Angela's Ashes Page 33

  And even the story ran that he could gauge.

  In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,

  For, even though vanquished, he could argue still,

  While words of learned length and thundering sound

  Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around.

  And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,

  That one small head could carry all he knew.

  We know he loves these lines because they're about a schoolmaster, about him, and he's right because we wonder how one small head could carry all he knows and we will remember him in these lines. He says, Ah, boys, boys, You can make up your own minds but first stock them. Are you listening to me? Stock your minds and you can move through the world resplendent. Clarke, define resplendent.

  I think it's shining, sir.

  Pithy, Clarke, but adequate. McCourt, give us a sentence with pithy.

  Clarke is pithy but adequate, sir.

  Adroit, McCourt. You have a mind for the priesthood, my boy, or politics. Think of that.

  I will, sir.

  Tell your mother come and see me.

  I will, sir.

  Mam says, No, I could never go near Mr. O'Halloran. I don't have a decent dress or a proper coat. What does he want to see me for?

  I don't know.

  Well, ask him.

  I can't. He'll kill me. If he says bring your mother you have to bring your mother or out comes the stick.

  She comes to see him and he talks to her in the hallway. He tells her that her son Frank must continue school. He must not fall into the messenger boy trap. That leads nowhere. Take him up to the Christian Brothers, tell them I sent you, tell them he is a bright boy and ought to be going to secondary school and beyond that, university.

  He tells her he did not become headmaster of Leamy's National School to preside over an academy of messenger boys.

  Mam says, Thank you, Mr. O'Halloran.

  I wish Mr. O'Halloran would mind his own business. I don't want to go to the Christian Brothers. I want to quit school forever and get a job, get my wages every Friday, go to the pictures on Saturday nights like everyone.

  A few days later Mam tells me give my face and hands a good wash, we're going to the Christian Brothers. I tell her I don't want to go, I want to work, I want to be a man. She tells me stop the whining, I'm going to secondary school and we'll all manage somehow. I'm going to school if she has to scrub floors and she'll practice on my face.

  She knocks on the door at the Christian Brothers and says she wants to see the superior, Brother Murray. He comes to the door, looks at my mother and me and says, What?

  Mam says, This is my son, Frank. Mr. O'Halloran at Leamy's 7ays he's bright and would there be any chance of getting him in here for secondary school?

  We don't have room for him, says Brother Murray and closes the door in our faces.

  Mam turns away from the door and it's a long silent walk home. She takes off her coat, makes tea, sits by the fire. Listen to me, she says. Are you listening?

  I am.

  That's the second time a door was slammed in your face by the Church.

  Is it? I don't remember.

  Stephen Carey told you and your father you couldn't be an altar boy and closed the door in your face. Do you remember that?

  I do.

  And now Brother Murray slams the door in your face.

  I don't mind. I want to get a job.

  Her face tightens and she's angry. You are never to let anybody slam the door in your face again. Do you hear me?

  She starts to cry by the fire, Oh, God, I didn't bring ye into the world to be a family of messenger boys.

  I don't know what to do or say, I'm so relieved I don't have to stay in school for five or six more years.

  I'm free.

  I'm thirteen going on fourteen and it's June, the last month of school forever. Mam takes me to see the priest, Dr. Cowpar, about getting a job as telegram boy. The supervisor in the post office, Mrs. O'Connell, says, Do you know how to cycle, and I lie that I do. She says I can't start till I'm fourteen so come back in August.

  Mr. O'Halloran tells the class it's a disgrace that boys like McCourt, Clarke, Kennedy, have to hew wood and draw water. He is disgusted by this free and independent Ireland that keeps a class system foisted on us by the English, that we are throwing our talented children on the dungheap.

  You must get out of this country, boys. Go to America, McCourt. Do you hear me?

  I do, sir.

  Priests come to the school to recruit us for the foreign missions, Redemptorists, Franciscans, Holy Ghost Fathers, all converting the distant heathen. I ignore them. I'm going to America till one priest catches my attention. He says he comes from the order of the White Fathers, missionaries to the nomadic Bedouin tribes and chaplains to the French Foreign Legion.

