Maggie's Breakfast (26 page)

My mother turned back to me. “Were ya workin’ late?” she asked me.

“No. I went to visit Rita.”

“How is she?”

“Good.”

“That Steven brings home a good wage. His poor mother nearly lost her mind when he married me daughter. She didn’t even want her to sleep with him on the first night of their
marriage! Talk about a mother’s love! That went beyond the beyond. D’ya know about that?”

I was about to answer when my sister Phyllis came in. She looked at me sitting at the table and made a noise with her mouth. It wasn’t a word but a sound of some kind. I think my new suit
bothered her. She then made her way across the room and was about to go out to the toilet in the back when my mother called to her.

“Your father’s out there!”

Phyllis turned around, made a few more sounds of disgust and walked up the stairs to her bedroom without saying a word.

From the window I could see my father standing outside in the yard. He was looking down at the hens and delaying his return to the house. I imagined for a minute that he was thinking of jumping
over the wall and leaving us and the house for good. My mother turned and looked out and saw him also. His back was to her.

After a minute or two more he returned and faced me in the centre of the room.

“Ya know, I still think ya robbed them clothes you’re wearin’,” he said.

I knew he was joking by the smile on his face.

“Shut up and leave him alone!” my mother yelled. “You’ve got the bloody runs again – that’s all that moves you nowadays.”

I looked at my mother, hoping she’d sense that I didn’t want to hear her complain again about my father. I had heard everything that was to be said about him a hundred times and I
didn’t want to hear any more.

My father then made his way back up the stairs without saying a word.

“I’ll never understand that man at all,” my mother mumbled under her breath.

“What man?” I asked, thinking she was referring to somebody in the newspaper.

“What man? Your father!” she called out, making sure she was heard all the way up in the bedroom. “Why does he sleep half his life away?”

I didn’t answer. I could feel the tension growing.

“He wouldn’t get out of the bed when I started the rosary. He heard me and he kept lyin’ up there. The man’s got no faith if you ask me.”

At that point I saw my father’s head stick out from the top of the stairs.

“Faith? Good Christ! I’ve an overdose of faith!”

My mother retreated to the newspaper but she continued to talk back. “I’ve seen you sleep through Christmas morning and not get up for Mass.”

“We’d nothin’ to eat. What was there to get up for?”

“Didn’t Father Devine give us a turkey? Didn’t he?”

“Turkey? The damn smelly bird was so blue it must have died from mortal sin. It smelled even worse after you cooked it. Didn’t you have to throw it out?”

My mother seemed caught. She remembered the blue turkey that Father Divine gave her that Christmas. I remembered it as well. The smell of it cooking made us all sick. When it was put on the
table it was blue and green and smelly. My mother packed it into a brown-paper bag and left it outside in the back yard.

My sister Phyllis yelled from her bedroom, “Will you two stop fighting? Stop it! You’re always fighting. Everybody on the street knows what goes on in this house. Can’t you
stop for once?”

My father then called down to me, “You’d be better off in the British army, Gabriel!”

Quietness returned. Paddy was back in bed with his head covered. Molly sat in front of the fireplace and warmed her hands. I got up from the table, walked to the old gramophone near the front
door and put on one of our two screechy and cracked records.

“
You may talk and sing and boast about your Fenians and your clans,

And how the boys from County Cork beat up the Black and Tans . . .
”

My mother turned from the fireplace. “In the name of Jesus, turn that thing off! You’ll wake up half the street!”

The record came to a halt of its own accord. I hadn’t wound it up enough to play the entire record.

All was quiet and silent again. My mother remained at the fireplace reading the newspaper. I sat back down at the table.

“I have to talk to you about somethin’, Ma,” I said.

“What is it, son?” she answered without taking her eyes off the paper.

“It’s about me.”

“What about you, son?” She was glued to the newspaper. The fire was still strong and she spread herself out as much as she could in front of it.

“I have to ask you somethin’.”

“What d’ya want to ask me?”

“Didn’t I tell you about Margaret Burke Sheridan?”

“What about her?”

“I had a long talk with her and her friend the other night.”

“What friend?”

“Mrs. Axe. She’s American and Margaret Sheridan’s best friend.”

