Category Archives: Rural Ireland

The fog is lifting from the scene and I am forced to go… Lovely Leitrim and the call of duty

 

I set out to write this piece about a week ago but got completely side-tracked. One of the things that distracted me was getting glued to the twenty four hour news coverage of the most recent terror attack on the Borough Market in London.  In horrific moments such as these we cling to any semblance of humanity and hope. Amidst these terrible events the pieces of shattered humanity can begin to be glued together again when we hear of cameos of real heroes; ordinary people doing extraordinary acts to try to help and protect others. I’m thinking of the paramedics rushing in to tend to the injured whilst the attackers still roamed the streets. I’m also thinking of the Spanish man on Saturday evening last who took on one of the knife wielding attackers with his skateboard. What a brave man, a true hero. You can’t help everyone but everyone can help someone.

Irish people tend to remember heroes by penning songs about their feats. I am writing today about a hero and also a song but the song isn’t about his heroism, it’s a song he wrote reminiscing about his home county in Ireland, his heroism was to come later. The song is not a complicated verse, it is quite simple in fact, typical of its age but it is very sincere. When music was put to the lyrics the verse became a waltz and when a man from Longford called Larry Cunningham sang it in the 1960’s it became a hit. By this time the author was already dead for almost two decades and it is the nature of his death that makes the song all the more poignant today for Leitrim people everywhere.

I was in ‘Fitzpatricks’ Bar in Mohill, County Leitrim recently. This fine public house is run by Val Fitzpatrick and his wife Carmel and is also known as the Ceili House. The Fitzpatricks originally hail from the proud parish of Aughavas in the heart of South Leitrim. The family have a long musical tradition going back several generations. As an aside the family are also related to the late BAFTA Award winning actor Patrick McGoohan, he who appeared in famous TV serials such as ‘The Prisoner’ and ‘Danger Man’ in addition to blockbusters like ‘A Time to Kill’ and ‘Braveheart’.

Phil FitzpatrickAs usual I digress. The person I most want to discuss is a man called Phil Fitzpatrick who was born in Aughavas in 1892. Phil emigrated to New York just after independence and joined New York’s finest as a Patrolman in 1926. He spent most of his career in the mounted section patrolling Midtown and Central Park.

It probably seemed like an ordinary day. Fitzpatrick was off-duty and having lunch with a colleague in a tavern on the Upper East Side. Suddenly two armed men rushed into the Tavern and sought to rob the staff and all the patrons. Fitzpatrick and his colleague Patrolman George Dammeyer didn’t think twice and confronted the criminals. A shootout ensued. The two criminals were killed but Fitzpatrick was badly wounded in the stomach. He was taken to nearby Beth Israel Hospital and survived for six days before finally passing away on the 26th May, 1947. A year later he was posthumously awarded the NYPD Medal of Honor. He left behind him a widow and five children.

The song ‘Lovely Leitrim’ was originally only a B-Side on the record released by Larry Cunningham. Gradually though it became popular and eventually it would go all the way to number one knocking The Beatles off top spot.

Today the song is synonymous with the County and sung on all occasions happy, sad and everything in between. I recall it being sung very poorly one night by three inebriated Leitrimites (including yours truly) in a taxi in Manchester. Perhaps the best renditions were given on those long nights in the summer of 1994 when Leitrim were crowned Connacht Champions for the first time in 67 years.

leitrim-cocoLast night I had a pleasant dream, I woke up with a smile

I dreamed that I was back again in dear old Erin’s isle.

I thought I saw Lough Allen’s banks in the valleys down below

It was my lovely Leitrim where the Shannon waters flow.

As is often the way one begins to write something that is already clear in your mind, yet somehow by the time it reaches the page it has transformed into something else altogether. I’ve since discovered numerous well written articles about Phil Fitzpatrick online and referencing the 70th anniversary of his death. I’m a bit behind the crowd so to speak …except, what I’m looking for now is some meaning and a modern parallel to this mans life and his death.

