The Wake (And What Jeremiah Did Next) (8 page)

And then followed the most revolting five minutes I’ve ever spent in Mammy’s company. “Och sure you’ll take another sandwich will you not Seamus? You will surely. And how are your ones all doing anyway? That’s great. How’s your mother keeping, Margie? Isn’t that great now. She went through a bad time there for a while didn’t she? God knows you never know what’s round the corner. Sure look at Maud. Will you not have a coconut cream Mister Braddock? Jeremiah got them fresh down in Strain’s this evening there. Och go on would you, have one. And how’re you keeping, Jim? That’s the nicest wee girl you have. Sure I saw her at the First Communions last May there. Shirley Temple I says to Maud, the spit of Shirley Temple in that picture she was in, Dimples wasn’t it? Are you taking tea Jeremiah? Are you sure it won’t keep you from sleeping now? Jeremiah usually doesn’t drink tea at night for fear it’ll. All right, if you want, son. It’s light enough anyway.”

“We were just talking about America there Missus Coffey,” said Margie. “Do you think they’d ever put a good word in for us with Westminister? The Catholics I mean.”

Mammy didn’t understand the question. “How do you mean? Here Nellie, you wouldn’t take this pot of tea and cake into the front room would you? Give Maeve that plate of biscuits, sure she’ll carry that, won’t you, Maeve? Can yeez manage now? What way are you talking about, Margie? I don’t exactly follow you.”

“Naw, it’s just we were on about America there and I was thinking they might be able to influence England you know to give us equal rights here.”

Mammy’s face darkened. “The first thing I’d like to see is that gang of hooligans off the streets. Sure they’re destroying the town so they are. I’ve a nephew a Jesuit priest out in America and he’s coming here next week with his sister a nun in charge of a big school in New York and his niece going on to be a doctor. They’re all coming and God knows what they’re going to think.”

“But they love the Irish don’t they?” persisted Margie. “And there’s millions of Irish out there would support us.”

“Do you really think so?” said Mammy. “When they see on the TV what that crowd down the town’s doing I don’t think they’d support anything so I don’t. Honest to God I don’t.”

“I know one thing,” said Seamus. “The American women would fall over themselves to get an Irishman even if he’d two heads on him. That’s a fact.”

Mammy looked gravely at him. “I don’t know where you heard that from now Seamus.”

“Aw it’s true,” said Jim. “Sure I read about this Yankee widow woman was on a cruise round the Cape of Good Hope one time and she got to talking to this shifty looking wee Corkman was on his own and she says to him
Why did you decide to come on the cruise then?
And he says to her
Well the fact is ma’am I’m on the run. Escaped from prison there last week.
And she says
Oh really? And what were you in prison for if you don’t mind me asking?
And he says
I killed me wife with a hatchet so I did and I sent the pieces in a parcel to her mother.
And she says
Oh, so you’re single then.”

Everybody laughed except me and Mammy, me because I needed to be careful about making sudden movements on account of both my head and the other thing and Mammy because she has no sense of humor and she’s stupid. Even Bill laughed, nearly spilled the tea he was laughing that much. You wouldn’t have believed he was the same man walked in the door. Mammy stood there a bit baffled but the same woman’s never at a loss for long.

“There’s only one man we can trust to do anything,” she said, “and that’s Eddie McAteer. If people would listen to him then we might get something done.”

Willie Henry spoke up. “Eamonn McCann said on the TV he’s … what’s this he said he is?”

“Who? McAteer?” said Margie. “Middle-aged, middle-class and middle of the road.”

Mammy looked down at her, waiting for more and when it didn’t come she said “And what’s wrong with that? Sure that’s the kind of man we need.”

“Naw Margie,” said Jim. “McCann was talking about the Derry Citizens’ Action Committee. John Hume and them. Eddie McAteer and the Nationalist party’s finished Missus Coffey.”

“The Nationalist party’s finished, long live the Nationalist party,” Seamus said smiling away to himself.

