Angela's Ashes: A Memoir Part 28

I didnat, Mrs. Hannon.

You were.We had two daughters, Bridey that you know, and Kath- 266.

leen, the nurse above in Dublin. But no son and he said you gave him the feeling of a son.

I feel my eyes burning and I donat want her to see me crying especially when I donat know why Iam crying.Thatas all I do lately. Is it the job? Is it Mr. Hannon? My mother says, Oh, your bladder is near your eye.

I think Iam crying because of the quiet way Mrs. Hannon is talking and sheas talking like that because of Mr.Hannon.

Like a son, she says, and Iam glad he had that feeling. His working days are over, you know. He has to stay at home from this out.There might be a cure and if there is sure he might be able to get a job as a watchman where he doesnat have to be lifting and hauling.

I wonat have a job anymore, Mrs. Hannon.

You have a job, Frank. School.Thatas your job.

Thatas not a job,Mrs.Hannon.

Youall never have another job like it, Frank. It breaks Mr.Hannonas heart to think of you dragging bags of coal off a float and it breaks your motheras heart and atwill destroy your eyes. G.o.d knows Iam sorry I ever got you into this for it had your poor mother caught between your eyes and Mr.Hannonas legs.

Can I go to the hospital to see Mr.Hannon?

They might not let you in but surely you can come here to see him.

G.o.d knows he wonat be doing much but reading and looking out the window.

Mam tells me at home,You shouldnat cry but then again tears are salty and theyall wash the bad stuff from your eyes.

XII.

Thereas a letter from Dad. Heas coming home two days before Christmas.

He says everything will be different, heas a new man, he hopes weare good boys, obeying our mother, attending to our religious duties, and heas bringing us all something for Christmas.

Mam takes me to the railway station to meet him. The station is always exciting with all the coming and going, people leaning from carriages, crying, smiling,waving good-bye, the train hooting and calling, chugging away in clouds of steam, people sniffling on the platform, the railway tracks silvering into the distance, on to Dublin and the world beyond.

Now itas near midnight and cold on the empty platform.A man in a railway cap asks us if wead like to wait in a warm place. Mam says, Thank you very much, and laughs when he leads us to the end of the platform where we have to climb a ladder to the signal tower. It takes her a while because sheas heavy and she keeps saying, Oh, G.o.d, oh, G.o.d.

Weare above the world and itas dark in the signal tower except for the lights that blink red and green and yellow when the man bends over the board. He says, Iam just having a bit of supper and youare welcome.

Mam says,Ah, no, thanks,we couldnat take your supper from you.

He says,The wife always makes too much for me and if I was up in 268.

this tower for a week I wouldnat be able to eat it. Sure itas not hard work looking at lights and pulling on the odd lever.

He takes the top off a flask and pours cocoa into a mug. Here, he says to me, put yourself outside that cocoa.

He hands Mam half a sandwich. Ah, no, she says, surely you could take that home to your children.

I have two sons, missus, and theyare off there fighting in the forces of His Majesty, the King of England. One did his bit with Montgomery in Africa and the other is over in Burma or some other b.l.o.o.d.y place, excuse the language.We get our freedom from England and then we fight her wars. So here, missus, take the bit of sandwich.

Lights on the board are clicking and the man says,Your train is coming, missus.

Thank you very much and Happy Christmas.

Happy Christmas to yourself, missus, and a Happy New Year, too.

Mind yourself on that ladder, young fella. Help your mother.

Thank you very much, sir.

We wait again on the platform while the train rumbles into the station. Carriage doors open and a few men with suitcases step to the platform and hurry toward the gate. There is a clanking of milk cans dropped to the platform.A man and two boys are unloading newspapers and magazines.

There is no sign of my father. Mam says he might be asleep in one of the carriages but we know he hardly sleeps even in his own bed. She says the boat from Holyhead might have been late and that would make him miss the train.The Irish Sea is desperate at this time of the year.

Heas not coming, Mam. He doesnat care about us. Heas just drunk over there in England.

Donat talk about your father like that.

I say no more to her. I donat tell her I wish I had a father like the man in the signal tower who gives you sandwiches and cocoa.

Next day Dad walks in the door. His top teeth are missing and thereas a bruise under his left eye. He says the Irish Sea was rough and when he leaned over the side his teeth dropped out. Mam says, It wouldnat be the drink,would it? It wouldnat be a fight?

Och, no, Angela.

Michael says,You said youad have something for us, Dad.

Oh, I do.

He takes a box of chocolates from his suitcase and hands it to Mam.

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She opens the box and shows us the inside where half the chocolates are gone.

Could you spare it? she says.

She shuts the box and puts it on the mantelpiece.Weall have chocolates after our Christmas dinner tomorrow.

Mam asks him if he brought any money. He tells her times are hard, jobs are scarce, and she says, Is it coddina me you are? Thereas a war on and thereas nothing but jobs in England.You drank the money, didnat you?

