Angela's Ashes Page 7

  Malachy says, Dad, is Mammy sick?

  Och, she'll be all right, son. She has to see the doctor.

  I wonder what child is lost because we're all here, one two three four of us, not a lost child anywhere and why can't they tell me what's wrong with my mother. Uncle Pa comes back and the ambulance is right behind him. A man comes in with a stretcher and after they carry Mam away there are blood spots on the floor by the bed. Malachy bit his tongue and there was blood and the dog on the street had blood and he died. I want to ask Dad to tell me if Mam will be gone forever like my sister Margaret but he's going with Mam and there's no use asking Aunt Aggie anything for fear she'd bite your head off. She wipes away the blood spots and tells us get back into bed and stay there till Dad comes home.

  It's the middle of the night and the four of us are warm in the bed and we fall asleep till Dad comes home and tells us Mam is nice and comfortable in the hospital and she'll be home in no time.

  Later, Dad goes to the Labour Exchange for the dole. There is no hope of a laboring man with a North of Ireland accent getting a job in Limerick.

  When he returns, he tells Mam we'll be getting nineteen shillings a week. She says that's just enough for all of us to starve on. Nineteen shillings for six of us? That's less than four dollars in American money and how are we supposed to live on that? What are we to do when we have to pay rent in a fortnight? If the rent for this room is five shillings a week we'll have fourteen shillings for food and clothes and coal to boil the water for the tea.

  Dad shakes his head, sips his tea from a jam jar, stares out the window and whistles "The Boys of Wexford." Malachy and Oliver clap their hands and dance around the room and Dad doesn't know whether to whistle or smile because you can't do both and he can't help himself. He has to stop and smile and pat Oliver's head and then go back to the whistling. Mam smiles, too, but it's a very quick smile and when she looks into the ashes you can see the worry where the corners of her mouth turn down.

  Next day she tells Dad to mind the twins and takes Malachy and me with her to the St. Vincent de Paul Society. We stand in a queue with women wearing black shawls. They ask our names and smile when we talk. They say, Lord above, would you listen to the little Yankees, and they wonder why Mam in her American coat would be looking for charity since there's hardly enough for the poor people of Limerick without Yanks coming over and taking the bread out of their mouths.

  Mam tells them a cousin gave her that coat in Brooklyn, that her husband has no work, that she has other children at home, twin boys. The women sniff and pull their shawls about them, they have their own troubles. Mam tells them she had to leave America because she couldn't stand it after her baby girl died. The women sniff again but now it's because Mam is crying. Some say they lost little ones, too, and there's nothing worse in the world, you could live as long as Methuselem's wife but you never get over it. No man can ever know what it is to be a mother that has lost a child, not if the man lived longer than two Methuselems.

  They all have a good cry till a red-haired woman passes a little box around. The women pick something from the box between their fingers and stuff it up their noses. A young woman sneezes and the red-haired woman laughs. Ah, sure, Biddy, you're not able for that snuff. Come here, little Yankee boys, have a pinch. She plants the brown stuff in our nostrils and we sneeze so hard the women stop crying and laugh till they have to wipe their eyes with their shawls. Mam tells us, That's good for ye, 'twill clear yeer heads.

  The young woman, Biddy, tells Mam we're two lovely boys. She points at Malachy. That little fella with the goldy ringlet, isn't he gorgeous? He could be a film star with Shirley Temple. And Malachy smiles and warms up the queue.

  The woman with the snuff says to Mam, Missus, I don't want to be forward but I think you should be sitting down for we heard about your loss.

  Another woman worries, Ah, no, they don't like that.

  Who don't like what?

  Ah, sure, Nora Molloy, the Society don't like us sittin' on the steps. They want us to be standin' respectful against the wall.

  They can kiss my arse, says Nora, the red-haired woman. Sit down there, missus, on that step an' I'll sit next to you an' if there's one word out of the St. Vincent de Paul Society I'll take the face off'em, so I will. Do you smoke, missus?

  I do, says Mam, but I don't have them.

  Nora takes a cigarette from a pocket in her apron, breaks it, and offers half to Mam.

  The worried woman says, They don't like that either. They say every fag you smoke is taking food from the mouth of your child. Mr. Quinlivan inside is dead against it. He says if you have money for the fags you have money for food.

