A Mad and Wonderful Thing (2 page)

She surprised me. She knew my name. ‘Ohh, well, eh, Cora. How'ye?'

‘Sorry about the other night. I was just, ehm, too shy, you know, in front of all the gang. Anyway …' and she just kept talking.

I stood silent. I had no idea what this girl was saying to me. Twice now in one week I had experienced shock, and both times were as I looked into the green eyes of Cora Flannery. My heart was racing, I could feel it, and — weirdly — I could hear it. I was conscious of blood rushing to my face. I was fighting for breath. The head was gone again, and now the ears and lungs, too. This girl was killing me.

‘Are you going again this week?' she asked.

‘Yes. Yes, I might.' I tried to remain calm.

‘Right,' she said. ‘That's a date, then.' And off she went.

I couldn't believe it. I just couldn't believe it, and I was halfway home when I realised that I'd forgotten to go to the bank.

Saturday night arrived, and we gathered in town for the eager consumption of alcohol, cigarettes, stories, and lies. The Dubchoire Bar is our regular meeting place. There is a dusting of magic or something about the place — I'm not sure what exactly, although to an outsider it would look pretty crappy. Townsfolk say that, between the thick walls and below the music, intrigue and conspiracy simmer in dark pockets. I don't know anything about that — I never hear any of it — but local heads have nicknamed it The Cooking Pot. Anyhow, back to Saturday. First in, as usual, was Big Robbie. Robbie is my friend from work and, to be honest, he's a bit of a header. Johnny — Johnny being me — and Éamon Gaughran were next. Conor Rafferty and Frank Boyle followed up. That is pretty much our regular form, though, on any night, any number of others might attach themselves to our posse. Other than the chatter on football or work or college, we usually talk about girls, and play our game of ‘marks out of ten'. Eight-and-a-half is agreed to be the highest possible score to be found in the town; convinced as we are that faraway maidens just have to be fairer. I wasn't saying a word about Cora — I mean, let's be reasonable, I wasn't too sure what was happening. Was it a date? Or was it not? But she did say … Well, I thought, if nothing happened and I fell on my arse, at least the boys didn't have to know.

‘Big date tonight, Johnny, eh?'

I looked up to see Frank Boyle smiling at me over a glass of beer.

You see, these are the things that piss me off — and just when I had some sort of a plan together. ‘What, wha', what makes you say that?' I asked him.

‘Well, Johnny-boy, Cora Flannery seems to believe that she's meeting up with you later.'

‘Cora Flannery!' was the cry around the table.

‘Cora Flannery,' Conor Rafferty repeated softly, looking to me with his big brown eyes as he sat shaking his head.

Oh, sweet hallelujah, so it is a date.

‘And how do you make that out?' I threw out the stall to get some thoughts together.

‘That's the news according to Clodagh Breen.'

‘Well, that's Clodagh Breen for you,' I said, looking to Frank and having no choice now but to reach down for the emergency supplies. ‘She tells stories, that one. Wasn't it Clodagh who said that you popped Tootsie Roddy a fast one in the Friary Lane? That's just all-out madness. You can't believe a word she says.' It was a low attack. A liaison with Tootsie could only be absolute need confused with desperate want, and it could happen to any man. I take no pride now in the retelling. But I was rattled.

I saw Frank Boyle absorb the statement with panic, and his thoughts were all over his face.
Does Johnny know? How does Johnny know? Bastard!
For a moment, there was silence.

‘Oh, I think he doth protest too much,' Big Robbie said, as he laughed. ‘You know, I've said it before and I'll say it again: Johnny D could score at a funeral.'

I gave my best innocent grin. What else could I do?

Big Robbie lifted a pint of porter off the table and drank half the measure in one slow, easy gulp. ‘Mother's milk,' he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You are some pup, Donnelly. That's all I'll say. You are some pup. I have you trained well.'

Big Robbie is an electrician who is one year ahead of me in our apprenticeships, and sometimes the seniority thing gets the better of him. I saluted him with my own glass and let his delusion stand.