It seems to me that time moves and so this emigrants lament just seems to tag along with it. This despite a lot of changes. The scene of the fatal shooting on the corner of 3rd Avenue and 96th is now opposite the Islamic Cultural Center of New York. Fitzpatrick’s grand-nephew Brian is now a Republican Congressman for Pennsylvania.  Phil Fitzpatrick put his body on the line seventy years ago to tackle two armed raiders. I’ve already mentioned a man who acted the same way last Saturday night in London. His name was Ignacio Echeverría.  ISIS will not succeed in their hate and terror campaign. I know this to be true because they are faced not just by powerful nations but with the might of ordinary citizens prepared to take on their bloodthirsty cadres with nothing but a skateboard, responders motivated not by religion or hate but the simple desire to help a stranger. I’m also thinking of another line in another poem by Fitzpatrick that resonates. It is called ‘Soldiers of Peace’ and it contains the prophetic line, “when he kisses his wife and children goodbye, there’s the chance he will see them no more”.

Helping others

 

Where the wandering water gushes

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Knocknarea, Strandhill, Co. Sligo  http://gostrandhill.com/local-information/ photo Irish Aer Corps

The morning frost heralded the low January Sun to bathe its light on the neat patchwork of fields around Coolera, County Sligo. As we climbed the ancient hill of Knocknarea, Yeats words came floating over the shrill air;

“The wind has bundled up the clouds high over Knocknarea,

And thrown the thunder on the stones for all that Maeve can say”[i]

(W.B Yeats ‘The Wanderings of Oisin’)

It must be ten years or more since I last climbed this beautiful summit – its distinctive outline bookends the southern end of Sligo Bay with the majestic Ben Bulben to the north. The pathway has been well maintained and access is comfortable even for those of us with moderate fitness.

A few steep rocky climbs near the top are the only challenging obstacles that lie before the famous Neolithic Cairn that crowns the summit finally comes into view. The Cairn is the reputed burial place of the legendary Queen Maedbh of Connaught. Indeed the landscape stretched out below is abundant in ancient portal tombs and passage graves, making this area as important to archaeology as the better known Bru na Boinne on the east coast[ii].

 

One cannot help but feel that you are literally tracing the footsteps of our ancestors as you approach the top. The views when you get there are spectacular. The infinite expanse of the Atlantic stretches out below, becalmed today, as it laps up gently against the shore at Strandhill. Across the entrance to Sligo Bay lies Rosses Point with its famous strand, beyond that Lisadell House, home of Countess Markievicz, and Drumcliffe graveyard where Yeats now lies in eternal peace, casting a cold eye on us all. In the distance can be seen the hills of Donegal and the mighty cliffs of Sliabh League.

 

 

Inland is the aforementioned Ben Bulben, majestically carved by glacier, wind and rain into its unique undulating face.  It was in the heather atop this iconic Mountain where the mythical Diarmuid and Grainne found themsleves confronted by a wild boar. As the young warrior shielded his lover (the most beautiful woman in Ireland) he fought off the boar and after a ferocious struggle killed it with his sword. Sadly the story did not have a happy ending. The brave Diarmuid in saving his lover was alas fatally gored by the Boar and died soon after in Grainne’s arms. In the further distance lie the Dartry Hills and the peaceful glens and mountains of North Leitrim, a hill walker’s paradise.

Later we drive along the northern shore of Lough Gill and view the Lake Isle of Innisfree where Yeats intended to arise and go to:-

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,

And live alone in the bee loud glade. 

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings. 

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

(W.B Yeats ‘The Lake Isle of Inisfree’)

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Parkes Castle

We are now into  County Leitrim and our first stop is at Parkes Castle which although closed for the winter is still a worthwhile stop. The building is not really a Castle as such but a 17th Century Manor House built by the Planter Robert Parke. Its main purpose was  defensive as Parke had recently acquired lands confiscated from the local Gaelic Chieftains, the O’Rourke’s, traditional rulers of the Kingdom of Breifne.