You drank the money, Dad.

You drank the money, Dad.

You drank the money, Dad.

Weare shouting so loud Alphie begins to cry. Dad says, Och, boys, now boys. Respect for your father.

He puts on his cap. He has to see a man.Mam says, Go see your man but donat come drunk to this house tonight singing Roddy McCorley or anything else.

He comes home drunk but heas quiet and pa.s.ses out on the floor next to Mamas bed.

We have a Christmas dinner next day because of the food voucher Mam got from the St.Vincent de Paul Society.We have sheepas head, cabbage, floury white potatoes, and a bottle of cider because itas Christmas.

Dad says heas not hungry, heall have tea, borrows a cigarette from Mam. She says, Eat something. Itas Christmas.

He tells her again heas not hungry but if no one else wants them heall eat the sheepas eyes. He says thereas great nourishment in the eye and we all make sounds of disgust. He washes them down with his tea and smokes the rest of his Woodbine. He puts on his cap and goes upstairs for his suitcase.

Mam says,Where are you going?

London.

On this day of Our Lord? Christmas Day?

Itas the best day for travel. People in motor cars will always give the workingman a lift to Dublin.They think of the hard times of the Holy Family.

And how will you get on the boat to Holyhead without a penny in your pocket?

The way I came.Thereas always a time when theyare not looking.

He kisses each of us on the forehead, tells us be good boys, obey 270.

Mam, say our prayers. He tells Mam heall write and she says, Oh, yes, the way you always did. He stands before her with his suitcase. She gets up, takes down the box of chocolates and hands them around. She puts a chocolate in her mouth and takes it out again because itas too hard and she canat chew it. I have a soft one and I offer it for the hard one, which will last longer. Itas creamy and rich and thereas a nut in the middle.

Malachy and Michael complain they didnat get a nut and why is it Frank always gets the nut? Mam says,What do you mean, always? This is the first time we ever had a box of chocolates.

Malachy says, He got the raisin in the bun at school and all the boys said he gave it to Paddy Clohessy, so why couldnat he give us the nut?

Mam says, Because atis Christmas and he has sore eyes and the nut is good for the sore eyes.

Michael says,Will the nut make his eyes better?

aTwill.

Will it make one eye better or will it make two eyes better?

The two eyes, I think.

Malachy says, If I had another nut Iad give it to him for his eyes.

Mam says, I know you would.

Dad watches us a moment eating our chocolates. He lifts the latch, goes out the door and pulls it shut.

Mam tells Bridey Hannon, Days are bad but nights are worse and will this rain ever stop? She tries to ease the bad days by staying in bed and letting Malachy and me light the fire in the morning while she sits up in the bed pa.s.sing Alphie bits of bread and holding the mug to his mouth for the tea thatas in it.We have to go downstairs to Ireland to wash our faces in the basin under the tap and try to dry ourselves in the old damp shirt that hangs over the back of a chair. She makes us stand by the bed to see if we left rings of dirt around our necks and if we did itas back down to the tap and the damp shirt.When thereas a hole in a pair of pants she sits up and patches it with any rag she can find.We wear short pants till weare thirteen or fourteen and our long stockings always have holes to be darned. If she has no wool for the darning and the stockings are dark we can blacken our ankles with shoe polish for the respectability thatas in it. Itas a terrible thing to walk the world with skin showing through the holes of our stockings.When we wear them week after week the holes grow so big we have to pull the stocking forward 271.

under the toes so that the hole in the back is hidden in the shoe. On rainy days the stockings are soggy and we have to hang them before the fire at night and hope theyall dry by morning.Then theyare hard with dirt cake and weare afraid to pull them on our feet for fear theyall fall on the floor in bits before our eyes.We might be lucky enough to get our stockings on but then we have to block the holes in our shoes and I fight with my brother,Malachy, over any sc.r.a.p of cardboard or paper in the house. Michael is only six and he has to wait for anything left over unless Mam threatens us from the bed that weare to help our small brother. She says, If ye donat fix yeer brotheras shoes ana I have to get out of this bed there will be wigs on the green.Youad have to feel sorry for Michael because heas too old to play with Alphie and too young to play with us and he canat fight with anyone for the same reasons.

The rest of the dressing is easy, the shirt I wore to bed is the shirt I wear to school. I wear it day in day out. Itas the shirt for football, for climbing walls, for robbings orchards. I go to Ma.s.s and the Confraternity in that shirt and people sniff the air and move away. If Mam gets a docket for a new one at the St.Vincent de Paul the old shirt is promoted to towel and hangs damp on the chair for months or Mam might use bits of it to patch other shirts. She might even cut it up and let Alphie wear it a while before it winds up on the floor pushed against the bottom of the door to block the rain from the lane.