  I ask for the application.

  I will need a letter from the parish priest and a physical examination by my family doctor. The parish priest writes the letter on the spot. He would have been glad to see me go last year. The doctor says, What's this?

  That's an application to join the White Fathers, missionaries to the nomadic tribes of the Sahara and chaplains to the French Foreign Legion.

  Oh, yeh? French Foreign Legion, is it? Do you know the preferred form of transportation in the Sahara Desert?

  Trains?

  No. It's the camel. Do you know what a camel is?

  It has a hump.

  It has more than a hump. It has a nasty, mean disposition and its teeth are green with gangrene and it bites. Do you know where it bites?

  In the Sahara?

  No, you omadhaun. It bites your shoulder, rips it right off. Leaves you standing there tilted in the Sahara. How would you like that, eh? And what class of a spectacle you'd be strolling down the street, lopsided in Limerick. What girl in her right mind will look at an ex-White Father with one miserable scrawny shoulder? And look at your eyes. They're bad enough here in Limerick. In the Sahara they'll fester and rot and fall out of your head. How old are you?

  Thirteen.

  Go home to your mother.

  It's not our house and we don't feel free in it the way we did in Roden Lane, up in Italy or down in Ireland. When Laman comes home he wants to read in his bed or sleep and we have to be quiet. We stay in the streets till after dark and when we come inside there's nothing to do but go to bed and read a book if we have a candle or paraffin oil for the lamp.

  Mam tells us go to bed, she'll be after us in a minute as soon as she climbs to the loft with Laman's last mug of tea. We often fall asleep before she goes up but there are nights we hear them talking, grunting, moaning. There are nights when she never comes down and Michael and Alphie have the big bed to themselves. Malachy says she stays up there because it's too hard for her to climb down in the dark.

  He's only twelve and he doesn't understand.

  I'm thirteen and I think they're at the excitement up there.

  I know about the excitement and I know it's a sin but how can it be a sin if it comes to me in a dream where American girls pose in swimming suits on the screen at the Lyric Cinema and I wake up pushing and pumping? It's a sin when you're wide awake and going at yourself the way the boys talked about it in Leamy's schoolyard after Mr. O'Dea roared the Sixth Commandment at us, Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery, which means impure thoughts, impure words, impure deeds, and that's what adultery is, Dirty Things in General.

  One Redemptorist priest barks at us all the time about the Sixth Commandment. He says impurity is so grave a sin the Virgin Mary turns her face away and weeps.

  And why does she weep, boys? She weeps because of you and what you are doing to her Beloved Son. She weeps when she looks down the long dreary vista of time and beholds in horror the spectacle of Limerick boys defiling themselves, polluting themselves, interfering with themselves, abusing themselves, soiling their young bodies, which are the temples of the Holy Ghost. Our Lady weeps over these abominations know
ing that every time you interfere with yourself you nail to the cross her Beloved Son, that once more you hammer into His dear head the crown of thorns, that you reopen those ghastly wounds. In an agony of thirst He hangs on the cross and what is He offered by those perfidious Romans? A lavatory sponge plunged into vinegar and gall and thrust into His poor mouth, a mouth that moves rarely except to pray, to pray even for you, boys, even for you who nailed Him to that cross. Consider Our Lord's suffering. Consider the crown of thorns. Consider a small pin driven into your skull, the agony of the piercing. Consider then twenty thorns driven into your head. Reflect, meditate on the nails tearing His hands, His feet. Could you endure a fraction of that agony? Take that pin again, that mere pin. Force it into your side. Enlarge that sensation a hundredfold and you are penetrated by that awful lance. Oh, boys, the devil wants your souls. He wants you with him in hell and know this, that every time you interfere with yourself, every time you succumb to the vile sin of self-abuse you not only nail Christ to the cross you take another step closer to hell itself. Retreat from the abyss, boys. Resist the devil and keep your hands to yourself.