A few miles on further along this picturesque lake side road lies the neat village of Dromahaire. The town sits on the banks of the River Bonet and was the seat of the O’Rourke’s and the Franciscan Abbey at Creevlea. We drive north towards Manorhamilton before turning left on the N16 and into the valley of Glencar. A few miles on we turn off and drive down to the lake of the same name and visit Glencar Waterfall. The Discover Ireland website states “while not the highest waterfall in the area, Glencar Waterfall is generally considered the most romantic and impressive”. The enchanting waters cascading into the leafy glen also inspired the National Poet:-

img_9926“Where the wandering water gushes

From the hills above Glencar,

In pools among the rushes

That scarce could bathe a star,

We seek for slumbering trout

And whispering in their ears

Give them unquiet dreams;

Leaning softly out

From ferns that drop their tears

Over the young streams.”

(W.B Yeats ‘The Stolen Child’)

The Waterfall is easily accessed from the lakeside car park along a well maintained pathway. Also at the entrance is a charming little coffee shop called “The Teashed”. The staff were very friendly and welcoming and as coffee shops go the food here was excellent and not too pricey.  The fare consists  of freshly baked scones and bread, various sweet goodies, a wide choice of freshly made sandwiches, wraps, paninis, salads and hearty homemade soup. There are lots of local crafts on sale. The site has a playground – useful to rid the young ones of any pent up cabin fever. This is also the perfect spot for weary limbs to recover from hiking in the hills above. The outside tables would be a lovely place to sit out in the warmer months. [iii]

 

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“The Teashed”            photo www.ldco.ie

All along the lake are many places where one could have a nice picnic. We caught a lovely sunset on the lake as the weak winter sun surrendered itself for another day. We began our journey home with just a further quick pit-stop for ice cream for the younger travellers, notwithstanding it was now below freezing outside! Later on, safely home, unshod, night fallen and the fire taken hold we continued to relish in the glow of a day well spent, dipping into the ancient and majestic landscape of Sligo and North Leitrim. We have many similar day trips planned. You can check out what’s on offer in Leitrim at http://leitrimtourism.com/ and in neighbouring Sligo at http://www.sligotourism.ie/ . Go and find your “bee loud glade”, its out there somewhere waiting to be discovered.

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Sunset at Glencar Lake, Co. Leitrim

[i] https://allpoetry.com/The-Wanderings-Of-Oisin:-Book-I

[ii] http://www.worldheritageireland.ie/bru-na-boinne/

[iii] http://www.discoverireland.ie/Activities-Adventure/glencar-teashed/95624

Leitrim’s Lake monster – The legendary Dobhar Chu

Dobhar-ChuI was recently reading up on ancient tales on Irish Lake monsters and came across this interesting piece on the death of a woman in 1722 in Glenade Lake. Apparently the woman who was named Grace or Grainne, and married to a Turlough McLoghlin, was washing clothes in the lake when she was attacked by the Dobhar-Chu.

This is an extract from Dave Walsh’s piece on his site Blather.net

“Dobhar-chú (a.k.a. the Water Hound or Master Otter), and in particular, allegations concerning the demise of a Co. Leitrim woman in 1722, supposedly mauled by such a beast. Sligo fortean Joe Harte managed to track down her grave, in Glenade, on the north side of Ben Bulben mountain, and this writer managed to get hold of a copy of the Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, vol. 78, (1948), where was found, on pages 127-129, The Dobhar-chú Tombstones of Glenade, Co. Leitrim by Patrick Tohall. Later on, last September — as mentioned in an earlier Blather Joe and I visited the grave”.