We go to school through lanes and back streets so that we wonat meet the respectable boys who go to the Christian Brothersa School or the rich ones who go to the Jesuit school,Crescent College.The Christian Brothersa boys wear tweed jackets,warm woolen sweaters, shirts, ties and shiny new boots.We know theyare the ones who will get jobs in the civil service and help the people who run the world.The Crescent College boys wear blazers and school scarves tossed around their necks and over their shoulders to show theyare c.o.c.k oa the walk.They have long hair which falls across their foreheads and over their eyes so that they can toss their quiffs like Englishmen.We know theyare the ones who will go to university, take over the family business, run the government, run the world.

Weall be the messenger boys on bicycles who deliver their groceries or weall go to England to work on the building sites. Our sisters will mind their children and scrub their floors unless they go off to England,too.We know that.Weare ashamed of the way we look and if boys from the rich schools pa.s.s remarks weall get into a fight and wind up with b.l.o.o.d.y noses or torn clothes. Our masters will have no patience with us and our fights 272.

because their sons go to the rich schools and,Ye have no right to raise your hands to a better cla.s.s of people so ye donat.

You never know when you might come home and find Mam sitting by the fire chatting with a woman and a child, strangers. Always a woman and child. Mam finds them wandering the streets and if they ask, Could you spare a few pennies, miss? her heart breaks. She never has money so she invites them home for tea and a bit of fried bread and if itas a bad night sheall let them sleep by the fire on a pile of rags in the corner.The bread she gives them always means less for us and if we complain she says there are always people worse off and we can surely spare a little from what we have.

Michael is just as bad. He brings home stray dogs and old men.You never know when youall find a dog in the bed with him.There are dogs with sores, dogs with no ears, no tails. Thereas a blind greyhound he found in the park tormented by children. Michael fought off the children, picked up the greyhound that was bigger than himself and told Mam the dog could have his supper. Mam says,What supper? Weare lucky if thereas a cut of bread in the house.Michael tells her the dog can have his bread. Mam says that dog has to go tomorrow and Michael cries all night and cries worse in the morning when he finds the dog dead in the bed beside him. He wonat go to school because he has to dig a grave outside where the stable was and he wants all of us to dig with him and say the rosary. Malachy says itas useless saying prayers for a dog, how do you know he was even a Catholic? Michael says, Of course he was a Catholic dog. Didnat I have him in my arms? He cries so hard over the dog Mam lets us all stay at home from school.Weare so delighted we donat mind helping Michael with the grave and we say three Hail Marys.Weare not going to stand there wasting a good day off from school saying the rosary for a dead greyhound. Michael is only six but when he brings old men home he manages to get the fire going and give them tea. Mam says itas driving her crazy to come home and find these old men drinking out of her favorite mug and mumbling and scratching by the fire. She tells Bridey Hannon that Michael has a habit of bringing home old men all a bit gone in the head and if he doesnat have a bit of bread for them he knocks on neighborsa doors and has no shame begging for it. In the end she tells Michael, No more old men.

One of them left us with lice and weare plagued.

273.

The lice are disgusting, worse than rats.Theyare in our heads and ears and they sit in the hollows of our collarbones.They dig into our skin.They get into the seams of our clothes and theyare everywhere in the coats we use as blankets.We have to search every inch of Alphieas body because heas a baby and helpless.

The lice are worse than the fleas. Lice squat and suck and we can see our blood through their skins. Fleas jump and bite and theyare clean and we prefer them.Things that jump are cleaner than things that squat.

We all agree there will be no more stray women and children, dogs and old men.We donat want any more diseases and infections.

Michael cries.

Grandmaas next-door neighbor,Mrs. Purcell, has the only wireless in her lane.The government gave it to her because sheas old and blind. I want a radio.My grandmother is old but sheas not blind and whatas the use of having a grandmother who wonat go blind and get a government radio?

Sunday nights I sit outside on the pavement under Mrs. Purcellas window listening to plays on the BBC and Radio Eireann, the Irish station.

You can hear plays by OaCasey, Shaw, Ibsen and Shakespeare himself, the best of all, even if he is English. Shakespeare is like mashed potatoes, you can never get enough of him. And you can hear strange plays about Greeks plucking out their eyes because they married their mothers by mistake.

One night Iam sitting under Mrs.Purcellas window listening to Macbeth.

Her daughter, Kathleen, sticks her head out the door. Come in, Frankie. My mother says youall catch the consumption sitting on the ground in this weather.

Ah, no, Kathleen. Itas all right.

No. Come in.

They give me tea and a grand cut of bread slathered with blackberry jam. Mrs. Purcell says, Do you like the Shakespeare, Frankie?

I love the Shakespeare, Mrs. Purcell.

Oh, heas music, Frankie, and he has the best stories in the world. I donat know what Iad do with meself of a Sunday night if I didnat have the Shakespeare.

When the play finishes she lets me fiddle with the k.n.o.b on the radio and I roam the dial for distant sounds on the shortwave band, strange whispering and hissing, the whoosh of the ocean coming and 274.