Bend for Home, The (11 page)

Then, as if my father had summoned him from that recurring dream of Finea, Maurice Moran, who had gone away at fifteen to be a missionary priest, made contact.

Once we left Finea he had disappeared out of our lives, until, along with Sonny Fitz and Jim Keogh and Tom Keogh and Brian Sheridan, and many others, his name was roared out in the middle of the night by my father. Then back came the other world – the barracks, the bridge, the dayroom, the distressed children, the screeches from the cells, the cold chapel and the small coffins – but next day he was forgotten, the Fineas withdrew into the dream world and we were back in Cavan again. Then this letter came.

It’s for you, I said.

Is it from Tony? asked my father.

No, I said, it’s Irish.

Who could it be? my father said.

He looked closely at the postmark.

What does that say? he asked.

Corcaigh,
I said.

Cork? Who do we know down there?

I don’t know.

Neither do I, he said, and that’s a fact.

He opened the blue envelope. He held the letter to the light, cupped the rim of his glasses, and screwed up his eyes.
Dear
Jack
Healy,
he said, then he stopped. He pushed himself up in the bed and took his glasses off.

He handed the letter to me.

Read that out to me, said my father.

Father
Maurice Moran, said my father and he took his glasses off and held them in his lap.

That’s right, I said.

When is the fifteenth?

Next Thursday.

Blessed God! He swung his feet out of the bed and sat there looking at the wall. He quickly brushed his lips with his hanky. A rare light shot across his face.

Get Winnie, son. Get your mother, and tell her there’s a priest coming to see us, he said.

The Breifne was all bustle. My father’s bedroom was re-wallpapered, the sitting room was swept clean, the door and the skirting boards painted, fresh geraniums were placed in vases along the landing. My mother shaved my father. She scoured his armpits and cut his toenails. They put a table in front of the fireplace in the sitting room and a white lace sheet was drawn across it. The silver candle holders were set in place. The eerie pictures of the rivers were taken off the walls. A black rug was laid down in front of the table.

Father Maurice arrived in the early afternoon. He had dark curly hair and a bright face. The black suit seemed a size too small for him. He set his things on the makeshift altar and knelt a moment. He seemed strangely insubstantial, like a human touched by an alien light. Then, along with my mother, I led him across to my father’s room. We knocked on the door.

Come in, my father said.

He was sitting in his old blue suit on the edge of the bed. When Maurice entered he went to his knees.

Jack, Jack, said Maurice.

We all withdrew as the young priest heard my father’s confession. Then we led him from his sickbed across the long corridor. My father’s trousers tumbled out from his body. His feet seemed too small for the carpet slippers. He wore a dressing gown that came to his shins. He put a hand on my shoulder and eased himself down on one knee beside me and rested his elbows on the seat of one of the elaborate sitting room chairs.

Father Maurice knelt and turned to begin. My sisters and mother and aunt read out the Latin responses. Traffic moved down Main Street. A candle flickered near the silent radio.

I was amazed to see the host raised in a domestic interior, to actually hear wine drunk from the chalice. We knelt by our chairs and received communion.

His first blessing as a priest Father Moran bestowed on my father who received it like a nervous countryman. He dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief, and, blustering, attempted some form of prayer. The priest’s hand came down lightly on his head. He kissed a blue cloth that came from the Pope. Here was something beyond a mere blessing – a kindred touching, a sign between neighbours, a gesture between familiars – although in truth my father felt embarrassed and maybe a little proud.

A swish of vestments and the Mass in the long, carpeted room was over.

My father rose and shook the priest’s hand and with my mother holding his elbow and his other hand on my shoulder he made his way back along the landing. He was at ease.

Father Maurice sat with him in his room till dinner was ready. It must have been a half-day – a Thursday – because the Milseanacht was closed. We had the place to ourselves. The mother had a pot roast of shoulder of lamb cooking at low heat, cabbage was ready for boiling, and would be served in gravy from the meat. Miss Smith piped cream over meringues fresh from the bakehouse. Una laid the table with silver and bright doilies. Ice cream was taken in from the shop. My mother and Maisie sipped sherries.

The two men had been up there alone together talking for about an hour, maybe two, when my mother said, Give Father Maurice a shout.