The piece goes on to say –

“Our Leitrim lady, however, seems to have had a less fortunate fate. On her headstone is a raised illustration of what appears to be, for all intents and purposes, a stylised otter impaled by spear, held in a disembodied hand. The deceased name appears to have been Grace, but her surname is indecipherable – possibly McGlone. Tohall, who had 50 years less weathering to deal with, found that:

‘Line by Line the text reads: –(1) (Illegible), (2) ??ODY OF (3) GRACE CON (4) N?Y WIFE (5) TO TER MAC (6) LOGHLIN WHO (7) DYD 7BER (8) THE 24TH (9) ANN DMI (10) MDCCXXII. Points of note are: (a) The woman is still spoken of as “Grainne ” (not “Grace”) around her home; (b) The name “Ter” is obviously a contraction for “Terence”, the modern baptismal name adopted to supplant the traditional “Toirdhealbhach.” Only recently has the spoken language surrendered to the change, as down to our own time those who signed “Terence” were called “T’ruá­lach” in this locality. I have heard it so pronounced, exactly as John O’Donovan did here about 1835, when he wrote the names as “T’raolach”;(c) Adherence to contemporary classical forms: the contraction “7ber,” for September and the use of the “Possessive Dative” case; (d) the Gaelic custom of a married woman keeping her maiden name — incongruous in the English text.’

According to Tohall, there are two different main versions of on the death of a women washing clothes in Glenade Lake. A second tombstone at the south end of the lake was also connected to the tale, but has since vanished. The two accounts seem to have defaulted to the remaining stone, with ‘strong, local tradition’ preferring to connect the more interesting of the two versions.

‘A woman named Grainne, wife of a man of the McLoghlins, who lived with her husband in the townland of Creevelea at the north-west corner of Glenade Lake, took some clothes down to the lakeshore to wash them. As she did not return her husband went to look for her and found her bloody body by the lakeside with the Dobhar-chú asleep on her breast.

Returning to the house for his dagger he stole silently on the Dobhar-chú and drove the knife into its breast. Before it died, however, it whistled to call its fellow; and the old people of the place, who knew the ways of the animals, warned McLoghlin to fly for his life. He took to horse, another mounted man accompanying him. The second Dobhar-chú came swimming from the lake and pursued the pair. Realising that they could not shake it off they stopped near some old walls and drew their horses across a door ope. The Dobhar-chú rushed under the horses’ legs to attack the men, but as it emerged from beneath them one of the men stabbed and killed it.’

The second version describes the killing by a Dobhar-chú of another woman engaged in washing newly-woven cloth in Glenade lake when she was attacked. The boundary of the townland of Srath-cloichrán (Sracleighreen) and Gob-an-ghé (Gubinea) is the alleged location of this bloodshed (I emphasise the word ‘boundary’, as it denotes a place of liminal status — akin to the traditional importance of such places as crossroads). Yet another variant tells how the avenger Dobhar-chú had a single horn in the centre of its forehead, which it gored the horses with.

Tohall sees the Congbháil monument as being ‘the only tangible evidence’ for the idea of the ‘King Dobhar-chú,’ or Killer-Dobharcá.

‘Lexicographers of both districts record two meanings for Dobhar-chú (derived fromDobhar, water, and chú, hound): (a) the common otter (Lutra Lutra ) a term now superseded by Mada-uisge in Northern Ireland and Scotland; (b) ‘a mythical animal like an otter’ (Dineen). In Co. Leitrim the latter tradition survives strongly: ‘a kind of witch that ruled all the other water-animals’ (Patrick Travers, Derrinvoney); or used jocularly to a boy along Lough Allen,”Hurry back from your errand before dark, or mind would the Dobhar-choin of Glenade come out of the water and grab you.” The best summary of the idea is set out in the records of the Coimisiun le Báaloideas by Seán ó h-Eochaidh, of Teidhlinn, Co. Donegal, in a phrase which he heard in the Gaeltacht: ‘the Dobharchú is the seventh cub of the common otter’ (mada-uisge): the Dobhar-chú was thus a super otter.’

It seems to this writer that the identification of the Dobharchú with the fairly shy otter (which can be found at lengths of over 5’6″ (1.67m) including the tail) seems to be by default — no other known Irish water creature comes as close to a rational zoological explanation. Is the Dobhar-chú some hungry lake serpent manifestation which grows legs occasionally when it feels like eating? It’s a matter that Blather is having grave difficulty providing hypothetical explanations for.

