The Street and other stories (13 page)

“A pint of bitter, Tom, please.” Eamonn Hoban, a fresh-faced man in his early seventies, draped his gangly frame on to a stool at the bar, propped his elbows on the counter and exchanged greetings with the two other customers as he waited for his pint.

The public house consisted of one large room with a bar counter on one side and four snugs on the other. Three or four tables and a corresponding number of chairs filled the floor space and a half-dozen barstools were lined in front of the counter. It was an old-style east London pub. Posters adorning one wall declared the times and venues for set-dancing lessons, a benefit gig for the Birmingham Six and a series of concerts by country-and-western artists.

Eamonn Hoban took a long, appreciative sip at his pint.

“God bless you, Tom,” he said finally, setting his glass down on the counter. “I needed that.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and exhaled happily. “I suppose you’ll want paid for that.” He sighed good-humouredly as he fisted a handful of change on to the counter and arranged it into little silver and copper pillars of coins.

“Indeed I do, Eamonn. Same as always.”

“There you are there, all present and correct. Sorry about all the loose change.”

“Pass no remarks about that,” Tom replied, picking up the money and transferring it to the till. “The more the merrier.”

He moved to serve another customer. Eamonn took another, shorter, more contemplative sip of his drink.

“Any word from home?” he asked. The discerning listener would have noticed the soft, sing-song, west-of-Ireland nuance underscoring his voice.

“Not a word since the last letter I showed you. Have you any news yourself? Anything from Michael?”

“No, I’m not due a letter until next week. He’s fine, thank God, according to his last note. He’s settled well and still getting plenty of work. And that’s half the battle.”

“It is, to be sure. The way things are going here, and at home, the man that can get work is a lucky man.”

“Had you any word of the Munster Final?”

“Tipp won by two points,” one of the other customers chipped in. “Cork threw the game away in the last five minutes. Gave away three frees.”

“Ah that was a costly extravagance.” Tom made a sour face. “You can’t do that at a Munster Final and expect to win. I’ll have the video anyway for Thursday night. I’ll show it about eight o’clock if ye’re interested.”

“Indeed and we are,” Eamonn enthused. “But I didn’t think you’d be anxious now to show such a defeat. Fair play to you,” he winked at the others, “you’re a real sportsman… for a Cork publican.”

The other customers joined in the banter. When they had exhausted their collective store of local and regional abuse, Eamonn and Tom had their nightly game of draughts. Then, victorious, he had another pint before leaving.

“See you on Thursday night, Tom.”

“Right, me oul’ son, and if you’re writing home don’t forget to tell Michael I was asking for him.”

“I will indeed. Good night to you all.”

His flat was a street away from the pub. He enjoyed the walk.
It was a fine night, and as he didn’t relish the prospect of going indoors so early, he strolled to the next corner. It adjoined a busier street with brighter lights, more people and more pubs. He paused for a few minutes, then decided to go to the all-night shop for milk and a packet of biscuits. Since Bridie had died he was always running short of some little thing or other. She would be laughing at him now, going to the shop at this time of night.

Back at the flat he made a bedtime cup of tea, his thoughts turning again to Bridie. It was almost forty years since they had married; forty years in September. They had arrived separately in England, she in May, the year before they wed, from Galway; he, five years earlier from Mayo. He saw her first at Sunday mass in St Eugene’s, and they met later that night at the dance organised by Fr O’Brien in the parish hall. Bridie was in service to a couple who ran a boarding house in Camden. She was lucky: they were an easygoing pair. Other employers would not permit Irish girls time off for mass and dancing; even a night off was out of the question for many in those days. After a week or so he and Bridie started going out together and ten months later they were wed. On their wedding night they resolved to move back to Ireland as soon as they had enough money saved to buy or build a house for themselves. But they never went back, except for wakes or weddings, and as time went on their trips home became more and more associated with mourning or sadness.

