THE REDMONDS
by Bosco Redmond
.
CHAPTER 1
‘It is evidently quite possible to cut off one’s hand without
feeling. For it has been recorded again and again that people
whose hand, or foot have become trapped in machinery have
had the hand or foot amputated quite painlessly, so distracted
are they by the need to disentangle themselves.’
Some of the Redmond clan survived the famine, 'a hardy lot', it
was said, and stayed in Ireland. And so it was that nearly a hundred years
later, in the year 1949, the two Redmond boys ended up, not in a great
metropolis, like New York, but a petit capital called Dublin, where the
Atlantic howled under the doors and wailed down the chimneys.
But not on this day. On this day,, a mid-morning sun shafted its beams on
their corduroy clad backs, as the two boys ventured deeper into the
'Coombe.'
"Will yah for feck sake come on, and stop dawdling."
Bosco hurried after the elder boy. Concentrating intensely, he focused on a
point mid-shoulder blade of his brother's frame. For he had been warned.
You're to never to lose sight of him, do you hear? Do you hear?"
So for Bosco Redmond this adventure was a rite of passage not matched
since he fust jumped off that bridge into the Poddle river. Now Bosco
continued to recall his mother's stem strictures as he trailed the older boy.
Brow furrowed, he was concentrating very hard as they continued to thread
a nimble way in and out of the knots of Saturday morning shoppers.
But after a short while the younger boy's concentration began to waver for
he was distracted. So much so that flom time to time he felt compelled to
lift a querulous, button nose as if his next action would be decided once he
detected what was permeating the air. For something was distracting him;
had been ever since he got off the bus. What was that smell?
"The smell of the poor."
JohnJo, when finally asked, piped his answer like a puff of infallible smoke
proclaiming the election of a pope.
"It's a terrible smell," Bosco declared, more pedestrian.
Now as they penetrated further, Bosco, distracted by the pungency, found
himself lagging in his pursuit ofthe elder boy. As was his way, he began to
drink in the faces as they milled past. He looked up at them, his step
faltering; pasty, care-wom faces, their clothes a continuing canvas of
charcoal and chiaroscuro. He felt these adult faces with their haunted looks
were peering down at him as if defying him to define what made the
difference between him and them; what made them this poor, what gave
them this indefinable, cloying odour. And all these children in their metal
and pepper coloured clothes, just this side of rags, shouting and bawling,
looking at yeh. He wrinkled his nose again.
Without consulting his brother fiuther he concluded that this smell could
not come fiom humans and he was right. For the smell which dominated
this part of Dublin was sweet and sickly, as it hung like the remains of
some noxious spill; penetrating clothes and clinging to bodies like an
infinity of unseen leeches. Indeed it was the smell of Dublin's largest
slaughterhouse and it hung lie a pall on the poverty of this poorest part of
Dublin, the 'Coombe'.
For it had been decided by the city fathers that the smell of slaughter
would be best housed in this impoverished part of Dublin. If nothing else,
it would provide a few local jobs at least. As to the populace who had to
live with the sweet, sickly smell of spilt blood and slaughter the
councillors decided that so dulled were the occupants of the 'Coombe' by
destitution, that it was the one area of the city where sensibilities, and this
word often brought hoots fiom the city fathers, yes sensibilities, would be
least offended.
But do you remember how it used to be, they would say after their
council pow wows. Down there in the 'Coombe' and in other distressed
parts of Dublin for that matter. 'In my Daddy's time, there, when was it
now ...'
In fact it was about the turn of the century that you were referring to, you
auld eegit, when the condition of the working class in Dublin was
probably the wont in Europe. And behind the splendour of the Georgian
drawing rooms, the dazzle of the Viceregal Court, the excitement of the
literary revival, Dublin had its private shame. For at one time the death
rate in Dublin was the highest in Europe, exceeding that of Moscow and
even Calcutta where plague and cholera were rife. Housing consisted of
one room per fmily for countless thousands of Dubliners. Jaysus it was
awfid.
"Nice to have made a contribution with the old slaughterhouse though."
"Contribution, it's about the only bloody thing you've ever done on the
council."