Dave (daev) Walsh

21st August 1998”

Check out blather.net where Dave Walsh describes hiomself as chief bottle washer and “Writer, photographer, environmental campaigner and “known troublemaker” Dave Walsh is the founder of Blather.net, described both as “possibly the most arrogant and depraved website to be found either side of the majestic Shannon River”, and “the nicest website circulating in Ireland”. Half Irishman, half-bicycle. He lives in southern Irish city of Barcelona.”

Don’t let the fear of the Dobhar Chu stop you from visiting one of Ireland’s little gems, the beautiful Glenade Lake hidden in the North Leitrim Glens.

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photo credit Eireial Creations

 

The Hind Cut

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Gannon lay face down and spread-eagled on the bed, exhausted from a long day in the surgery. Just as he was settling the phone rang in the Hall, its piercing sound stabbing his brain. At least Dot will know how to field the call, divert it to another GP. ‘Hello’ that’s not Dot’s voice, its little Liam. ‘Yes he’s here ….. okay I’ll just get him for you’. Can he not just say that I’m gone out or something? Bloody hell. The six year old boy came bounding down the hallway and burst into his parent’s bedroom. ‘Dad there is some man on the phone and he wants to talk to you, said it’s very important’. Important? ‘How important son? Have the Martians landed in Longford again? He rose gingerly, muttering ‘bloody hell’ as he marched down the long hall towards the telephone, grabbing the receiver ‘Who is this?’ His curt request was met by a quietly spoken ‘Hello Doctor Gannon, it’s Michael Fanning here, I’m in the Dew Drop Inn. You better come quick as there has been an accident’ ‘What sort of an accident?’ ‘It’s Mary Kate Joyce, she sat on a pint glass and is all cut in her hinds. She’s in a bad way Doctor’. Gannon sighed, it was all he needed now, an evening call to a bloody pub. ‘When did it happen?’ ‘only ‘bout five minutes ago, she’s in the Bar wailing in pain and bleeding bad’ ‘Okay I’m on my way’. Gannon looked around but Liam was nowhere to be seen. He knew he had been short with the boy who was sensitive. ‘Liam? Liam where are you?’ No answer. Damn it he thought, he hated going out without apologising to Liam for his sarcasm but it would have to wait.

Gannon carried the tools of his trade in old black satchel which he always threw in the back seat of the SAAB. ‘The Dew Drop Inn’ was set in the heart of the rolling drumlin country, close to the border and at a remote crossroads. When he first came to the area over a decade ago it was described as being close to the borderline, just like its people. In those first few years Gannon took his time to settle. The move was intended to be only a stop gap measure in his medical career, but as the years past and the children settled into the quiet hamlet, so did he. As he became more settled he also began to gain the trust of the locals. It didn’t happen overnight and deep down he felt that it really didn’t matter how long he lived here, he would always be an outsider. He imagined himself as l’etranger. He didn’t let his different perspective on life interfere with his devotion to his profession or to his patients. There were times when he missed his previous postings in Africa and Oman but this was balanced with the knowledge that he had found a safe and secure place to bring up his children, notwithstanding the troubles just ten miles up the road.

‘The Dew Drop Inn’ was an imposing two story building with annexes at both ends and fuel pumps out front. It was set at a crossroads with neither road really leading anywhere interesting. There was no town or village in the parish of Ballybrown and so as such ‘The Dew Drop’ was the focal point of the community. Births, deaths and every significant life event in between was celebrated here. The shop sold all the necessary provisions for rural life. The post office was also part of the shop and it and the telephone Box were the links to the rest of the world and the hundreds of parishioners who now lived far away in places like Manchester, Birmingham, Coventry, New York, Boston and Philadelphia. The walls were adorned with pictures of past parish football teams who had enjoyed success on the battlefield. It was considered a social embarrassment not to be included in one of these line-ups. These were the thoughts that filled the head of Dr. Michael Gannon as he sped the five miles from his home to the infamous ‘Dew Drop Inn’, the social hub of Ballybrown by night, but by day it was inhabited by men for whom drink, and the companionship of those who drink, was their only solace in life. Most of these creatures would be there now awaiting his arrival, and there was poor Mary Kate Joyce in the middle of them, her arse torn to shreds by a pint glass.