When I went into the bedroom I felt like I was interrupting something. I could smell the cigarettes which my father was denied. The priest was in a soft chair, his back to the window and his head bowed. My father was sketching something in the air with his long fingers. The two men looked a little shocked when I entered. It was hard to get a foothold there. The priest had a small glass of brandy in his hand and my father was flushed and wild-eyed.

Is that you, Dermot? he said.

Yes, I said.

Sit down there.

The dinner is ready.

Are you getting hungry?

I’m starving, I said.

Blessed God, said my father and he started to laugh. They’ve been fasting since yesterday.

I better go down, said Maurice.

One more, said my father.

Father Maurice lit another cigarette and handed it over. After the first draw my father broke out into a violent fit of coughing. The priest handed him the glass of brandy. He drank a sip, then another, dabbed his mouth and looked at me askance.

When I get better we’ll head to Finea.

Right, I said.

He sipped. He smiled coyly like he was trying to be the man he once was.

That’s good stuff, he said.

After dinner the priest went up to say goodbye to my father. He stepped onto the street in tears. He got into a black Ford belonging to his superior. It wouldn’t start and when it did he was suddenly away. After Father Moran left for his first parish in Boston we never saw him again, and he died in America, a young man.

For days after this visit my father thought he was going to be all right again. He sat in an armchair by the window of his room and looked out at Burke’s roof and the jackdaws on Con Reilly’s roof. His eyes were black and shameful. He began making plans. When the sun shone my mother led him to the back room so he could look out at the garden.

He rested his elbow on the sill and stared. Old cabbage stalks were rotting in their beds. Did you know, he said to me, that the cabbage stalk is good against drunkenness? The drills were overgrown. The seat under the ivy was collapsing. He stood before the mirror in the bathroom and stroked his chin as if reassuring himself that he was still there intact. He wanted to visit the Ulster Arms and see Frank Brady.

Tomorrow, he said, we’ll go to the Ulster Arms.

When tomorrow came he lay in bed. He ordered up a baby Power’s, dressed in his suit with the help of my mother and sat in the armchair and drank the whiskey.

Order a car, he said.

The car was ordered for eight. Word was sent to Frank. My father’s old overcoat was hung on the hall stand. Maisie locked up the shop and dressed to accompany him. My mother waited in front of the mirror in the dining room. The car came. When she went upstairs he had gone back to bed.

Not tonight, Winnie, he said.

If Mahomet can’t go to the mountain …, said Frank when he rang the bell that night at ten. He had a bottle of whiskey in his side pocket. My mother led him upstairs.

I couldn’t make it, Frankie, said my father.

Is there glasses in this establishment? asked Frank.

My mother left them to it. When I went out to get coal in the yard I could hear Frank’s warm laughter. I brought them ham sandwiches. I brought them tea. What are they at up there? asked my mother. Drinking, I said. And smoking? Smoking as well, I said. Ah well, she said. We sat by the fire till one then the mother decided it was time to call a halt. As she came along the corridor there wasn’t a sound. She knocked on the door and tiptoed in. Frank was fast asleep in the armchair and snoring.

My father put a finger to his lips.

Whisht! he said.

What do you mean
whisht,
she said. I have to get into the bed. It’s past one.

The poor fellow is tired out.

Frank, called my mother. Frank!

He didn’t stir. She prodded his shoulder with her index finger. Frank Brady, it’s time for home.

As I was saying, Winnie, said Frank without opening his eyes, you can’t beat Sinatra. Isn’t that right, Jack?

Yes, said my father.

What has Sinatra got to do with it? demanded my mother, and she nipped Frank.

Frank reached out for his glass, finished it and fell back asleep again.

Poor Frankie, said my father.

What am I to do now? asked my mother.

Wake him.

Frank! Frank!

Frankie, said my father.

Frank gingerly reached out to an ashtray that was on the bedside chair and stirred the ashes round with his fingers. Then before anyone could speak he lifted out the butt of a fag and popped it into his mouth.

He’ll be sick as a dog, said my mother.

Thank
you,
said Frankie.

The curse of God, said my father and he broke out into a fit of laughter.

Dermot, said my mother.

Yes, Mother.

Lift Frank Brady, will you.

Frank, I said.

That’s right, said Frank.

I tried to lift him but he just collapsed back into the chair.

Best to leave him, said my father.

What are you talking about? said my mother. I can’t be going to bed with Frank Brady sitting up by the bed.

Well, you’ll have to, said my father.

I will not.

What else can you do?