"I've have you know that I've contributed in many ways. What about the
provision of that extra light at the entrance to Cintra street and Tuckey's
Comer and the convenience was my idea."
"Public convenience, that was three years ago."
"It is no fault of mine that the said bloody convenience has not been
erected yet."
And the public servants continued to bicker and reminisce about their
achievements and how terrible a place the 'Coombe' was, for we were in
Dublin, with its adoration of internecine controversies, nationalist
prejudices; Lilliputian squabbles and its genius for cynical mockery.
Dublin, the capital of Eire, that was decoupled fiom international
developments in a kind of Rip van Winkle torpidity of clinging to
protectionism and while other countries were marching briskly towards the
new Keynesian shrines of fiee trade, Ireland and its capital, were arguably
still looking to St. Patrick to lead them on with his snake banishing
crozier.
If only they could have seen that a change in thinking was capable of
unlocking a national wealth for its citizens beyond the dream of avarice.
But planning was a dirty word in Holy Ireland at this time, far better with
a self serving deafness to cling on to despicable localism, and enjoy a
Schadenfreude when discussing with Hibernian loquacity, 'that lot over
there.'
"For meself, there's no spectacle more agreeable than to observe an old
fiend fall from a rooftop. Who said that now, was it Confucius? well, it
was one of them fellas. Ah yes, These days they are fine and dandy down
the ' Coombe'.
"Now who do you recommend for sanitation?"
"You'll be needing a poet for that job."
And as Bosco continued to trail his elder brother into this 'fine and
dandy' place, no one had armed him with a wisdom to jump joyously
through this hoop of fear called the 'Coombe' and once through, young
fella, look back and laugh. Such advice had never been forthcoming to
Bosco, so he was dependent for such example fiom his whistling brother,
up there ahead. For if you want bravura, I'm your man, said the rolling
gait of the older boy advancing confidently ahead of him. Bosco,
comforted, smiled as the mid-morning sun began to beat down religiously
and he trailed his brother deeper into the squalid, sickly smelling place.
Ahead, JohnJo hurried along a narrow street where opened barrows of
kit and vegetables, pots and pans, linen, curtains, objets d'art and bric a
brac, lined the pavement in makeshift stalls and old prams. The cries of the
wares for sale drifted across the heads of the dawdling Dubliners.
"Lovely apples, lovely apples, Mister."
"Bananas Mister, grown by hand on me own farm."
"Try them lovely grapes all the way from Leinster."
Johnjo hopped in and out of the clusters of shoppers squashing the odd,
discarded fruit underfoot as he did so.
"Mind them banana skins," he called back.
Hearing nothing in reply, he deemed this to be just like his younger
brother, probably thinking. That was him all over. Now, he thought, let's
get this business over as quickly as fecking possible. However, JohnJo
slowed suddenly when he noticed the gathered group to his left down an
alley way.
For just down there he could see a crowd had converged masking some
enclosed screaming and shouting. There appeared to be some sort of melee
to which the pushing, gawking group were offering various
encouragements and incitements. Amid all this, JohnJo noted there was
much ribald laughter fi-om the spectators, as if what they were watching
was essentially harmless. The observing ring was mostly men,
accompanied by the odd scruffy youth and a little girl, no more than five,
who was bawling distractedly as she ran fkom man to man pulling at them
to 'do something, Mister.' Some of the men strained forward, tilting back
their cloth caps and scratching their heads as if at the varied wonders of
man. Brushing past legs, JohnJo forced his way through to see what
appeared to be two bundles of rags animating but soon became clear it was
the spectacle of two women tearing at each other. Raving and ranting,
each woman had hold of the other's hair and their gasps and swearing
rented the air as the laughter and catcalls continued from spectators.
"Dublin jackeen bastard."
"Culchy bitch. Let go ofme. Let go of me!"
"A rare Donnybrook, if ever I saw one."
"I'm off to get the priest."
"Father Dona1 ... he'll be in Moony's at this time, if I'm not mistaken."
"What's this for God's sake, what is going on here?"
