After the Wake (8 page)

She laughed at me as if I were twelve years old, except when I was talking about books or plays for she took me very seriously as a writer, but as a man, not at all.

I was not satisfied with this because, like everyone in this world, I wanted respect for other things besides those qualities I was sure of.

I suppose on balance I preferred Deirdre because I was not afraid of her.

But this I must say, that no two people even if one was as light as Mairéad, ever slept in eachother’s arms. There’s no sleeping about it, except in an armchair or the back of a car, and then only for the woman, for the man is a mattress for her. Lying here this night, I was cramped as the crucified, and then only able to move my arm, and yawn restrictedly.

I heard a steady snoring from the other side of the room, and some anguished muttering.

María was doing the snoring, and Uncle Hymie the anguishing; ‘Oh, Lord Jesus, into Thy Hands I commend my spirit. Lord Jesus take me to Yourself.’

‘Amen to that, you noisy old fucker, as quick as He likes, but do you want to wake up the other old bitch on us?’

María was stirring, like a dog digesting a dinner. Deirdre woke and whispered, ‘It’s very late, pet,
you’ll stay the night?’ I nodded. My oath.

‘Mammy says you can stay with Ciarán. Mairéad is staying with me in my room,’ and she moved off and went to wake the others.

The others shook themselves up and we crept along to our rooms.

‘Goodnight, Brendan; goodnight, Ciarán; Mairéad and I are going to my room now.’

In our room I looked round and sat on the bed beside the wall next to the girls’ room.

‘No,’ said Ciarán, ‘the other bed is yours.’

I went to the other bed and sat down.

‘We’d better get into bed quick,’ said Ciarán. ‘That light is annoying me.’

‘I was waiting on the girls to use the Jacks* first,’ said I.

‘Never mind that. They can go upstairs if they want, though they’re probably waiting on us to use it. We’ll go down now.’

We went down and came back. I threw off my clothes, and got into bed.

‘Why the hell don’t you hang your clothes up?’ said Ciarán. ‘There are clothes-hooks there in the corner.’

‘I did hang them up,’ said I, ‘on the floor where they can’t fall off.’

‘Why the hell can’t you act like anybody else. You’ve brains to burn, God knows, but shaving about once a fortnight, and acting like these bloody Baggot Street Bohemians …’

‘Drums is our team,’ said I, ‘not Bohemians.’ Drumcondra and Bohemians were also the name of Soccer teams. ‘Bohs are amateurs, gentlemen players from the University not long off the bog, and doing
their medical course with the money their daddies robbed off of the starving peasantry.’

‘Oh, for Jesus’s sake,’ said Ciarán, ‘doing the downtrodden proletariat again? Are my pyjamas under your pillow?’

They were. ‘I didn’t think you’d need them,’ said I. He looked at me. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘It’s a hot night,’ I said, ‘
oíche mhaith dhuit
.*’

Ciarán put out the light.
‘Oíche
mhaith
dhuit.’

I lay in the dark looking up at the top of the window, and heard Ciarán breathe deeply to himself. God give you patience.

‘Hey, Brendan,’ he said in a hoarse whisper – that’s what he said it in, ‘Do you think my ma is gone to bed yet?’

‘Whether she’s in bed or on the sofa, she’s put out the light,’ said I.

‘O.K. Would you mind going out for a bit?’

‘Not at all. I’ll put on my pants and socks and scarper.’

‘And what?’

‘Scarper – my old reform school slang, “scarper”. Some says it’s short for the rhyming slang for “Scapa Flow,” meaning “go.” Others say it’s Italian for “go.”’

‘Never mind that, now, just do it.’

‘I’m dressed, ready and all.’

I got out of bed and went into the hall. I stood there for a minute, and then decided to pass the time by going to the Jacks. Besides it was useful and necessary. Our organs can stand many and various things, but they are cinema organs, which is not much of a joke, but the best I could do at that hour, and my cerebralities taxed to the full with blood rushing from my stomach.

When I came out, I stood outside Deirdre’s door, and Mairéad at last sneaked out.

She was wearing a sort of tennis nightie which consists of, to the best of my knowledge and belief, a frock of white cotton with no arms, with rows of shamrocks all over it, and a collar with double the ration of shamrocks to the square inch and some crosses.

‘The changing of the guard,’ said I.

‘Hurry up and get in out of the cold,’ said she, not haughtily but reasonably, like one talking to an unreasonable, though not unlikable, person.