They almost stayed a few times. Once, especially, when his father had died and they had stayed on a few days longer at the home place to sort things out, he had become wrapped in nostalgia. Memories of childhood flooded back, recollections of his father and the family long locked away were prised loose by his surroundings and by the neighbours’ talk, and he had resolved, or almost resolved, that they should stay, modernise the old house, and fulfil their wedding-night resolution. It was not to be. Their own children, Deirdre, Sinead and Michael, were at school by then, he was in steady work and Bridie was taking in lodgers in the large house they were buying in Islington. When they had
talked it over he had had to concede that they had too many commitments. Once, they promised each other again, once they had the house paid off and could sell it at a tidy profit they’d be back. He had even asked his older brother, Brendan, to look out for a half acre somewhere convenient to town, near to the school and shops.

That was twenty years ago. Brendan was long since dead, God rest him, and poor Bridie, too. He had buried her only last year.

He didn’t bring her home but buried her in their local cemetery at St Paul’s with Sinead, their oldest girl who had been killed in a road accident coming across the city after a late dance. The shock of that had almost destroyed them both. She had been only seventeen; a lovely, laughing daredevil, full of life. In the turmoil of her death they had never considered bringing her back to Ireland. Instead they bought a plot in St Paul’s. When Bridie fell ill and they both knew she was dying, she had asked him to bury her with Sinead. And that’s what’s keeping me here, he reflected sadly as he slipped off to sleep. Agrave in an English churchyard and forty years of memories.

On Thursday night after they had watched the video of the Cork–Tipperary match, he nursed his pint at his usual place at the bar.

“Are you not yourself?” Tom asked him. “Did you not enjoy the match?”

“I don’t know what ails me. It was a grand match. Indeed,” he smiled, “it was so good it has made me homesick. I suppose that’s what’s wrong with me,” he continued, brightening up at the thought. “I need to go home, Tom, that’s what I need to do.”

“It’s not a good time for a holiday,” Tom reminded him. “February isn’t actually the best time of the year for gallivanting around the west of Ireland.”

“I’m not talking about a holiday, Tom. I’m talking of going back for good, man dear!”

The Mayo inflections grew with his excitement. “I haven’t been back in ten years.”

“And where would you stay?” Tom asked.

“With Michael, of course!”

“Well, it’s none of my business,” Tom cautioned, “but I don’t think you should rush into anything. Michael’s not long back home. He’s still got his hands full, I’m sure, with his new business. And you’re not exactly a gossoon. You’re settled here. Haven’t you a nice flat and doesn’t Deirdre come once a week to visit? And,” he smiled, “haven’t you got me? You’ll never get a pint of bitter like this in Newport or Westport or wherever the hell’s gates you come from. Fact is, you’ll never even get any sort of bitter,” he concluded, setting up another pint. “That’s on the house.”

“It is?” Eamonn laughed. “Well then, I think I’ll buy myself a wee Powers. That’s one thing about the English, they stick to what they’re good at. Which is why they left us to make the whiskey. Here’s
sláinte
, Tom,” he raised his glass. “To you and to home.”

The next day was Deirdre’s regular day to visit him. She changed his bedclothes and fussed around doing her weekly chores as he told her of his plans. Deirdre had never shared her father’s or her brother Michael’s enthusiasm for Mayo. She liked it well enough for a fortnight every few years. At times she would speak proudly of her roots, but she was a Londoner in every other sense and she had four little children. He couldn’t blame her: this was her home. And for all these reasons, she cautioned him, as Tom had done, against any hasty decision.

“Daddy, if you want a change I don’t see why you won’t come and live with us. You know we’ve always wanted you to—Alan asked you himself. Now, didn’t he?” She squared up to him the way her mother often had. It made him smile to see Bridie in her.

“Daddy, you’re not even taking me serious. You must be doting to think at your time of life that you can start off afresh again in Ireland. It’s not the way it was when you left. Where do you think all your friends are? Where would you stay?”

“I’d stay in Michael’s, of course,” he replied, emphasising the
“of course” so that she could see the absurdity of her question.

She was not impressed.

“Michael’s,” she pouted. “Daddy, it’s bad enough Michael’s away off chasing dreams without you joining him. One fool is enough for any family. Typical men.” She softened towards him. “If you went back to live in Ireland when would I see you? I suppose you think I could fly back and forth every week.” She laughed. He didn’t answer.