“Is that what kept you from comin’ home and sayin’ the rosary?”

“They asked me to go for tea.”

“Tea? Are you not sick of tea? Don’t you drink your fill of that in the hotel?”

“Yes.”

“What did ya eat?”

“Chicken.”

“Chicken?”

“Yes.”

“Who bought it?”

“Mrs. Axe.”

“Mrs. Axe? Who’s that?”

“Miss Sheridan’s friend.”

“An’ she bought you chicken?”

“I had potatoes as well. And peas.”

“Is that what you want to tell me? You had chicken that somebody bought for you? Is that it? You’d a mouthful of peas as well and a gob of potatoes on top? Is that what I’m
supposed to be listenin’ to?”

“No.”

“Well, leave me alone then.”

“They asked me somethin’ and I said yes.”

“What in God’s name are you talkin’ about’?”

“They asked me if I wanted to leave my job at the hotel.”

“In the name of Jesus, don’t tell me that!” My mother looked terrified at the prospect. “After all this time without a bit of work? Remember what happened when you had
that nice little job at Jury’s hotel? That was one of the nicest jobs for a young fella in Dublin. You were tricked out of that one. Don’t for the love of the Virgin Mary leave your job
at the Shelbourne! It’s only gettin’ back on your feet you are. Leave your poor little lovely job? I hope you told them you wouldn’t?”

“I told them I would.”

“What? What are you sayin’ to me? Are you out of your mind? What will you do for a bit of employment if you leave the job? Have you any idea where you’d get another bit of
employment? Weren’t you traipsin’ around for months before you got the job at the Shelbourne? Gabriel, don’t start up actin’ like your father!”

“Leave him out of it!” I shouted back.

“Close your gob and don’t talk back to me like that. I only mentioned it because you’ve a nice job.”

“I wouldn’t have to be bothered with a job here because I’d go to America.”

“What?”

“I could go to America.”

“America? What are ya talkin’ about?”

“I’m talkin’ about goin’ to America.”

“Like your bloody father was in Borneo and India and all them places? You’re thinkin’ of joinin’ up in some bloody foreign army or what? You’re out of your head if
you ask me. Them days in the British army are gone. Remember, son, you’ve got a job now. You’re workin’.”

“I’d leave my job.”

“That nice clean job you have? Are you daft?”

“If I was in America I wouldn’t be daft, would I?”

“How can you go to America in the first place?”

“Margaret Sheridan and Mrs. Axe said they’d help me – if you went along with it.”

“Me? I’m just your poor old mother. What can I do?”

“You’d have to agree and sign the papers.”

“Papers? What friggin’papers are ya blabberin’ about?”

“I’m too young to sign them myself. I need you or my father to sign them.”

“You’re pullin’ me leg now, son, that is what you’re doin’. All this codology that goes on because you’ve a few pennies in your pocket. Leave your poor mother
alone.”

“Mrs. Axe said I could go if it was all right with you.”

“All right with me? How would I know what to do about that?”

“Miss Sheridan wants to meet you and talk about it.”

“Talk and meet me? Who y’talkin’ about?”

“Miss Sheridan.”

“Margaret Burke Sheridan?”

“Yes. Will you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Will you meet her and tell her it’s okay for me to go?”

“Go? Go? Go where?”

“Can’t ya listen to me for a minute! I’ve been talkin’ the tongue out of my mouth. I said America a hundred friggin’ times. America!”

“You want to leave home?”

“I want to go to New York.”

“New York?”

“That’s where Mrs. Axe lives.”

“Mrs. Axe? Who in Christ’s name is that?”

“Didn’t I tell you before?”

“Ya didn’t. If ya did I don’t remember.”

“She’s a friend of Maggie Sheridan and she’s a friend of mine now.”

“You know her as well?”

“I’ve known her since she came over to visit Miss Sheridan. I served them their breakfast for weeks. Mrs. Axe is an important woman.”

“Important? Important? Who told you that?”

“Margaret Sheridan.”

“Are you daft? Are you out of your head?”

“I’m serious. I want to go. I want to go. Will you come and meet Miss Sheridan and Mrs. Axe?”

“Me? Your mother?”