Glory be to God, she said.
And
him
sitting
there
looking
at
me
all
night.
I can’t.

He’ll wake sometime, I said.

And climb in beside us, I’ll warrant you, and she started laughing.

Winnie, said Frank and he opened his eyes. I wouldn’t dream of it. He got up. I think I better go.

You bloody scoundrel, said my mother. You were awake all the time.

Good man, Frank, said my father.

Good night, Winnie.

You blackguard, she smiled.

I’ll be seeing you Jack, said Frank, then humming to himself he went along the corridor.

On Christmas Eve, 1962, when I was fifteen, I went to a dance in the Sports Centre in Cavan. I was wearing the new suit and shirt I’d been bought. I don’t remember who was playing but I remember the sweat drying like a second skin onto my face when I stepped out to come home. The night was bitter cold. A mirthful crowd came down the alleyway past the
Anglo-Celt.
Couples streamed away in all directions. We met old drunks finding their way home along the walls of the Protestant church. I was coming up Church Street with Teddy O’Neill when Noel Brady, a neighbour of mine, drove by, turned his car and stopped alongside.

He leaned over and opened the passenger door. I got in.

Daddy is dead, he said.

We drove on down Main Street. The crowds from the Sports Centre were walking the pavements. They were cheerful and spontaneous. Lights were still on in some of the shop windows though it was after midnight. Small holy families were gathered round cribs in straw. Revellers were shouting in Bridge Street. Parties with bottles headed towards the Half Acre. And in the Breifne window Santa was still at it, giving away presents, wishes, whatever you asked for, though it was long gone midnight.

This year as usual he’d been taken down from the attic and placed among the Christmas cakes and boxes of Cadbury’s chocolates, the key was turned smartly in his back and he began to nod, graciously, at perfect intervals,
Yes,
you,
you
over
there.
Yes,
I
said.
The greatest mistake you could make was to wind him too far, then the spring broke and Santa stood unmoving. Some icing sugar was thrown on his shoulders. Maisie combed out his tight white beard, and Una, like Miriam before her, dusted down his red coat. A doily was put under his black boots and he was stood on a low glass cake-stand at the centre of the display. And all the days of Christmas children gathered at the window and asked for a wish and Santa nodded.

Now there he was nodding, nodding, nodding, though he should by then have gone back up to the attic. He’d been forgotten.

When I let myself into the hallway, Maisie was coming down the stairs. She stopped distracted when she saw me.

Dermot, she said.

Yes.

Her jaw was shaking. She pointed behind her and headed towards her room.

Santa is still in the window, I said.

What?! she asked, and stood with her hand on the bannister.

He’s still going, I said.

She turned and looked at me askance. God in heaven, she said. I reached the three steps at the altar. She went down to the shop in a panic. I walked along the dimly lit landing. The door to my father’s room was open. Una was in there alone crying. I don’t know what he looked like, except that his gaze was fixed and he was crooked-jawed. While the men dressed the corpse I went downstairs. There were people moving through the house. As I walked through the brightly lit tearoom which was covered with branches of holly I could hear my mother.

When I opened the door and she saw me she was so upset she was nearly angry. She stood and pointed.

Now! she screamed and she began to wail.

Now! Now! Now you are the man of the house! Her voice went up into a discordant key and the women held her.

Now! she screamed.

Visitors began taking down the holly. The Christmas tree was thrown out. The coloured lights went back into their box. Santa went back up to the attic.

Una was standing outside the post office again in the public telephone booth. She rang Ballinagh to tell Uncle Seamus; Toronto, to tell Tony, who was heart-broken, nor had he the money to come home; Grand Rapids, where Miriam was, and she was pregnant, and with the shock went into labour; London, to tell Nancy and Bridgie and Gerty; and then Elphin in the County Roscommon, where all the Healys lived. Trays of sandwiches appeared. I went down the corridor.
To get to my room I had to pass his. There were footsteps but no voices. I stood in the dark and listened.

Just hold him there, said Noel.

I thought of my father perched on someone’s arm.

That’s right, just there, said Noel.

He’s as light as a feather, came the reply.

He went quick.

I tiptoed to my room. I sat down on my bed and waited. Under the heaving darkness there were shreds of light. The doctor came. I heard his bag click open. He went. I heard him go. Someone called me. The fire was roaring when I joined them again below.

Where were you?

I was in my room.

Stay here with us, said my mother. We need you now.