"Aw, Father, it's yourself; well, thank Jaysus for that ... "
The priest, one of the noblest characters in fiction, had arrived. What
kind of man was this that JohnJo now looked up to. Was he the priest with
the knobbled blackthorn stick, scouring the hedge at night to beat the
lovers? 'Come out there yeh blaspheming pair of. ..' was he the man in
black thundering from the pulpit about the immorality of v necks or was
he the ideal Irish parish priest almost childlike in simplicity, pious,
lavishly charitable and long suffering but terrible when circumstance
roused him to action?
JohnJo ceased musing and returned to the screaming pair. One was now
sitting astride the other attempting to bang her head on the cobblestones as
the bestridden female spat out curses and saliva at her tormentor. The little
girl was being restrained, her clothes bunched at collar level, by a man.
Then he saw the priest go to the child, a huge black bundle of authority
and concern, notoriously immune to the common laws which govern the
people of this island. Then the man in black, looking at the women still
struggling and tearing at each other, called out, "Will some decent person
throw a pale of water over these poor women."
JohnJo looked at the priest and then at his still waning flock, and was
given rise to a thought not dissimilar to 'the man for the emergency not
always being the man for the peace.'
This is horrible, thought JohnJo, the fascination of the continuing
combatants hanging his mouth open. Then his being seemed to jump as if
electrocuted.
"Out of me way!"
JohnJo eantically pushed his way back through the throng, hoping
against hope that clear daylight would see his younger brother standing
there. But clear daylight only showed that Bosco wasn't there, not there, or
anywhere JohnJo could see. JohnJo was still for a moment as scared, very
scared, he searched; peered; scanned.
"Oh feck."
Not an easily intimidated child, JohnJo was now, as he hurriedly
doubled back, desperately surveying left to right as he did so. Holy Jesus;
should've kept an eye on him; shouldn't have let him out of my sight;
losing him here; Jesus, of all places, here, the 'Coombe' of all places. As
he ran, he was in the intermediate state called panic; that emotional limbo
where reason gives way to chaos.
At that point the old green devil of a bus, bound h m the Coombe to
Dublin City Centre, came speeding round the comer and for a moment it
threatened to leave the ground; spread its scaly wings and soar above the
Emerald, leaving its passengers, known frailties behind. JohnJo, with
audacious confidence jumped on, only to cling precariously to the edge of
the platform clasping onto the metal stanchion for dear life. People looked
on in wonder, transf~eda s if about to watch another tragedy enacted in
the 'Coombe'. But JohnJo clambered to his feet, dragging himself up to
hold the platform's metal bar. His daring vindicated, he now leaned out
over the void scanning the horizon for his brother. And then JohnJo's face
lit up and he started ringing the bell btically, and as the conductor
advanced to restrain him, JohnJo leaned off the platform and jumped.
Miraculously, through dint of luck, athleticism, or the patron saint of
jumping off fast moving buses he was still on his feet running madly and
trying to stop.
Suddenly, brakes of the bus were applied with unnecessary force,
catapulting everyone forward. The conductor took the brunt of it.
"Jaysus, me teeth nearly came out with the suddenness of that."
"Is that man taken with drink or what?"
"I'm reporting that fella."
"But the little brat jumped off, could have killed himself.'
"Yehs are not responsible people and that's the beginning and end of it."
"Your comrade driving this fecking thing, better get a hold of himself or
I'll be up there giving him a hit on the gob."
"But it was that little brat ..."
"Shut up. Yeh gobshite."
"Fecking ... Jesus ... where the ..." panted the older boy who had been
caused to run past his little brother at breakneck speed and then trot back.
"Where the fbck have you been?"
"I couldn't keep up."
"Thanks be to Jaysus you're alright. Here, take me hand, and don't
fecking let it go. And Jaysus sake, keep up with me and stop drifting off.
Put your hand here, there, like that, in mine and don't fecking let go. I
want this over with as soon as I can. Now hold me hand, will yah? You're
a right fecking dreamer," said the older boy in a parental stab that he
hoped might mask his affection and sizeable relief.