‘I will so,’ said I, and went into Deirdre’s room. For the sake of good manners, and curiosity, I went over first to the other bed beside our wall.

It had not been slept in. I made my way over to Deirdre’s bed and slipped in beside her.

A tragedy of this life, I found out, is that you never realise how young you are, till you are not so young, and then (I suppose) when you are old.

We were barely lying along thighs, starboard to port, so to speak, when María struggled up and came gasping and snorting and panting along the corridor, and shouted, ‘Brendan Behan, where are you?’

‘I’m here, in bed, in Ciarán’s room.’

‘Mairéad?’ bellowed the old bellowdame.

‘Yes, María. I’m here with Deirdre,’ she shouted from beside her naked (I presume) fiancé.

The old one shambled away to her drunken sleep. ‘That’s right, I’ll allow no hedging or ditching in this house, to bring the curse of God on us. It’s not lucky, but you are all good children. Boys with boys, and girls with girls, what’s natural and decent. That’s the motto and sleeping arrangements of this house, and
of every decent Catholic home.’ She went off muttering to herself. ‘Nice Irish dances, no lying on top of, and eating, one another. As poor Father Ignatius Mary used to say, ‘Fun, yes, but fun without vulgarity …’

‘That’s it,’ I murmured.

‘What’s that, pet?’ asked Deirdre.

‘I’ll tell you in a second,’ said I, adding, of course, a term of endearment.

The rest of the night I describe with these dots …… and, of course, some sleep.

In the morning, Deirdre got up to cook the breakfasts. Mairéad came in, and said, ‘Get up and go into your own room. I want to get into bed before María comes down.’

I stretched my arms from the bed, ‘Come in, and welcome.’

‘Come on, Funny Wonder,’ said Mairéad, impatiently, ‘it’s cold out here.’

I got upstairs, and into Ciarán’s room, and into my own bed. He turned and groaned, ‘Dear Lord, I could do with a drink.’

‘That’s a funny thing. I bet you didn’t think about it at all till Mairéad got up; after that the horn is part of the hangover, like the itch.’

‘A lot of good Deirdre going away, and the first thing she does is to sleep the night with you.’

‘What did you want me to do? Stand out in the corridor all night?’

‘There were two beds there. You could have slept in Mairéad’s.’

‘And how do you know I didn’t?’

‘Bloodywell, I know you didn’t. You’d get up on a cat.’

‘Such is not my reputation around Baggot Street. There the intelligensia-esses think I am slow, if not positively King Lear.’

‘Well,’ he admitted, ‘looking at those ones with their Egyptian jewellery and woollen stockings, I wouldn’t blame you. But it could be very awkward about Deirdre and you.’

‘What about yourself and Mairéad kipped in there for the night?’

‘That’s a different thing. We’re engaged to be married, and a month or two wouldn’t make any difference one way or another.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t object to marrying Deirdre.’

‘No, but my mother would, and to be straight with you so would I.’

‘Much about you,’ said I, ‘or your old one either.’

‘Well, what the hell could you do for her? I know and she knows and my mother knows that you’ve a great talent as a writer, but you can’t treat that. It might be years before you made a living at it, if you ever did. And in the meantime you won’t work at your trade of house-painting. But to hell with that. I always liked you since we were kids in the Fianna together, and I like you now, even though you get fighting drunk and use bad language before women. At the back of it, we’re bourgeois people. And you? Well according to yourself, you’re a jackeen from the North City Slums. It’s only your own description I’m using.’

‘You’re not bourgeois,’ said I, ‘Yours are worse, yours are bloody bogmen, or bogmen and bog women, and the cowshit barely off of your boots, talking to the likes of me whose people, seed, breed and generation, are in this town since yours came out
of your mud cabins – you consumptive poxy parcel of fuckpigs.’

I was dressed by this time, and went out, slamming the door behind me.

‘Hey, Brendan,’ Ciarán shouted after me, ‘wait a minute.’

But I went downstairs to the kitchen to say goodbye to Deirdre.

She was in the kitchen talking over the stove with Mairéad who was laying the table.

‘Good morning all,’ said I.

‘You too,’ said Mairéad.

‘Ah there you are, Brendan,’ said Deirdre, in her easy gentle way. ‘You’re just in time for your breakfast.’

‘I don’t want any, thanks.’

‘You don’t want any? Sure it’s ready, and the tea is wet, and all.’

‘I’m in a hurry out,’ said I, in a sulky tone, so as they would know there was something up.