‘But Cora Flannery?' Conor continued, moving next to me and still shaking his head. ‘Unbelievable. Jesus, Johnny, you have the luck of the Devil. How do you do it?'

‘You smarmy git,' Éamon said from across the table. That would be Éamon: a bit off-time, a bit off-tone. It comes with trying too hard.

‘Now, don't be jealous,' I defended.

‘God-sakes, Johnny. Me, jealous? That'll be the day, Sunshine.' Poor Éamon. Nobody could believe that, not even himself.

The banter and drinking continued until a yet-to-be-vetted girl caused immediate debate, scoring highest with Big Robbie's declaration, ‘That's class — definitely a seven-and-a-half.'

‘And what more shall I say …' I am pulled back to the Mass, as the priest is lecturing us about heroes and
conquered kingdoms and enforced justice and received promises
and winning
strength out of weakness and becoming mighty in war and putting foreign armies to flight
. These guys know how to talk. But the thread has tangled and caught. P
utting foreign armies to flight? Yes, that fighting talk is all very good in Saint Joseph's, but how about a cold, wet ditch on the border? There would be few then so loud and brave. It's all hell and thunder for Jesus. But for Ireland? Put foreign armies to flight? I don't think so. Only the few take on that foreign army. Our foreign army. And as I think on that, I see their faces, like
I see their faces through the scope of the gun, those foreign faces, those foreign soldiers in Ireland. And that's not good, foreign soldiers. It never works out in the end. I know that not everyone thinks this way. Some don't mind them being here. Some welcome them. Some don't care. But that doesn't work either, the not-caring. If you don't care about who you are, then every day a little bit of you dies — a small bit, hardly noticeable, but day by day these bits add up, and before you know it you are completely dead. You are still living, of course, but you go through the rest of your life dead. That's the price you pay for not caring about who you are, and for not fighting. But not me: I know the danger. I know who I am: Johnny Donnelly, Irish. And I do care, and I do fight.

The priest continues his advice to the assembled heads, but my thoughts are gone again to Cora.

We had never been in the nightclub so early. Usually we would leave the pub late, and, via a side door and a damp alley, we would run the short distance across a back-street carpark into the side entrance of the main-street hotel. The empty interior was bizarre without the usual circus. For once we approached the bar in comfort, and had time to admire the decor and the light system.

‘I hear it cost a fortune doing the place,' Big Robbie said, leading us to some high stools overlooking the dance floor.

‘Bastard can well afford it,' Éamon replied, reaching into his shirt pocket and withdrawing a twenty-pack of Carroll's No. 1. He flipped the box open with one hand, withdrew two cigarettes, and tossed one onto my lap.

‘Let's hope Cora don't mind you smoking, Johnny-boy,' he commented with an upward flick of his head.

As we settled into our seats, we watched a small man slip into the nightclub. He wore a tight cream suit, the suit's bright sheen radiant in the club's lighting. With an effeminate step he made a tour, stopping briefly to chat with each of the dark-suited bouncers. It was Éamon's bastard — the hotel owner — and we watched as he inspected his troops. As he passed us he paused, and I could almost hear him chuckling.

‘Hello, Mister Fitzgerald,' I called to him. ‘That's a lovely suit.'

Slowly, the crowd began to trickle in. Time passed, the nightclub filled, and I was feeling the first pangs of disappointment when …

