Angela's Ashes Read online

  Mam says, Ah, no, Pa, ah, no, and they take her inside and comfort her with a drop of sherry from Spain.

  It's late in the day when the Irish Oak sails from Cork, past Kinsale and Cape Clear, and dark when lights twinkle on Mizen Head, the last of Ireland I'll see for God knows how long.

  Surely I should have stayed, taken the post office examination, climbed in the world. I could have brought in enough money for Michael and Alphie to go to school with proper shoes and bellies well filled. We could have moved from the lane to a street or even an avenue where houses have gardens. I should have taken that examination and Mam would never again have to empty the chamber pots of Mr. Sliney or anyone else.

  It's too late now. I'm on the ship and there goes Ireland into the night and it's foolish to be standing on this deck looking back and thinking of my family and Limerick and Malachy and my father in England and even more foolish that songs are going through my head Roddy McCorley goes to die and Mam gasping Oh the days of the Kerry dancing with poor Mr. Clohessy hacking away in the bed and now I want Ireland back at least I had Mam and my brothers and Aunt Aggie bad as she was and Uncle Pa, standing me my first pint, and my bladder is near my eye and here's a priest standing by me on the deck and you can see he's curious.

  He's a Limerickman but he has an American accent from his years in Los Angeles. He knows how it is to leave Ireland, did it himself and never got over it. You live in Los Angeles with sun and palm trees day in day out and you ask God if there's any chance He could give you one soft rainy Limerick day.

  The priest sits beside me at the table of the First Officer, who tells us ship's orders have been changed and instead of sailing to New York we're bound for Montreal.

  Three days out and orders are changed again. We are going to New York after all.

  Three American passengers complain, Goddam Irish. Can't they get it straight?

  The day before we sail into New York orders are changed again. We are going to a place up the Hudson River called Albany.

  The Americans say, Albany? Goddam Albany? Why the hell did we have to sail on a goddam Irish tub? Goddam.

  The priest tells me pay no attention. All Americans are not like that.

  I'm on deck the dawn we sail into New York. I'm sure I'm in a film, that it will end and lights will come up in the Lyric Cinema. The priest wants to point out things but he doesn't have to. I can pick out the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the Brooklyn Bridge. There are thousands of cars speeding along the roads and the sun turns everything to gold. Rich Americans in top hats white ties and tails must be going home to bed with the gorgeous women with white teeth. The rest are going to work in warm comfortable offices and no one has a care in the world.

  The Americans are arguing with the captain and a man who climbed aboard from a tugboat. Why can't we get off here? Why do we have to sail all the goddam way to goddam Albany?

  The man says, Because you're passengers on the vessel and the captain is the captain and we have no procedures for taking you ashore.

  Oh, yeah. Well, this is a free country and we're American citizens.

  Is that a fact? Well, you're on an Irish ship with an Irish captain and you'll do what he goddam tells you or swim ashore.

  He climbs down the ladder, tugboat chugs away, and we sail up the Hudson past Manhattan, under the George Washington Bridge, past hundreds of Liberty ships that did their bit in the war, moored now and ready to rot.

  The captain announces the tide will force us to drop anchor overnight opposite a place called, the priest spells it for me, Poughkeepsie. The priest says that's an Indian name and the Americans say goddam Poughkeepsie.

  After dark a small boat put-puts to the ship and an Irish voice calls up, Hello, there. Bejasus, I saw the Irish flag, so I did. Couldn't believe me two eyes. Hello, there.

  He invites the First Officer to go ashore for a drink and bring a friend and, You, too, Father. Bring a friend.

  The priest invites me and we climb down a ladder to the small boat with the First Officer and the Wireless Officer. The man in the boat says his name is Tim Boyle from Mayo God help us and we docked there at the right time because there's a bit of a party and we're all invited. He takes us to a house with a lawn, a fountain and three pink birds standing on one leg. There are five women in a room called a living room. The women have stiff hair, spotless frocks. They have glasses in their hands and they're friendly and smile with perfect teeth. One says, Come right in. Just in time for the pawty.

  Pawty. That's the way they talk and I suppose I'll be talking like that in a few years.