Big Bill Braddock had been chewing at the bit during this political chat and then he spoke or maybe it should be spake. “You have two distinct entities here. The Action Committee are Catholic reformers and McCann’s people are Marxist revolutionaries. Most people don’t trust Marxism because they’ve a feeling it only makes sense in small groups, you know, like communes and the like. So these revolutionaries are going about in a kind of heroic expectation. Some of them are probably prepared to die even. Violence is McCann’s only chance actually, violence done by the state against the people.”

“Sure isn’t that how Gandhi got the British out of India?” said Margie.

“Aye but Gandhi was organized,” said Jim. “McCann’s crowd can’t even agree what time to start a meeting at.”

“They couldn’t run a bath,” shouted Willie Henry rocking back and forward. And emboldened by what he took to be the prevailing mood he added “Or a piss-up in a brewery.” He looked round for a seconder and finding none must have decided he hadn’t made his point properly. “Or a whatdoyecallit in a hoorhouse.” He smiled then, pleased I think at his self-restraint. We all knew what a whatdoyecallit was but I for one was grateful that the word hadn’t been made flesh.

Mammy went rigid. “Willie Henry,” she said and her voice was scarcely a whisper, “Do you not know you’re in a corphouse now? Have you no respect? That’s what the drink does!”

Her head swiveled till she had me in her sights. “And who was it gave it to you? I think I can guess.” The last lot of words came out in fragments as if they’d about ten syllables each because, and don’t ask me how I knew but I did even though at this stage I was fixed on the flying ducks, she had noticed my bottom half. And she was opening her mouth to say I know not what when Willie Henry spoke fidgeting nervously at his fork with the two hands. “I’m wile sorry Missus Coffey. I didn’t mean any disrespect so I didn’t, honest to God.”

She stared at him and blinked and then put her hand on the doorknob. “I must help the girls in there. They’ll be wanting help I think.” She threw me one last scalding look and was gone.

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Radio 3 playing low, soft and low. What is it, chamber music? Anything that brings sleep will do. Jesus what a night and still not shot of her. Lying down there in a box in the dark in the corner, still occupying our kitchen,
our
kitchen, still controlling the agenda and her stiff as a board. Half six tomorrow evening we’ll, Charlie Bradley and Denis McLaughlin that is, will bring her, me and Charlie Bradley and Denis McLaughlin, morticians, will bring her to the cathedral for her overnight stay, bed and board, breakfast not included. She should feel at home there right next to the altar where her and Kate and friends dusted and fussed at the flowers and the rest. Tulips were the ones she always tried to get up, you’d have thought they were the only flower there was. And the colors, green, cream, orange, white, red, every color you could think of nearly except. Blue was it? Blue I think. I never remember seeing blue. Where did she get them when they weren’t growing here? I’ve seen them standing up there proud and erect all times of the year. Imports from Holland? When it’s spring again I’ll bring again tulips from Amsterdam. Not any more she won’t.

What’s that they’re playing now? Christ I don’t believe it. It is. It’s the fucking Flower Duet. I don’t want to hear it. I need to sleep. Well, maybe just a wee bit, maybe just a minute.

Her eyes were shining now. “Forget about all the other things. I love you.”

“And I love you too.”

“Sleep,” she said. She fondled my face and shoulders and when the alarm went off her hands were still on me.

Mellifluously a voice told the story of the music. Nilakantha the Brahmin priest goes from his home to attend a gathering of the faithful and leaves behind his daughter Lakme and her slave girl Millika. The two maidens go off hand in hand towards a river in search of blue lotus flowers. As they approach the water they disrobe and Lakme removes her jewelry and leaves it on a bench.

The music came again, sinful, sinuous, insinuating, sin through every orifice. She stood in front of me in diamond drop earrings, Jesus, diamond drop earrings and hot pants, nothing else, turquoise blue.