            ‘Ah its Doctor Gannon, well this a turnaround, usually its us that travels to him but tonight he’s come to our principal POB’ It was Jack Burgess. Gannon knew him well and his incredibly large ego. Burgess held court here daily in the public bar and while he was not well-liked and considered an annoyance, to the people of Ballybrown he was there annoyance and so occupied an important part of the parish ecosystem.

‘What’s a POB?’ asked Benny Maguire the little hunched up man sat on the stool beside Burgess.

‘Benny my good friend, a POB is our principal place of business, the place where we transact ourselves, the place where, were we a body capable of registration that is, that such registered office would be located, the place where, were a stranger to seek us out and ask such directions of a person of the locality, that person would be directed to this very place, right here Benny, this is our POB’

‘Well seeing as it is such an augmentious occasion the Doctor might buy us a drink’

 ‘Christ man, don’t be talking like that in front of the Doctor, have you no fucking manners at all ………….. the Doctor will buy us a drink in his own good time’

A group were huddled in the corner beneath the television. One woman, the only other female on the premises was holding the hand of Mary Kate Joyce and appeared to be just finishing the Rosary, ‘Hail holy Queen, mother of Mercy, send in most .. Dr Gannon, come in doctor, come in quick, thank God you’re here’. Mary Kate was moaning and when she saw Gannon she started shrieking, ‘ah Doctor, Doctor, am I going to die, I’m near bled out, ah God’. Mary Kate was lying on several towels which were all now crimson. The place looked like a casualty clearing station. ‘You’re okay Mary Kate, you are going to be just fine, try not to worry, we’ll see to you now and get you cleaned up’

Tom Penrose, the proprietor came in from the side door. His complexion was the white of a ghost. No doubt despite the drama around him he would have taken time to check that his public liability insurance was up to date. Gannon grabbed his arm ‘Look I can’t operate on a woman in a public bar’. Penrose nodded, ‘I know Doctor, will we help you load her up and so you can bring her to Mullingar?’ Gannon frowned ‘No Tommy I mean bring her into the lounge!’

The wails of Mary Kate could be heard in several parishes, ‘I’m finished Doctor’. Gannon gently rolled the victim over on her side. She was very much on the plump side. As he rolled up her blood sodden skirt he revealed her ripped nylon stockings and several lacerations to both buttocks. One was quite deep but there didn’t appear to be too much damage to any underlying blood vessels or nerves. Mary must for once be grateful for the bountiful and generous extent of her posterior. Gannon was confident he could suture the main wound but first he’d give her a jab of local anaesthetic. The patient didn’t even feel the needle enter her buttocks and Gannon took this for a good sign. The amount of blood was making things look a lot worse than they were and the assembled audience were only exacerbating tension. ‘Can you stand up Mary Kate please?’ Oh Jesus no I can’t move Doctor, Oh I’m in an awful way’ ‘You will be if you don’t move now my dear’ knowing full well that neither himself nor the half dozen well inebriated men in the bar were be equipped to lift Mary Kates twenty stone frame out of the bar and into the lounge. Gradually with gentle persuasion Mary Kate stood up and with some more coaxing was persuaded to put one foot in front of the other until they slowly made their way into the dimly lit lounge. ‘This won’t do’ thought Gannon but then he eyed the pool table which had a spotlight overhead.