The older boy now guiding the younger, the two Redmond children
advanced deeper into the 'Coombe'; as the inhabitants shuffled and
coughed past in evidence of the economically selective tuberculosis
epidemic which raged in the poorer parts of Dublin at this time. Lots of
coughing, Bosco mused. He was going to mention it to JohnJo, but he
looked too busy, so he left it at that, thinking maybe it was these buildings,
maybe it's the damp rain that's always falling. Maybe it's our city, Dublin.
Bosco looked at the raucous children round him playing. It was good
that they were in the sun. Already he had so many memories of scurrying,
sometimes with JohnJo's sharp laughter for company, from porch to
shelter to avoid the ever misting rain. Then they would look up, him and
JohnJo, fiom some cover and arched over them, the ever indifferent rain
falling, falling on Ireland.
But on this sun filled day, Dubliners were drenched by humanities’ lifeline that orange globe in the sky as whistling men trundled wheelbarrows and bedraggled women leaned in
doorways, watching their children play.
"Can't you remember where it is?"
"Can't remember, it's here somewhere. Been a long time ..." mumbled
JohnJo as he took the scrumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and
examined it. Then he surveyed a building, a tenement amongst others, not
dissimilarly black and grey; so grimy in appearance that you wished that
the skies would open and just clean them, burnish them with a vengeance.
"This is it, alright come on."
"Is this where they live?" Bosco, asked dubiously.
"I've just told you," the older boy irritated. And with this he headed for
the opened door of the building hunching his shoulders as he went through
its portals.
What would we find here? The unmeaning flap-doodle of the pious,
long-suffering old woman pulling her shawl over her head and Synge like
breaking out into wild lamentations? And would she be accompanied by
the loquacious drink ridden soak of an old man, both suffering terribly in
that singularly Irish way. And would they - in a mode that bolsters the
entire foundations of their Catholic faith, be offering up their worldly pain
to God in a kind of insurance policy that gets them into the afterlife? Or
would we find the universal distress that can afflict anyone who is
unfortunate from Dublin to Calcutta so that it becomes wearying and
meaningless in its repetition.
But once inside the dingy, dusty hallway JohnJo lightened in a brave
show and turned to address his younger brother.
"You'll be alright? Just do as I say."
The younger boy looked fearful.
"Come on, let's get it over with," continued JohnJo, with a foot on the
first step.
"Alright, alright, stop ordering me around will you?"
"You better uses the lav' now if you want to."
"I don't want to use the lav'," the younger boy responded, a touch
archly.
"Well, I'm just telling you it's now or never."
So JohnJo passed the outside toilet on the ground floor wondering if it
served the whole building for it was the only one he had even seen or used
on his previous visits. Now the voice drifted down fiom the fourth floor
landing.
"Come on, stop dawdling."
"I’m coming. I'm coming."
Bosco withdrew his attention from the scribbling on the wall which had
grasped his imagination throughout his ascent. Poor people's Stations of
the Cross, he had concluded of the graffiti as he grasped at rickety banister
rail to continue upwards.
"Come on," he heard being hissed down.
Bosco looked up at the figure above him. So bloody bossy. Sometimes
he despised his older brother's voice and sometimes he loved it; its
authority, its concern. in gratitude he began, with some grace, taking two,
three steps at a time in some imaginary Olympic hop, step and jump, and
as he rounded the landing he could see JohnJo knocking doubtfully on the
vomit-coloured door.
JohnJo could hear noises from inside. They weren't inviting noises
either. Some sort of commotion. None the less, he rapped on the door
again; harder, the sooner the better it's over. Now the door was opening
and Bosco could see the aged woman clasping the older boy.
"Will yah look who's here ... and where's Bosco?" She was now in the
hall. "...There yah are," and she rustled along the hallway.
Bosco watched her advance and felt her grasp him. He had seen her
often before but l i e her garb the memory was grey. Now he was looking
up at the gaunt, stump-toothed face and the cheeks sunk in like deflated
balloons; the parched riverbed of wrinkles. Now there was a strange breath
on his face as he was being swept up by scrawny arms. Through the grey
shawls he could see the spurned corner of his brother's mouth forming
into one of his silly grins. This woman in rags, holding him and
smothering him, yet her face glowed with compassion and kindness as she
held him in a gaze of profound pride and as the words drowned him he
could smell the ashen mantle which draped the cupping arms.