The bed wasn’t the best and I was nervous. Understandable of course. I didn’t mind Maud lying one flight down in the corner of the kitchen up to her eyes in mass cards because she could hear nothing, her three hours were up and her soul gone west. An empty shell. No, it was the living I was thinking of, the reverent mother in there in the next room whispering away at her novenas, ear cocked, every sound in her sights. I knew I should be careful but time was short: the song only lasted five minutes, six minutes max depending who was performing. So caution to the winds I went for it, squeezing it all into the four and a half minutes or whatever it was, me and the bolster as if there was no tomorrow. Or rather, knowing there was tomorrow and tomorrow was the start of the dry season. Because the minute we’d parked Maud over at the head of the women’s aisle for the night and got through the prayers for the happy repose etcetera I’d be heading for wee Father Finucane behind the curtain and clearing out the clutter with him God help me as my go-between. Between me and my Maker. For I am resolved with the help of Thy holy grace never more to offend Thee but to amend my life Amen. Oh yeah? Yeah, this time it’s for real. One last heave and that’s it. She wasn’t whispering the novenas anymore. No, when she got to Saint Jude patron of hopeless cases she was nearly shouting them.

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This is the last will and testament of Maud Abilene Harrigan. I hereby revoke all previous wills and testamentary dispositions made by me. I appoint my good neighbor Veronica Coffey as executor of this will and direct her to pay my just debts, funeral and testamentary expenses.

To his lordship Most Reverend Doctor Neil Farren, Bishop of Derry, I leave twenty-seven acres and three roods of land, my four local residences and the sum of £95,000.00 stg (ninety-five thousand pounds sterling). For the upkeep of the altar and future renovations to Saint Eugene’s cathedral I leave £750,000.00 stg (seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds sterling). To my good neighbor and executor Veronica Coffey I leave my terra-cotta Child of Prague, three ceramic wild ducks and all other wall furnishings in my Marlborough Terrace home.

The residue and remainder of my properties of any nature and description and wherever situated I leave in five equal shares between the order of the Poor Sisters of Michael the Archangel and the four priests of the parish of Saint Eugene’s, viz., the Reverend Doctor Xavier Hourigan and Fathers Clarence Swindells, Benjamin Finucane and Frank Callanan.

SIGNATORIES: Father Thaddeus Updegrave and Sister Henry Antony of the no longer Poor Sisters of Michael the Archangel.

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Let me get this straight. She left every penny to the church and they don’t have to lift a finger except to sign the checks and rake in the readies. It’s not as if they’re short of a penny. Rolling in it. And lifted and laid too so they are. Well maybe not laid. Although you never know. That priest whatdoyoucallhim, Father Cullinan, or Callanan is it, never did get his name right, that wears the leather jacket and bronze bracelet and lands in at dances in the parish hall smiling all round him, hail fellow well met, chatting to the girls, casual crafty hand round the back when he’s leaving them, taking in all the close dancing that’s going on and him laughing and chatting letting on not to be looking, hard to believe he’s celibate. I’d say at the very least the same boy plays with his toys at night. And why wouldn’t he, says you.

I just can’t take it, that’s what’s wrong with me. Ham and eggs every morning they get (one sausage or two, Father?) and then around about half twelve they tuck into a nice lunch and they all finish up with a big feed of meat in the evening. Except Friday of course. Friday the day of abstinence, no haunch of venison or roast swan on Fridays, no, rules is rules, so they have to make do with wild salmon and beurre blanc sauce, cream potatoes, cauliflower, fresh carrots and garden peas.

Though they don’t always get their own way. I heard a story Margaret the housekeeper over there told somebody. She comes into the dining-room one morning and Father Finucane’s sitting at the breakfast table reading his mail and she’s got the egg boiled and all and she says to him
You’ll have a boiled egg Father?
And he says
No, I think I’ll have a fry Margaret. Some bacon and egg and could you make it two sausages please?
And she says back to him
You’ll have a fucking boiled egg Father.
And he says, nearly choking with the laughing,
I’ll have a boiled egg Margaret.

But that crowd at the wake couldn’t have been more right about Maud and the money. You wouldn’t have believed it to look at the cut of her and the shape of her house. Well she’s booked her place in heaven now anyway. Come into the garden Maud, for the black bat Life has flown. Welcome to Paradise Maud, I am here at the gate alone; and the woodbine spices are wafted abroad and the musk of the rose is blown. Come sit on My right hand, O good and faithful servant, for your name is written in the book of heaven. No, hold on, on second thoughts, why don’t you try this nice wee garden stool instead? No shortage of tulips here, what? See those blue ones over there? Especially for you. Don’t mention it. Now, where was I? Ah yes, the book of heaven. Let’s have a looky.