Suddenly, there is a lot of movement and everyone falls to the floor. We are at a moment in the Mass when we should all kneel down and check out the shoes of the person in front. I'm no spoil-sport; I get down on one knee. They are a pair of black loafers, low cut, and they expose bright white socks that disappear up a pair of blue jeans. Well, that's a little sad. After sufficient time for reflection has elapsed, the priest gives a signal, and we all are allowed to resume our seat, or stand. In the resettlement, I have a quick look to those around me at the back of the church. It is the usual Sunday gathering of hung-over rogues. Survival can be that in an occupied state: an attendance granted, but collaboration withheld. To the left, annexed to the side wall of the church, there is a decorated shrine to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. The statue within it has always intrigued me; I don't know why. Above the electric ten-penny candles, a brightly robed man with a kind face looks down on the gathering. A small, vivid, pink heart glows from the centre of his chest, like some sort of suspended, chainless medallion. A tiny girl stands before the shrine. Under the watchful eye and arm's-length grasp of her father, she caresses the rows of switches she knows will trigger the candles. She turns and notices me. She turns again and watches her father, and waits. The tempo of the Mass shifts, and the pious in the dark wooden pews shuffle into a kneeling position for the next prayer. In the disruption the girl flicks two of the switches, and within the candelabra in the shrine two red bulbs come to life. The girl looks to me with her face held open as if she is willing some reaction from me. With a wink and a slight nod of my head, I acknowledge my approval. The girl is delighted.

She was standing with her friends on the other side of the nightclub. Unsure what to do, I held my ground. I can confess that I would have walked cold and naked over the Cooley Mountains to get to Cora Flannery. But to cross that dance floor and walk into an audience of curious girls was beyond me. My palms began to sweat and I stared at the floor. Should I go over? Could I go over? But when I looked up, she was there. She stood before me and, slowly, as she looked to me, she took my hand. And with that first touch my anxiety was dismissed with the force of the gods, and rushing into the void was joy.

‘Come on,' she laughed, skipping towards the dance floor.

At the end of the night, Cora's friends came to take her, but she refused them.

‘Johnny is walking me home,' she told them. ‘Aren't you?' she added, squeezing my fingers. And indeed I was. It would have taken the ancient armies of Ulster to take Cora from me that night, and they would have had to fight.

‘Okay, be good,' they replied, and made to go. Abruptly, one of them — a tall and good-looking girl — came over to us.

‘So she finally got you, Johnny Donnelly,' she said. ‘This one will never let you go now.' She kissed Cora on her forehead before turning to me.

‘See you, handsome,' she said, and was off.

‘Who is that?' I asked, bewildered.

‘That's our Aisling, my big sister, and my best friend. My best female friend, of course. Isn't she beautiful?'

‘Yes, Cora, she sure is.'

‘She's studying medicine, in college, in Dublin.' She rushed the detail to me, the rush tripping her breath.

‘Beautiful and clever,' I said. And then after a pause I added, ‘So who's your best male friend then?'

Cora looked to me as though I had just asked her if she knew the capital of Ireland. ‘You,' she answered. And she answered with such sincerity that there wasn't any doubt.

I felt as if I'd been substituted into another life and that I was being mistaken for someone else. We were queuing at the cloakroom to get our coats when I thought of the boys. I searched for them, and saw that they were still sitting where I had left them hours before. They caught my enquiry and all gave me an exaggerated wave, and Éamon shouted something that raised a laugh from no one but himself.

As we reached the exit I looked back into the club and caught a glimpse of Conor's shaking head.

We took our time on the walk home and stopped in the central Market Square for a snack from a late-night take-away stall.

‘I'm always starving after a disco,' Cora said. ‘Do you fancy a bag of chips, Johnny?'

‘I'm that hungry, Cora, I could eat a small Protestant,' I quipped, and we both laughed as we fought our way to the counter.

‘One bag of chips,
Mademoiselle
, and one large curry-chips and sausage, when you're ready?'

To eat the food, we sat on a bench opposite the stall, near the entrance to the county court-house — I insisted that it wouldn't do the supper justice to eat on the move. When we'd finished I crumpled the wrappings into a ball, tossed it into the air, and volleyed it into a litter bin. I moved beside her.

‘So what's the story with that coat and scarf, Johnny? Are you ever seen without them?'

I take a lot of grief with the coat — people are unable not to comment. But that's fashion: yesterday's favourites are today's oddities. It is a dark-tweed woollen overcoat — a 1960s Dunn & Co of London that I bought used — and in different light the tweed is green or grey or brown, like Ravensdale Forest on a wet day. The scarf is blue. I like the coat and I like the scarf, and that's that. The world can think what it likes.