  Quinlivan can kiss my arse, too, the grinny oul' bastard. Is he going to begrudge us a puff of a fag, the only comfort we have in the world?

  A door opens at the end of the hall and a man appears. Are any of ye waiting for children's boots?

  Women raise their hands, I am. I am.

  Well, the boots are all gone. Ye'll have to come back next month.

  But my Mikey needs boots for school.

  They're all gone, I told you.

  But 'tis freezin' abroad, Mr. Quinlivan.

  The boots are all gone. Nothing I can do. What's this? Who's smoking?

  Nora waves her cigarette. I am, she says, and enjoying it down to the last ash.

  Every puff you take, he starts.

  I know, she says, I'm taking food out of the mouths of my children.

  You're insolent, woman. You'll get no charity here.

  Is that a fact? Well, Mr. Quinlivan, if I don't get it here I know where I will.

  What are you talking about?

  I'll go to the Quakers. They'll give me the charity.

  Mr. Quinlivan steps toward Nora and points a finger. Do you know what we have here? We have a souper in our midst. We had the soupers in the Famine. The Protestants went round telling good Catholics that if they gave up their faith and turned Protestant they'd get more soup than their bellies could hold and, God help us, some Catholics took the soup, and were ever after known as soupers and lost their immortal souls doomed to the deepest part of hell. And you, woman, if you go to the Quakers you'll lose your immortal soul and the souls of your children.

  Then, Mr. Quinlivan, you'll have to save us, won't you?

  He stares at her and she stares back at him. His eyes wander to the other women. One puts her hand to her mouth to smother a laugh.

  What are you tittering about? he barks.

  Oh, nothing, Mr. Quinlivan. Honest to God.

  I'm telling ye once more, no boots. And he slams the door behind him.

  One by one the women are called into the room. When Nora comes out she's smiling and waving a piece of paper. Boots, she says. Three pairs I'm gettin' for my children. Threaten the men in there with the Quakers and they'll give you the drawers off their arses.

  When Mam is called she brings Malachy and me in with her. We stand before a table where three men are sitting asking questions. Mr. Quinlivan starts to say something but the man in the middle says, Enough out of you, Quinlivan. If we left it up to you we'd have the poor people of Limerick jumping into the arms of the Protestants.

  He turns to Mam, he wants to know where she got that fine red coat. She tells him what she told the women outside and when she comes to the death of Margaret she shakes and sobs. She tells the men she's very sorry for crying like that but it was only a few months ago and she's not over it yet, not even knowing where her baby was buried if she was buried at all, not knowing even if she was baptized itself because she was so weak from having the four boys she didn't have the energy to be going to the church for the baptism and it's a heart scald to think Margaret might be in Limbo forever with no hope of her ever seeing the rest of us whether we're in heaven, hell, or Purgatory itself.

  Mr. Quinlivan brings her his chair. Ah, now, missus. Ah, now. Sit down, will you. Ah, now.

  The other men look at the table, the ceiling. The man in the
middle says he's giving Mam a docket to get a week's groceries at McGrath's shop on Parnell Street. There will be tea, sugar, flour, milk, butter and a separate docket for a bag of coal from Sutton's coal yard on the Dock Road.

  The third man says, Of course you won't be getting this every week, missus. We will be visiting your house to see if there's a real need. We have to do that, missus, so we can review your claim.

  Mam wipes her face on the back of her sleeve and takes the docket. She tells the men, God bless you for your kindness. They nod and look at the table, the ceiling, the walls and tell her send in the next woman.

  The women outside tell Mam, When you go to McGrath's, keep an eye on the oul' bitch for she'll cheat you on the weight. She'll put stuff on a paper on the scale with the paper hanging down on her side behind the counter where she thinks you can't see it. She'll pull on that paper so that you're lucky if you get half of what you're supposed to get. And she has pictures of the Virgin Mary and the Sacred Heart of Jesus all over the shop, and she's forever on her knees abroad in St. Joseph's chapel clackin' her rosary beads an' breathing like a virgin martyr, the oul' bitch.

  Nora says, I'll go with you, missus. I'm on to the same Mrs. McGrath and I'll know if she's cheating you.

  She leads the way to the shop in Parnell Street. The woman behind the counter is pleasant to Mam in her American coat till Mam shows the St. Vincent de Paul docket. The woman says, I don't know what you're doing here at this hour of the day. I never serve the charity cases before six in the evening. But this is your first time and I'll make an exception.