"Jaysus isn't he lovely," she addressed no one in particular. "And will
yah look at the head of hair he's got. You've both got lovely heads of
hair," she canoodled.
"Come in, come in," but they could feel her faltering, "...and let me look
at yehs better. Jack, where are yeh?" Now as she entered the room she
placed Bosco gently down. "Jack, will yah look who's here. Kate's childer
have come to see us. Now sit yerselves down," she ordered as she shot
glances into the other room. "Sit yerselves down there, down there, go on.
There, it's all clean. Isn't yer Nana an auld flutter guts?" So the two
Redmond children sat down to dine with grandparents at this table made
respectable.
It would be pointless to question why she kept looking at them so
adoringly for this was not the table to debate the theory that grandparents
denied access to their grandchildren are known to sicken
and die younger, as if the denial of the sight of their lineage erases
evidence and thereby purpose for themselves; here there would be
nothing so high-flown. But there was little denying that gleams of a
contented permanence did revisit the furrowed face as the old woman's
wizened hands were brought to the heart in a Madonna-like gesture of
adoration.
"You're both doley little fellas. Jaysus, yer both lovely."
Mantra-like she kept repeating this as she darted more anxious looks
towards the other room. The boys tentatively looked in that direction too,
for there was an unseen presence here promising something; menace? The
grandmother as if to quiet the boys' anxiety broke in.
"It's a grand soft day, isn't it? Look at me footerin' round. Now do
you'se like dip?"
"Yes," the boys intoned.
"I'll give you two lashings of dip then?"
Now the two boys couldn't but help notice the old woman's persistent
nervousness as she shot tentative looks into the other room. But then she
appeared to draw on some reserve before calling hesitantly.
"Jack ... Jack, will yah come out and look who's here."
In response, all that came from the next room was a kind of muffled
Rummaging. She eyed the two boys again as if pleading to them for
understanding. Then an eruption! a clatter which startled the boys to
standing. Their grandmother quickly came to their side and stood with an
arm over them and they watched open-mouthed as a cacophony of cups,
forks, trousers, curtains, towels came flying, as if the doings of some
spiteful spirit, across the boys' amazed gaze. Bosco felt light now, a
drifting feeling, where your mind starts to escape your body. He looked at
his brother for reassurance and saw a kind of hysterical, firing squad
grimace on his face.
Then, having announced his entry, the Chewers' grandfather appeared
in the doorway his arm resting against the frame for support. He was a
small man with a frame not unlike that of a jockey; the former handsome
face ravaged, the hair askew, in electric shock fashion; the cheeks without
the support of false teeth had collapsed like a suspension bridge and the
mouth hung aimlessly open as in if some kind of bewildered loss. It was
the height of summer but he was in winter woollen underwear where only
his head and hands were visible.
"Where is it, where have yah hidden it, you bitch."
The old woman tightened her grip around the children's petrified
shoulders.
"Now Jack ... now Jack, sit yourself down there for a moment," she
advised tremulously. "Look who's come to see yeh. Kate's childer."
He stared wildly, the attempt at recognition wrestling with
befuddlement.
"Kit's nippers?" he asked as if deciding whether to take part. But it was
escape he was after, not taking part.
"Where did you put it?"
"Now don't upset yourself, Jack, sit yourself down there and say hello to
Kate's childer."
"The man hesitated, taking in the children, fixing them ferret like.
"Kit and Kate's two, Kate ... Kit's mot ... aren't they lovely."
He didn't reply, and his face took on a deeply muddled look before the
head sank slowly towards his chest as if from there he would draw some
breath of reason. Meanwhile his audience of three stood pinioned against
the wall. Darting eyes interchanged unvoiced appeals for guidance as to
the next act.
"Just hang on," whispered the elder boy, "...he's taken with the drink."
"Doesn't look drunk to me," whispered Bosco in his terror.