“Look, why don’t you put off visiting till Patrick’s Day,” she suggested, “and go over then for a short break, and if you still feel the same way, well then fair enough, we’ll see about it.”

He bristled at her tone.

“I’m not a child, Deirdre, you know!”

“I know that, daddy,” she countered, “but ever since Mammy died you’re behaving like one.”

The expression on his face told her she had gone too far. She embraced him.

“Oh, Daddy. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. If you want to go home…”

He noted with satisfaction that she’d said “home”.

“If you want to go, well that’s a matter for you. Only don’t fall out with me over it. Go for a look first before you finally make up your mind? Please?”

He relented.

“It’s the bad oul’ Galway blood in you!” he gently scolded her. “That’s what gives you the sharp tongue. But I’ll do what you ask. For the sake of peace and quiet.”

Michael was delighted to see him. He and the children met him at the new airport at Knock and brought him back to a huge and happy feed which Kate had prepared in his honour in the dining room of their new bungalow. They moved the baby out of the back bedroom and put a bed in there for him. Michael took time off work during his first week to drive him around his old haunts. Many had vanished or were vanishing as nature reclaimed derelict cottages and once busy farmyards. He was pleased that the smithy was still
recognisable. A Dutch couple were living in the old schoolhouse. They showed him around it and afterwards over coffee they encouraged him to talk of his schooldays. Many of his boyhood friends were dead, more were in England or the USA, he reflected sadly. Those who remained lived miles apart. He’d forgotten how scattered the townland was and how cruel a month March could be.

After the first week Michael was busy again at work, and when it rained Eamonn was confined to the house with Kate and the baby. On the Tuesday of his third week it dawned on him, to his surprise, that all his conversation that morning with her had been about London. The lack of a morning newspaper delivery and the distance to the shop had triggered off his talk.

That evening he told Michael he was going back.

“But I thought you were here for four weeks.”

“And so I am, son. But I’m just letting you know I’m going back.”

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.”

“I know, son, and if God spares me, I’ll be back whenever I get the chance.” He rose from his chair and looked out at the spring evening. A gentle quietness was settling over the mountains. He looked over at Michael with a contented smile.

“Now, seeing as we’ve that all sorted out, do you think you could spare the time to go down for a pint or two with your oul’ fella?”

The rest of his stay was like that. He would spend the day, or most of the day, in the house or, if the weather was fine, he would take a short walk to the school to pick up his grandchildren. In the evening, he and Michael would spend an hour in McAuley’s Select Lounge and Public Bar.

One night, as he drifted off to sleep, he smiled to himself as he heard Kate gently chiding Michael over his nightly excursions to the pub. The next day he discreetly arranged for a local girl to babysit and insisted on standing Kate and Michael an evening meal in Westport.

All of this he recounted in lavish detail to Tom on his return to
London.

“And what about your plans to return home for good?” Tom asked him mischievously.

“Oh, I’ll do that yet,” he replied. “It’s just a matter of getting Deirdre and Michael used to the idea. You know something, Tom…” He paused to consider the irony of it all. “I only have one son, and when he was growing up I thought of how we’d be able to spend a bit of time together when he was older. Now he’s back in Ireland far from where he was reared and I’m here in London, far from where I was reared. Isn’t that a strange state of affairs?”

He paused again. Tom waited for him to continue.

“Some of the younger ones call our Michael’s the English family. The older ones,” he finished proudly, “the older ones call him Eamonn Hoban’s son.”

“It’s good that there’s Hobans back there again,” Tom remarked.

“Aye, that’s what I was thinking myself. You never know what’s before you, that’s what Bridie used always say.” He paused. “But at least some of us made it back.

“Now, when I go back for keeps,” he dipped his face into his pint so that Tom couldn’t tell if he was serious or not, “when I go back I’d need a place of me own. Mind you, our Michael’s is great, but there’s nothing like your own place. I’ve got used to my bit of independence. When I get that sorted out then you could come and spend the weekend of the Munster Final with me, couldn’t you? Páirc Uí Chaoimh or Thurles.” He looked at Tom over his glass. “That’s if Cork ever make it that far again.”