  She says to Nora, Do you have a docket, too?

  No. I'm a friend helping this poor family with their first docket from the St. Vincent de Paul.

  The woman lays a sheet of newspaper on the scale and pours on flour from a large bag. When she finishes pouring, she says, There's a pound of flour.

  I don't think so, says Nora. That's a very small pound of flour.

  The woman flushes and glares, Are you accusin' me?

  Ah, no, Mrs. McGrath, says Nora. I think there was a little accident there the way your hip was pressed against that paper and you didn't even know the paper was pulled down a bit. Oh, God, no. A woman like you that's forever on her knees before the Virgin Mary is an inspiration to us all and is that your money I see on the floor there?

  Mrs. McGrath steps back quickly and the needle on the scale jumps and quivers. What money? she says, till she looks at Nora, and knows. Nora smiles. Must be a trick of the shadows, she says, and smiles at the scale. There was a mistake right enough for that shows barely half a pound of flour.

  That scale gives me more trouble, says Mrs. McGrath.

  I'm sure it does, says Nora.

  But my conscience is clear before God, says Mrs. McGrath.

  I'm sure it is, says Nora, and you're admired by one and all at the St. Vincent de Paul Society and the Legion of Mary.

  I try to be a good Catholic.

  Try? God knows 'tis little trying you'd have for you're well known for having a kind heart and I was wondering if you could spare a couple of sweets for the little boys here.

  Well, now, I'm not a millionaire, but here ...

  God bless you, Mrs. McGrath, and I know it's asking a lot but could you possibly lend me a couple of cigarettes?

  Well, now, they're not on the docket. I'm not here to supply luxuries.

  If you could see your way, missus, I'd be sure to mention your kindness to the St. Vincent de Paul.

  All right, all right, says Mrs. McGrath. Here. One time for the cigarettes and one time only.

  God bless you, says Nora, and I'm sorry you had so much trouble with that scale.

  On the way home we stopped in the People's Park and sat on a bench while Malachy and I sucked on our sweets and Mam and Nora smoked their cigarettes. The smoking brought on Nora's cough and she told Mam the fags would kill her in the end, that there was a touch of consumption in her family and no one lived to a ripe old age, though who would want to in Limerick, a place where you could look around and the first thing you noticed was a scarcity of gray hairs, all the gray hairs either in the graveyard or across the Atlantic working on railroads or sauntering around in police uniforms.

  You're lucky, missus, that you saw a bit of the world. Oh, God, I'd give anything to see New York, people dancing up and down Broadway without a care. No, I had to go and fall for a boozer with the charm, Peter Molloy, a champion pint drinker that had me up the pole and up the aisle when I was barely seventeen. I was ignorant, missus. We grew up ignorant in Limerick, so we did, knowing feck all about anything and signs on, we're mothers before we're women. And there's nothing here but rain and oul' biddies saying the rosary. I'd give me teeth to get out, go to America or even England itself. The champion pint drinker is always on the dole and sometimes he even drinks that and drives me so demented I wind up in the lunatic asylum.

  She drew on her cigarette and gagged, coughing till her body rocked back and forth, and in between the coughs she whimpered, Jesus, Jesus. When the cough died away she said she had to go home and take her medicine. She said, I'll see you next week, missus, at the St. Vincent de Paul. If you're stuck for anything send a message to me at Vize's Field. Ask anyone for the wife of Peter Molloy, champion pint drinker.

  Eugene is sleeping under a coat on the bed. Dad sits by the fireplace with Oliver on his lap. I wonder why Dad is telling Oliver a Cuchulain story. He knows the Cuchulain stories are mine, but when I look at Oliver I don't mind. His cheeks are bright red, he's staring into the dead fire, and you can see he has no interest in Cuchulain. Mam puts her hand on his forehead. I think he has a fever, she says. I wish I had an onion and I'd boil it in milk and pepper. That's good for the fever. But even if I had what would I boil the milk on? We need coal for that fire.

  She gives Dad the docket for the coal down the Dock Road. He takes me with him but it's dark and all the coal yards are closed.

  What are we going to do now, Dad?

  I don't know, son.

  Ahead of us women in shawls and small children are picking up coal along the road.