Then a question bellowed from Jack Redmond in some roaring attempt at
joviality. He began rolling up the sleeves of the underwear. "Is it
fightened of me yehs are?" Was this someone bruiser-like trying to
engage children or was it a drunk drowning, clutching at any straw of
power? The superfluous question was followed by a playful lunge at them
which was awkwardly arrested by a dividing table at groin level.
"Jaysus, Jack, be gentle, don't frighten them."
JohnJo was in a protective pose and he was clearly startled. The wiry
man leant against the table that had been prettied by linen cloth for their
coming. Then he looked at the neat linen cloth on the table and paused
gauging whether he was in the right abode. Then he lunged again.
"Frightened, is it?" - and his eyes seemed demonised they didn't know
by what as he made a grab at Bosco who was nearest. They all moved to
the right. JohnJo again moved protectively to Bosco who was scuttling to
get away when the wiry arm whipped him up.
"Aw Jack, for Jaysus sake be careful, Jack please. Are you playing or
what?"
"Will yeh tell him to put him down, Nana. Put him down, yeh eejit."
But Bosco was high, high up in the air, and going round like one of them
whirly pools. This man was holding him up, with a rakish, sinewy arm; the
ruins of this old athlete, once feared in all the Coombe's haunts, still held
enough strength to hold the child giddyingly high, round, he was turning
round, below the eyes madly glazed, as the voice lamented and repeated
the question to the boy above
"...Frightened of me, frightened of me is it?. Frightened of 'Young Jack'
Redmond," and he shouted his pugilistic non de plume. Now at the
woollen underwear trousers JohnJo was pulling, so that the lean, exposed
buttock of the grandfather could be seen; the grandmother, as she
attempted to constrain and mollify him, circling underneath the swirling
Bosco with cupping arms awaiting the awful ending. But Jack Redmond
was still whirling with his son's boy aloft.
"Kit's nipper, me only son, me only son."
From on high, each time round Bosco saw the Dublin landscape
whirring past. Miles and miles of grey buildings, over there some trees;
green, is that Phoenix Park? round, now blurred, all the places he could
name, the Liffey, round, Stephen's Green, round, St. Patrick's Cathedral,
round, O'Connel Street, Parnell Square a factory belching smoke, round,
the green buses so tiny, is that the sea? Oh, around again, quicker this
time; he believed he could see all of Dublin from this heavenly height
before he died, for he had noted the open window and had already
accepted his fate.
"Aw Jaysus, Jack, keep him away of the window."
"Let him go, let him go yeh feckin madman. Let him go you old
bowser."
"Keep him away from the window, Jack please."
Where do you go to after here? Bosco consoled himself in his final aerial
imaginings. Where do you go?
Suddenly Jack Redmond staggered in dizziness, he swayed for a moment
with Bosco still aloft, then fractured as if shot and bent now, brought the
child down and offered the trembling Bosco to this loyal woman as gently
as a mother tenderly placing infant in crib. Bosco was gathered, the
woman pleading repeatedly even as she cradled him. Now Bosco was
scooped tightly by the old woman and Jack Redmond deprived of his
purpose collapsed into the nearest chair. Bosco through the enveloping
shawls glimpsed a sight of JohnJo and was not displeased that his terror
had the older boy look a touch waxen. Then Bosco looked at his
tormentor. All he could see of the man's head was the lank, greasy hair
that covered the features.
"I want to hold him yehs, that's all I wanted to do, to hold yehs before I
go." Their grandfather's head was bowed and his hands hid his face.
"Come on, Jack, come on," and his wife guided him away as Bosco
caught the pitiful look.
The two children stood very close to each other watching the
interventions of their grandmother. Now they watched her both patting the
shoulders and clucking to him in consoling terms.
"Come on, Jack, come on, don't upset yourself"
Then they caught her making a shooing motion with her lips and
instantly JohnJo was bustling Bosco in front of him towards the door.
Suddenly the old man as if sensing the loss of an audience, stealthily
exiting from a poor show, turned, but the boys were out of the door in an
instant as a renewed futile cacophony pursued them.