‘Bring her over here and place her on the table, take it gently boys’. Penrose jumped in front of them, arms outstretched ‘Not the new pool table’ he cried. ‘It’ll be destroyed, I only bought it two year ago’. ‘Well go and get some bed linen Tommy and be quick’. As Penrose ran behind the bar and into the house quarters Gannon got a glass. He pushed up the optic and filled himself a brandy. He took a swig and then threw it on his head. He pushed the glass up again for a refill before returning to where the newly commissioned medical orderlies Jack Dexter, Michael Fanning and Pipsey Rooney were having an impromptu cigarette break. Dexter was holding his cigarette to Mary Kate’s mouth and she was dragging on it as if it were her last great of nicotine.

‘Ah Jaysus lads’ cried Tommy returning with a big cardboard box and a well-worn white sheet. ‘Ye can’t smoke in the lounge, ye know that well ye bloody fools. What an evening I’m putting in’.

Dexter went over to the emergency exit and pushing down the bars opened the door letting a whoosh of cool October air in. Sucking strongly on the last remnants of the cigarette he threw the butt on the path. Rooney followed suit and they closed the door. Penrose was tearing up the cardboard box by now and spreading it flat across the pool table. Suddenly the double doors from the hall opened and in came a visibly inebriated Pat Joyce, ‘How are you now darling, you are in good hands, God bless you Doctor Gannon’ ‘How am I he says, How do I look to you with me arse shredded in bits and bared to half the men of the parish’ The wounded looking Pat slid up along the side of the pool table and held his wife’s hand ‘Ah darling don’t be like that in front of the men, the doctor will surely do his best to save you, isn’t that right Doctor, god bless ya and save ya’

Dexter and Rooney lifted Mary Kate up on to the Pool Table and Gannon rolled her gently over. The men averted their gaze but there really was no way of letting modesty take any foothold in this situation. Penrose came back with a basin of warm water and a clean tea towel. The bright light over the pool table was turned on and Gannon began by cleaning the wounds. As the blood was cleaned off he could see that many of the cuts were superficial and he picked out several small pieces of glass. ‘Do your best Doctor I’ve 9 kids at home and they wouldn’t survive without their mammy’ ‘Well they must be surviving alright tonight’  thought Gannon to himself. The blood still flowed from one of the deeper wounds and so Gannon got Pat Joyce to squeeze the two sides of the open cut together to stem the flow. He then took out his suture kit and threaded the nylon monofilament through the eye of the needle. He began to put Mary Kate Joyce’s bum back together stitch by stitch in a standard single interrupted closure of the wound. The smaller wounds were easily dealt with and bandaged. All in all the procedure took less than half an hour and at this stage Penrose was getting agitated and looking at his watch

Gannon was guiding the patient out to the car. ‘I’m just afraid Doctor you know. It won’t affect me if I was you to have another baby?’. ‘Oh no, not at all Mary. Are you pregnant?’ ‘Not that I know of Doctor’. Mary paused for a little break, ‘How many have you now?’ asked Gannon. ‘Well we had ten but nine living’. ‘Nine!’ repeated Gannon, he had thought they had six or seven at most. ‘You know there are procedures available Mrs Joyce. You can get a procedure or Pat either and then you wouldn’t have to worry about getting pregnant’. Mary Kate thought for a few moments before walking again, ‘God I think I’ve had enough procedures for one night Doctor but thanks very much’. Her husband was now out opening the passenger side door and linking her in. ‘Maybe we can talk about again when you get over this. You’ll come into me Tuesday or Wednesday so I can check how you are healing. I’ve given Pat something to help with pain and sleep’.

‘Thanks for everything Doctor …. and the other advice too but I think I will take what God gives me’. Gannon smiled but inside he was sighing ‘Has God not given her enough?’

The Doctor returned to the Lounge to gather up his satchel. Penrose had already cleared the make-shift operating table and was wiping the edges of the pool table with a damp cloth. ‘You timed that well Doctor. We’ve an ould pool competition tonight with the Courtmacsweeney lads. You are welcome to sponsor a spot prize if you like.’ Gannon shook his head ‘I’ll have another Brandy though’. Penrose finished wiping and shuffled behind the counter to get Gannon a drink. ‘Oh and send a drink up to Professor Burgess and his able assistant there’.