‘It’s not out to work you’re going?’ said Mairéad.

‘You mind your own fuckin’ business,’ said I. ‘That’s what you’ll do.’

‘Don’t talk to me like that,’ said this stern, slim, fair-haired girl, ‘or I’ll throw a plate at you.’

‘What’s wrong with you, pet?’ asked Deirdre, to coax me. ‘Sure no one’s been saying anything to you?’

‘It’s just that I’m going off now, goodbye.’

I went out of the kitchen, but slowly up the stairs. I heard Mairéad say, unconcernedly, ‘It suits him to go off like that.’

But Deirdre replied in a scornful, grieved, and troubled tone, something that I could not hear. But it was the tone that I cared about, and I walked with a
surer step.

María met me at the top of the stairs, and I must say that for an elderly woman that was after a bellyful of booze the previous night, she looked very well.

‘Did you sit and have your breakfast, Brendan Behan?’ she asked.

‘No, thanks ma’am, I’m in a bit of a hurry.’ So, I was, for the smell of food was making me sick, and I could not eat anything till I’d got a few drinks into me. That was really why I did not stay for breakfast, though I was hoping to get a bit of consideration for my wounded pride at the same time.

‘Well, anyway, my husband sent you a message,’ said she.

‘A message from García?’

‘His name is not García, but Loyola. Though he had a first cousin in Córdoba – not Córdoba in Spain, but Córdoba in Mexico – that was called García, García Francisco de Torres Maloney – a lovely step dancer he was too. He could dance
The
Top
of
the
Cork
Road
better than any other boy in the whole of Mexico. Though I didn’t know you ever heard of him, you must have heard Ciarán talking about him.’

‘That was it,’ said I.

‘Well anyway, my husband sent you this message.’

She handed me an envelope.

‘Thank you, ma’am, I’ll see if there’s an answer to it.’

I went into the Catalonian Cabinet Room, and opened it. Inside was a blue ten pound note. I put it in my pocket. There was no other message. I got a piece of notepaper, put that in the envelope and went back to María. ‘Here,’ said I, giving her back the
envelope, ‘tell Mr. Bolívar thanks very much, but I’m not in his employment. He can keep his money.’

‘But – but – listen,’ said María, ‘he only wants to …’

‘Thanks,’ said I, my inexorable hand upraised, ‘and good morning. I’m in a hurry.’

So I was, and for three reasons. I was afraid she would look into the envelope and find that I’d taken the ten pound note; I was afraid if I delayed any longer I’d get sick in front of her; and I was in a hurry to get down the Markets for a drink.

‘Arra,
Dia
dhuit,’
says Mick to me. A nice old skin, though I’d sooner heathens than publicans. ‘God bless you.’

‘Dia ’s Muire dhuit, ’s Padraig, ’s Bríd, ’s Colmchille dhuit-se, a Mhíchil, agus do chuile dhuine macánta san teach seo.’

‘God and Mary and Patrick, Bridget, and Colmcille to yourself, Michael, and to every decent person in this house.’

The crowd lined up at the bar, and sitting in a row along the wall, intoned the responses. ‘Amen, amen,’ answered the porter sharks, whiskey kings, wine lords and cider barons. And Michael the publican added, ‘Amen,
a
Thiarna
Dhia
,’ ‘Amen, O Lord God,’ for he was a genuine religious man, and one of the few religious men that was not a worse bastard than ordinary people.

Doctor Crippen made room for me at the bar, and MacIntaggart the other side of me. Beside them I stood, like Christ between the two thieves.

Doctor Crippen’s real name I did not know. He got his nickname from the time he was a barman in a
Free State Army canteen and was said to have poisoned the soldiers with bad drink. It was said that he killed more that way than the I.R.A. whom they were fighting at the time.

MacIntaggart’s name in Irish is
Mac
an
tSagairt,
or ‘son of the priest.’ Some tease from Connemara told him this; since then he’d gone round the gullible public that he was the son of a bloody priest. Not that anyone in the Markets would believe the Lord’s Prayer from his mouth. If you asked Maclntaggart the time, you’d check it on the telephone, if you wanted the right time.

Crippen, in his day, was a sergeant-major in the Free State Army and played Gaelic football for the Army Metro, who were drawn from the barracks of the Dublin Metropolitan Garrison. Michael, the publican, respected him greatly for his former glory on the football field, but Crippen did not know this. He was a humble and simple soul, and only told lies in the way of business, to get a drink, a feed or the price of his keep.