whole lane and it's a good thing it's not in the back of our house or we'd have people traipsing through our kitchen with buckets that would make you sick.
They say, Are you sure there's one lavatory for the whole lane?
I am.
They say, Mother of God.
Mam calls down from Italy. Who's down there?
The men.
What men?
From the St.Vincent de Paul.
They're careful the way they step into the lake in the kitchen and they make tsk tsk and tut tut noises and they tell one another, Isn't this a disgrace? till they get upstairs to Italy. They tell Mam and Dad they're sorry to disturb them but the Society has to be sure they're helping deserving cases. Mam offers them a cup of tea but they look around and say, No, thank you. They want to know w
hy we're living upstairs. They want to know about the lavatory They ask questions because big people can ask all the questions they like and write in notebooks, especially when they're wearing collars and ties and suits. They ask how old Michael is, how much Dad gets at the Labour Exchange, when did he last have a job, why doesn't he have a job now and what class of an accent is that he has?
Dad tells them the lavatory could kill us with every class of disease, that the kitchen floods in the winter and we have to move upstairs to stay dry. He says the River Shannon is responsible for all the dampness in the world and killing us one by one.
Malachy tells them we're living in Italy and they smile.
Mam asks if there's any chance of getting boots for Malachy and me and they say she'll have to come down to Ozanam House and apply. She says she hasn't been feeling well since the baby came and she wouldn't be able to stand long in a queue, but they say everyone has to be treated the same, even a woman down in the Irishtown that had triplets and, thank you, we'll make our report to the Society.
When they're leaving Malachy wants to show them where the angel left Michael on the seventh step but Dad tells him, Not now, not now. Malachy cries and one of the men gives him a piece of toffee from his pocket and I wish I had something to cry about so that I'd get a piece, too.
I have to go downstairs again and show the men where to step to keep their feet dry. They keep shaking their heads and saying, God Almighty and Mother of God, this is desperate. That's not Italy they have upstairs, that's Calcutta.
Dad is telling Mam up in Italy she should never beg like that.
What do you mean, beg?
Don't you have any pride, begging for boots like that?
And what would you do, Mr. Grand Manner? Would you let them go barefoot?
I'd rather fix the shoes they have.
The shoes they have are falling to pieces.