  Tim Boyle tells us the girls are having a bit of a time while their husbands are away overnight hunting deer, and one woman, Betty, says, Yeah. Buddies from the war. That war is over nearly five years and they can't get over it so they shoot animals every weekend and drink Rheingold till they can't see. Goddam war, excuse the language, Fawder.

  The priest whispers to me, These are bad women. We won't stay here long.

  The bad women say, Whatcha like to drink? We got everything. What's your name, honey?

  Frank McCourt.

  Nice name. So you take a little drink. All the Irish take a little drink. You like a beer?

  Yes, please.

  Gee, so polite. I like the Irish. My grandmother was half Irish so that makes me half, quarter? I dunno. My name is Frieda. So here's your beer, honey.

  The priest sits at the end of a sofa which they call a couch and two women talk to him. Betty asks the First Officer if he'd like to see the house and he says, Oh, I would, because we don't have houses like this in Ireland. Another woman tells the Wireless Officer he should see what they have growing in the garden, you wouldn't believe the flowers. Frieda asks me if I'm okay and I tell her yes but would she mind telling me where the lavatory is.

  The what?

  Lavatory.

  Oh, you mean the bathroom. Right this way, honey, down the hall.

  Thanks.

  She pushes in the door, turns on the light, kisses my cheek and whispers she'll be right outside if I need anything.

  I stand at the toilet bowl firing away and wonder what I'd need at a time like this and if this is a common thing in America, women waiting outside while you take a splash.

  I finish, flush and go outside. She takes my hand and leads me into a bedroom, puts down her glass, locks the door, pushes me down on the bed. She's fumbling at my fly. Damn buttons. Don't you have zippers in Ireland? She pulls out my excitement climbs up on me slides up and down up and down Jesus I'm in heaven and there's a knock on the door the priest Frank are you in there Frieda putting her finger to her lips and her eyes rolling to heaven Frank are you in there Father would you ever take a good running jump for yourself and oh God oh Theresa do you see what's happening to me at long last I don't give a fiddler's fart if the Pope himself knocked on this door and the College of Cardinals gathered gawking at the windows oh God the whole inside of me is gone into her and she collapses on me and tells me I'm wonderful and would I ever consider settling in Poughkeepsie.

  Frieda tells the priest I had a bit of a dizziness after going to the bathroom, that's what happens when you travel and you're drinking a strange beer like Rheingold, which she believes they don't have in Ireland. I can see the priest doesn't believe her and I can't stop the way the heat is coming and going in my face. He already wrote down my mother's name and address and now I'm afraid he'll write and say your fine son spent his first night in America in a bedroom in Poughkeepsie romping with a woman whose husband was away shooting deer for a bit of relaxation after doing his bit for America in the war and isn't this a fine way to treat the men who fought for their country.

  The First Officer and the Wireless Officer return from their tours of the house and the garden and they don't look at the priest. The women tell us we must be starving and they go into the kitchen. We sit in the living room saying nothing to each other and listening to the women whispering and
laughing in the kitchen. The priest whispers to me again, Bad women, bad women, occasion of sin, and I don't know what to say to him.

  The bad women bring out sandwiches and pour more beer and when we finish eating they put on Frank Sinatra records and ask if anyone would like to dance. No one says yes because you'd never get up and dance with bad women in the presence of a priest, so the women dance with each other and laugh as if they all had little secrets. Tim Boyle drinks whiskey and falls asleep in a corner till Frieda wakes him and tells him take us back to the ship. When we're leaving Frieda leans toward me as if she might kiss my cheek but the priest says good night in a very sharp way and no one shakes hands. As we walk down the street to the river we hear the women laughing, tinkling and bright in the night air.

  We climb the ladder and Tim calls to us from his little boat, Mind yourselves going up that ladder. Oh, boys, oh, boys, wasn't that a grand night? Good night, boys, and good night, Father.

  We watch his little boat till it disappears into the dark of the Poughkeepsie riverbank. The priest says good night and goes below and the First Officer follows him.

  I stand on the deck with the Wireless Officer looking at the lights of America twinkling. He says, My God, that was a lovely night, Frank. Isn't this a great country altogether?

  XIX

  'Tis.