From the landing they could hear the shouts now interspersed with the
sound of broken cutlery. Bosco was quite terrified, and JohnJo was
numbed as to the appropriate next action; now their Nana was on the
landing guiding hand on shoulders as she shooed them towards the
staircase; the only sound for a moment the swish of her shawls. Then a hot
coin was being pressed into the older boy's hand.
"Off yehs go."
"Will yah be alright, Granny?"
"I'll be alright, JohnJo, don't yeh worry about that. It will be alright, by
the grace of the sacred heart of Jesus."
And she kissed the top of the younger boy's head and then she was gone
back in like some captain refusing to abandon the storm-tossed vessel.
Over the closing door they could hear her being lashed by the assortment
of screams and curses.
So the boys descended the flight of stairs very quickly. And as they
did so they realised the commotion had drawn out the occupants of the
tenement building.
"Is that old bastard at his shenanigans again."
"Poor woman's life must be misery."
"Still, won't be long now, poor Jack.
"Probably got the DTs."
Bosco heard this and although not understanding the content felt
vindicated that his Granddad had not been drinking. However his buoyed
up spirit soon plummeted as he further descended this gauntlet.
"It's not 'Young Jack' again, shtriving Jesus."
"Jaysus, that poor woman, is there no rest for her?"
"When is that man going to take the pledge."
Bosco felt his face grow redder and redder. He wanted to say: I don't
think my grandfather was dm&, I don't think so, honestly. So he felt each
comment was a wrongful scourge, drawing the blood redness to his face
like some erection of his shame for all to see.
JohnJo was unbowed at first but was wilting slightly in the face of the
tirade thrown indirectly at him.
"The drink, it was drink ... took hold of him," he issued, as if in shock, as
he continued to hurry down. Bosco beside him quietly intoned,
"It wasn't, it wasn't the drink."
"Shut up."
Two landings later JohnJo's shoulders had sagged noticeably, the
denunciations biting into his jaunty stride. But when he saw her his air
lifted. He thought her very young for it to be her child. Perhaps she was
minding it. Finding her darkness mysteriously appealing, in a remarkable
act of recovery he winked in a ridiculously forward way at this striking
young woman.
"Me Granddad, you see, had a jar too many," and then over familiarly
"... you know how it is?"
The young woman's eyebrows lifted slightly at the offering of this
confidence and responded to the flirty audacity with a shrug of her
shoulders. JohnJo interpreted this as a communication a lot better than
nothing, and he descended to the next landing with a skip to his step, and
the sense that there was an elation somewhere in his person.
Back on the street the sun's rays, as if in welcoming, hallowed down on
them. Why had their Mammy said you must see him now? Bosco
suspected the answer but he asked anyway.
"Why?"
"Because he's sick," the older boy replied, without further elucidation of
whether this was a fact or an opinion. Now JonhJo looked at the younger
boy and opened his palm to reveal the penny. This in jaunty fashion was
now held between crooked thumb and index finger and spun in to the air
where it glinted before dropping into his palm.
"Right bloody madman, isn't he? The drink as plain as two and two
make four.."
"No, I don't think he had been drinking."
"What?"
"I think he was just angry,
"Angry about what?"
"Angry about dying."
"Jaysus, sometimes I wish you would just pack it in."
"Pack what in?"
"You know what I mean, bloody thinking. You're a terrible bloody
thinker, you really are. Come on," and the exchange over they began to
wend their way out of the 'Coombe'.
But they had been quietened by these events so they walked in silence
clearly evaluating and it was in their demeanour that a credence could be
given to the view that intelligence does burgeon under stress.
When they were in sight of their bus, bells started pealing out, like a
muezzin calling, the noonday Angelus rang. Other Dubliners stopped and
bowed their heads in reverence as if arrested by the hands of God and
time. But as the church bells continued to clang out their call to prayer,
most hurried on, blessing themselves and madly murmuring incantations
as they went. Destitute Dublin, feeling that it had already been dealt a
disservice by the Almighty did not, in this of all places, descend to its
knees, but one old Dub' did, and from there he caught sight of the two
boys, the taller boy ahead of the younger one, the sunshine still glowing
on them as if in benediction for their experience.
No comments:
Post a Comment