  I can't stop interfering with myself. I pray to the Virgin Mary and tell her I'm sorry I put her Son back on the cross and I'll never do it again but I can't help myself and swear I'll go to confession and after that, surely after that, I'll never never do it again. I don't want to go to hell with devils chasing me for eternity jabbing me with hot pitchforks.

  The priests of Limerick have no patience with the likes of me. I go to confession and they hiss that I'm not in a proper spirit of repentance, that if I were I'd give up this hideous sin. I go from church to church looking for an easy priest till Paddy Clohessy tells me there's one in the Dominican church who's ninety years old and deaf as a turnip. Every few weeks the old priest hears my confession and mumbles that I should pray for him. Sometimes he falls asleep and I don't have the heart to wake him up so I go to Communion the next day without penance or absolution. It's not my fault if priests fall asleep on me and surely I'm in a state of grace just for going to confession. Then one day the little panel in the confession box slides back and it's not my man at all, it's a young priest with a big ear like a seashell. He'll surely hear everything.

  Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it's a fortnight since my last confession.

  And what have you done since then, my child?

  I hit my brother, I went on the mooch from school, I lied to my mother.

  Yes, my child, and what else?

  I--I--I did dirty things, Father.

  Ah, my child, was that with yourself or with another or with some class of beast?

  Some class of beast. I never heard of a sin like that before. This priest must be from the country and if he is he's opening up new worlds to me.

  The night before I'm to go to Killaloe Laman Griffin comes home drunk and eats a great bag of fish and chips at the table. He tells Mam boil water for tea and when she says she has no coal or turf he yells at her and calls her a great lump living free under his roof with her pack of brats. He throws money at me to go to the shop for a few sods of turf and wood for kindling. I don't want to go. I want to hit him for the way he treats my mother but if I say anything he won't let me have the bicycle tomorrow after I've waited three weeks.

  When Mam gets the fire going and boils the water I remind him of his promise to loan me the bike.

  Did you empty the chamber pot today?

  Oh, I forgot. I'll do it this minute.

  He shouts, You didn't empty my damn chamber pot. I promise you the bike. I give you tuppence a week to run messages for me and empty the chamber pot and you stand there with your thick gob hanging out and tell me you didn't do it.

  I'm sorry. I forgot. I'll do it now.

  You will, will you? And how do you think you'll get up to the loft? Are you going to pull the table out from under my fish and chips?

  Mam says, Sure, he was at school all day and he had to go to the doctor for his eyes.

  Well, you can bloody well forget about the bicycle. You didn't live up to the bargain.

  But he couldn't do it, says Mam.

  He tells her shut up and mind her own business and she goes quiet by the fire. He goes back to his fish and chips but I tell him again, You promised me. I emptied that chamber pot and did your messages for three weeks.

  Shut up and go to bed.

  You can't tell me go to bed. You're not my father, and you promised me.

  I'm telling you, as sure as God made little apples, that if I get up from this table you'll be calling for your patron saint.

  You promised me.

  He pushes the chair back from the table. He stumbles toward me and sticks his finger between my eyes. I'm telling you shut your gob, scabby eyes.

  I won't. You promised me.

  He punches my shoulders and when I won't stop moves to my head. My mother jumps up, crying, and tries to pull him away. He punches and kicks me into the bedroom but I keep saying, You promised me. He knocks me to my mother's bed and punches till I cover my face and head with my arms.

  I'll kill you, you little shit.

  Mam is screaming and pulling at him till he falls backward into the kitchen. She says, Come on, oh, come on. Eat your fish and chips. He's only a child. He'll get over it.

  I hear him go back to his chair and pull it to the table. I hear him snuffle and slurp when he eats and drinks. Hand me the matches, he says. By Jesus, I need a fag after that. There's a put-put sound when he puffs on the cigarette and a whimper from my mother.

  He says, I'm going to bed, and with the drink in him it takes him a while to climb the chair to the table, pull up the chair, climb to the loft. The bed squeaks under him and he grunts when he pulls off his boots and drops them to the floor.