  There, Dad, there's coal.

  Och, no, son. We won't pick coal off the road. We're not beggars.

  He tells Mam the coal yards are closed and we'll have to drink milk and eat bread tonight, but when I tell her about the women on the road she passes Eugene to him.

  If you're too grand to pick coal off the road I'll put on my coat and go down the Dock Road.

  She gets a bag and takes Malachy and me with her. Beyond the Dock Road there is something wide and dark with lights glinting in it. Mam says that's the River Shannon. She says that's what she missed most of all in America, the River Shannon. The Hudson was lovely but the Shannon sings. I can't hear the song but my mother does and that makes her happy. The other women are gone from the Dock Road and we search for the bits of coal that drop from lorries. Mam tells us gather anything that burns, coal, wood, cardboard, paper. She says, There are them that burn the horse droppings but we're not gone that low yet. When her bag is nearly full she says, Now we have to find an onion for Oliver. Malachy says he'll find one but she tells him, No, you don't find onions on the road, you get them in shops.

  The minute he sees a shop he cries out, There's a shop, and runs in.

  Oonyen, he says. Oonyen for Oliver.

  Mam runs into the shop and tells the women behind the counter, I'm sorry. The woman says, Lord, he's a dote. Is he an American or what?

  Mam says he is. The woman smiles and shows two teeth, one on each side of her upper gum. A dote, she says, and look at them gorgeous goldy curls. And what is it he wants now? A sweet?

  Ah, no, says Mam. An onion.

  The woman laughs, An onion? I never heard a child wanting an onion before. Is that what they like in America?

  Mam says, I just mentioned I wanted to get an onion for my other child that's sick. Boil the onion in milk, you know.

  True for you, missus. You can't beat the onion
boiled in milk. And look, little boy, here's a sweet for yourself and one for the other little boy, the brother, I suppose.

  Mam says, Ah, sure, you shouldn't. Say thank you, boys.

  The woman says, Here's a nice onion for the sick child, missus.

  Mam says, Oh, I can't buy the onion now, missus. I don't have a penny on me.

  I'm giving you the onion, missus. Let it never be said a child went sick in Limerick for want of an onion. And don't forget to sprinkle in a little pepper. Do you have pepper, missus?

  Ah, no, I don't but I should be getting it any day now.

  Well, here, missus. Pepper and a little salt. Do the child all the good in the world.

  Mam says, God bless you, ma'am, and her eyes are watery.

  Dad is walking back and forth with Oliver in his arms and Eugene is playing on the floor with a pot and a spoon. Dad says, Did you get the onion?

  I did, says Mam, and more. I got coal and the way of lighting it.

  I knew you would. I said a prayer to St. Jude. He's my favorite saint, patron of desperate cases.

  I got the coal. I got the onion, no help from St. Jude.

  Dad says, You shouldn't be picking up coal off the road like a common beggar. It isn't right. Bad example for the boys.

  Then you should have sent St. Jude down the Dock Road.

  Malachy says, I'm hungry, and I'm hungry, too, but Mam says, Ye'll wait till Oliver has his onion boiled in milk.

  She gets the fire going, cuts the onion in half, drops it in the boiling milk with a little butter and sprinkles the milk with pepper. She takes Oliver on her lap and tries to feed him but he turns away and looks into the fire.

  Ah, come on, love, she says. Good for you. Make you big and strong.

  He tightens his mouth against the spoon. She puts the pot down, rocks him till he's asleep, lays him on the bed and tells the rest of us be quiet or she'll demolish us. She slices the other half of the onion and fries it in butter with slices of bread. She lets us sit on the floor around the fire where we eat the fried bread and sip at the scalding sweet tea in jam jars. She says, That fire is good and bright so we can turn off that gaslight till we get money for the meter.

  The fire makes the room warm and with the flames dancing in the coal you can see faces and mountains and valleys and animals leaping. Eugene falls asleep on the floor and Dad lifts him to the bed beside Oliver. Mam puts the boiled onion pot up on the mantelpiece for fear a mouse or rat might be at it. She says she's tired out from the day, the Vincent de Paul Society, Mrs. McGrath's shop, the search for coal down the Dock Road, the worry over Oliver not wanting the boiled onion, and if he's like this tomorrow she's taking him to the doctor, and now she's going to bed.