Did you know he was going to die? I asked.

Yes, my mother said. We decided not to tell you.

Why?

Because we didn’t want to upset you, Una said.

You were too close to him, my mother said. We couldn’t tell you.

Did he say anything?

He asked after you.

Did he?

He did. He said your name. Your father was ill. Your father was very ill. What will we do now?

Don’t fret yourself, Winnie, said Maisie.

I loved him, my mother said.

My job was to answer the door as people rang. I sat at one of the tables in the tearoom and shook with tears – something was wrong with the fluorescent lights. They kept flickering on and off. I stood at the front door looking down Main Street. The street gleamed with frost. A car full of party-goers stopped outside Leonard’s drapers. A window went up, the door opened and the echoes died away. Neighbours came and shook my hand. Father McManus hung his hat on the hall stand. Uncle Seamus arrived. He took me in his arms.

I was dancing when he died, I said.

Never mind now, he said.

Sometime near four Noel Brady, who had washed and dressed my father, came down for us. We piled into the room. My father was in his blue pinstripe suit. A candle burnt beside him. His face was straight. He wasn’t smiling but he smelt fresh. He was sixty-two. The moment I’d been putting off for years had happened.

A void opened till one day in the late Eighties my old mother emerged from her bedroom in Cootehill with a small diary I’d kept when I was young. The last I’d seen of it was when she found it under my bed when I was sixteen, and demanded to know what dirty work I was up to.

Now she smiled and put the diary in my hand.

There, she said. I kept that for you.

On the blue cover it said:
Sodality
of
Our
Lady
1963.
I flicked through it. Pages were crammed with sordid details written down in code, and the code was so good I could hardly decipher it. Each awfulness was placed incongruously below church holidays and saint’s days. The first entry read:

She had kept this diary of mine secreted away among old discarded perfumes, title deeds, tax returns, photos of Miriam in the
Anglo-Celt
high-kicking in tartan shorts at pantomimes, Una up on her toes at a
feis,
book reviews from
Hibernia
that I’d written, old stories from the
Anglo-Celt,
a photo of Aunt Jane, Mass cards, Tony in Aden, letters from Father Maurice Moran, herself at the Niagara Falls.

Well, are you finding anything good in it? she asked me.

A little, I replied.

Good, she said.

Thanks a lot, I said, for keeping it.

Does it mention me?

Now and then.

And what’s it about?

Tomato sandwiches, I said, and bottles of stout.

Oh, she replied, and she looked at me. Well, read out something, she said.

I can’t.

Why not?

I turned a page and looked for an inoffensive entry.

Is there something dirty in it? she asked.

There is.

I thought so.

I read on. After my father died my mother was so upset that her sister Nancy talked her into going back with her to England. I remember the car heading off and the mother looking back warily at me through her blue-lensed glasses. She waved an uncertain hand. They took the night boat and arrived in South Kensington. She wrote home immediately. After a week’s inactivity she took up a job as a char, cleaning out film directors’ and TV personalities’ rooms in Drayton Gardens.

The Breifne was suddenly empty. I’d pass the father’s room at night, stop a moment, open the door and look in. There were only the squawks from the jackdaws. A pillow with no trace of a head. The bathrobe on the back of the door. The mother’s black fur in the wardrobe. And strangest thing of all, in the bathroom was the razor they had shaved him with when he died, and caught in the blade were some of the bristles from his chin.

I went on to my room, lay fully dressed beneath the sheets and listened to Luxembourg. Maisie’s polite step would come across the landing, she too would look into my parents’ room for a moment, next she’d flush the toilet, pause with her po by my door and look in to see was I there. Una’s door would close, the cats in the entry would bawl, a tin clatter, Miss Reilly would pull her curtains to, Mr Dale would leave Noel’s bar and pull the door of the yard gate after him.
Then, when I thought Maisie had done her final trek through the house to check no lights were left on and everyone was in bed, I put on my shoes and dropped out the window onto the low galvanized roof of the kitchen, stood a moment there till the sound went and my eyes adjusted to the darkness, then stepped softly across the tin roof and shinned down a drain pipe to the ground, stood again a moment to see if any lights came on and when I saw there were none I headed across the frozen earth in the ghostly garden and climbed over Provider’s wall, hopped through the timber, building blocks and tiles that were piled in the yard, crossed the fence into the White Star, slipped down the entry and went off into the night on Main Street.