  I can hear Mam crying when she blows into the globe of the paraffin oil lamp and everything goes dark. After what happened she'll surely want to get into her own bed and I'm ready to go to the small one against the wall. Instead, there's the sound of her climbing the chair, the table, the chair, crying up into the loft and telling Laman Griffin, He's only a boy, tormented with his eyes, and when Laman says, He's a little shit and I want him out of the house, she cries and begs till there's whispering and grunting and moaning and nothing.

  In awhile they're snoring in the loft and my brothers are asleep around me. I can't stay in this house for if Laman Griffin comes at me again I'll take a knife to his neck. I don't know what to do or where to go.

  I leave the house and follow the streets from the Sarsfield Barracks to the Monument Cafe. I dream of how I'll get back at Laman some day. I'll go to America and see Joe Louis. I'll tell him my troubles and he'll understand because he comes from a poor family. He'll show me how to build up my muscles, how to hold my hands and use my feet. He'll show me how to dig my chin into my shoulder the way he does and how to let go with a right uppercut that will send Laman flying. I'll drag Laman to the graveyard at Mungret where his family and Mam's family are buried and I'll cover him with earth all the way to his chin so that he won't be able to move and he'll beg for his life and I'll say, End of the road, Laman, you're going to meet your Maker, and he'll beg and beg while I trickle dirt on his face till it's covered completely and he's gasping and asking God for forgiveness for not giving me the bike and punching me all over the house and doing the excitement with my mother and I'll be laughing away because he's not in a state of grace after the excitement and he's going to hell as sure as God made little apples as he used to say himself.

  The streets are dark and I have to keep an eye out in case I might be lucky like Malachy long ago and find fish and chips dropped by drunken soldiers. There's nothing on the ground. If I find my uncle, Ab Sheehan, he might give me some of his Friday night fish and chips, but they tell me in the cafe he came and went already. I'm thirteen now so I don't call him Uncle Pat anymore. I call him Ab or The Abbot like everybody else. Surely if I go to Grandma's house he'll give me a piece of bread or something and may
be he'll let me stay the night. I can tell him I'll be working in a few weeks delivering telegrams and getting big tips at the post office and ready to pay my own way.

  He's sitting up in bed finishing his fish and chips, dropping to the floor the Limerick Leader they were wrapped in, wiping his mouth and hands with the blanket. He looks at me, That face is all swole. Did you fall on that face?

  I tell him I did because there's no use telling him anything else. He wouldn't understand. He says, You can stay in me mother's bed tonight. You can't walk the streets with that face and them two red eyes in your head.

  He says there's no food in the house, not a scrap of bread, and when he falls asleep I take the greasy newspaper from the floor. I lick the front page, which is all advertisements for films and dances in the city. I lick the headlines. I lick the great attacks of Patton and Montgomery in France and Germany. I lick the war in the Pacific. I lick the obituaries and the sad memorial poems, the sports pages, the market prices of eggs butter and bacon. I suck the paper till there isn't a smidgen of grease.

  I wonder what I'll do tomorrow.

  XIV

  In the morning The Abbot gives me the money to go to Kathleen O'Connell's for bread, margarine, tea, milk. He boils water on the gas ring and tells me I can have a mug of tea and, Go aisy with the sugar, I'm not a millionaire. You can have a cut o'bread but don't make it too thick.

  It's July and school is over forever. In a few weeks I'll be delivering telegrams at the post office, working like a man. In the weeks I'm idle I can do anything I like, get up in the morning, stay in bed, take long walks out the country like my father, wander around Limerick. If I had the money I'd go over to the Lyric Cinema, eat sweets, see Errol Flynn conquering everyone in sight. I can read the English and Irish papers The Abbot brings home or I can use the library cards of Laman Griffin and my mother till I'm found out.

  Mam sends Michael with a milk bottle of warm tea, a few cuts of bread smeared with dripping, a note to say Laman Griffin isn't angry anymore and I can come back. Michael says, Are you coming home, Frankie?

  No.

  Ah, do, Frankie. Come on.

  I live here now. I'm never going back.

  But Malachy is gone to the army and you're here and I have no big brother. All the boys have big brothers and I only have Alphie. He's not even four and can't talk right.