“Yes.”

“I’m just a poor old woman! What are you askin’ me to do a thing like that for? I only go to Mass and the turf depot to put a bit of heat into the fireplace for all of you. And
him upstairs as well.”

“You’re my mother!”

“You have a father too! I’ll wake him up now.”

“No. Don’t. Let him sleep.”

“That’s all he does for Jaysus’s sakes! He’ll be asleep when the bells of Hell are chiming for him and mark me words he won’t hear them!”

“Can’t you come and meet them tomorrow?”

“Where could I meet them?”

“At the hotel.”

By now I was beginning to get tired with the back and forth blather with my mother. She didn’t seem to want to know or hear what I was trying to get across to her.

After twenty seconds or so, she spoke again.

“I don’t want to see a son of mine go so far away.”

I almost fell off the chair I was sitting on.

“I’m not signin’ papers,” my mother said, without looking back at me, in a very calm voice that made me believe she had heard every word I said. “At the
hotel?” she asked calmly.

“Yes, Ma, at the hotel: the place where I’ve been workin’ for the last twelve months.”

She raised her head and looked up at the holy statue on the mantelpiece above her and began to talk to it. “The Shelbourne Hotel? Me? You want me to meet Margaret Sheridan at the
Shelbourne Hotel?”

I thought she was waiting for the statue to answer her back. My mother remained silent until I finally realised she was waiting for me to respond.

“Can you?” I asked with as much love and affection I could muster.

With a loud voice my mother turned back towards me. “
No, I will not
!” she bellowed.

I thought I had fallen under a bus or something when she said that. I was frightened and nervous and angry at the same time. “You have to, Ma, you have to!”

My mother’s voice was now firm and resolved. “I’m not meetin’ anyone at the Shelbourne Hotel. No, I’m not. I’m just a poor old woman. What d’ya mean
askin’ me the likes of that!”

“I want to leave here, Mother. D’you hear me? I’m goin’ to go away. I want to go. You have to sign the papers for me!”

My mother then got down on her knees in front of the fireplace and started praying: “
Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on Earth as
it is in Heaven
. . .”

I lost my temper and screamed so loud the flames in the fireplace blew in a different direction. “
Will ya stop prayin’?
” I yelled.

Molly got up off her knees and banged her hand down heavy on the wooden table where I was sitting. “I won’t! I won’t! I’ll say me prayers and ask God for
forgiveness!” she yelled back at me.

At that point my father appeared at the head of the stairs. He was as angry as I had ever seen him. He wasn’t happy with his sleep being disturbed and he hated loud voices from as far back
as I could remember.

“What in the name of Christ is goin’ on? Can’t ya close your bloody traps for once? Can’t ya?”

I was taken aback to hear him complain out loud. I hadn’t heard him raise his voice in years.

My mother turned towards him. “You come down here and talk to your son! Come down now and do what any decent father would do! Tell him we won’t sign no papers!”

My father walked down the stairs and stood next to the fireplace and stared into the burning coal as if he was contemplating jumping into the fire.

Paddy Walsh carried with him an air of futility and he appeared to be living more on instinct than on any kind of promise. A quietness of movement and an almost constant silence accompanied him
throughout the course of his day. Like a mouse living under a floorboard or under the staircase he cherished bits and pieces of small comforts that came his way, such as his walks into the city and
his time in Stephen’s Green where he would sit on a bench, stretch out his legs, light up a self-rolled cigarette and stare at the ducks swimming around in the pond.

As he stared into the fireplace I imagined he was thinking he was sitting on his favourite bench in Stephen’s Green, away from all family matters. To my surprise he turned to me with the
warmest and tenderest look on his face. For a second or two I thought he had vanished into his own childhood.

“What papers are ya talkin’ about, son?” he asked me.

“To go to America. Maggie Sheridan is arranging it.”

He then stood up and walked closer to me. I could see he hadn’t shaved in at least a few days. His detached shirt collar was half-attached to his striped shirt. He stood in his stocking
feet. He then to my great surprise began to sing in a calm low voice:

“
It’s a long way to Tipperary; it’s a long way to go!

It’s a long way to Tipperary to the sweetest girl I know!”