Gannon gathered up his instruments and put them in his satchel. He looked around the empty lounge. The Bar was filling up though. He was tired and needed sleep. He held the squat glass in his hand and savoured the aroma of the Cognac just under his nostrils before finishing it. He walked purposefully through the hallway and out to the fresh air. As he put the car in gear and turned it towards home he thought of what Mary Kate had said. He wondered had God given him too much also.

 

Sundays at Blue Bridge

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He crossed the old iron gate first and then lifted the boys over, encouraging and cajoling them across the rusting blue iron bridge with the missing planks. The boys were momentarily weak with fear of falling into the river below. The length of the gaps between what planks remained appeared colossal. But once across the bridge the boys were exhilarated by their pseudo-bravery and pluck.

The next obstacle was quick upon them, the old wall which ran along the edge of the former gardens of the crumbling Castle. They jumped down the wall to the low ground and on to the path through the thick man high growth that led to the river bank. The air was heavy with pollen and the last heat of the day.

The father took out his old fishing rod and took a hook from his box. Holding the little piece of barbed steel in his lips as he fed the fine line through the metal eyes, finally, threading the line through the eye of the hook and knotting it securely. He then repeated the process on the boys new shiny rods, his forehead lined in concentration. The corks were set at about three feet from the hook and a few lead weights attached further down the line. Then the jam jar was opened. A nice fat worm was caught between his thumb and forefinger chosen not just for his size but for the dark colour of his back and head, apparently this was the type the fish liked best. The hook was delicately forced through the thin skin and the worms fate was set, thus impaled he would end his days as fishing bait.

When all three rods were set up the father took the first casts out, watching for the low hanging bushes around them, before landing the corks mid-stream. He allowed them to bobble and settle. With the corks caught by the gentle current the rods were handed to the boys.  The corks  began  to drift lazily downriver towards the entrance to the lake. Dragon flies swooped low as the young fishermen eyed their corks for any movement that might signify the bite of a perch or roach.

Avenging Larry Fay

Manhattan Bar at night

15th January 1934

Walking across 23rd street Michael Brennan must have seemed calmness personified. The military step that he had honed in the barracks of Galway and Aldershot made him look purposeful and assured. Inside though he was a ball of nerves, his heart racing so much, he thought it might leap out of his chest at any moment. It wasn’t too late to turn back but he knew in that racing heart of his that he would go through with it. There were a myriad of excuses he could choose from, the may have been delayed on the train, and he may have just missed Moloney by seconds or just lost him in the crowded streets of midtown.

He paused at the corner of 3rd Avenue and lit a cigarette. As he placed the matchbox back in his pocket he felt the cold, hard shape of his revolver and it somehow reinforced his resolve to do just one more job. At the end of the day this was simply a business transaction but it was one that would help Mary and their little girl. Maybe he might leave this godforsaken country and go home. The letters from home had kept him informed of the goings on; land was cheap now and since the election many of his former comrades seemed to be starting to get on their feet. The Commandant had even left for Dublin and gotten a job as a Tax Inspector, his past as a mail train and bank robber hadn’t mitigated against that. The Mitchells were also doing fine. Sean was now a Sergeant in the Police and Eddie would soon be ordained. If only Mary and him could catch a break, he thought. Maybe he had been too rash to leave, maybe he should have stuck it out but he had enough by then. It wasn’t so much that he hated  his native country but perhaps he had loved it too much. He often asked himself what it was all for? Instead of having the English for their Masters the poor now had the Princes of the Church and a the Bowler hat elite. He thought of Eddie Mitchell again.  They had lain together for two nights in a soggy daring hiding from the tans. Eddie of the soft laugh and the firm handshake. He would make a great Priest?

It was time; he threw his cigarette butt into the gutter and crossed the street. Eight years in this country he thought and here he was a gun man once again.  Only this time at least he was being paid. It is just a business transaction he kept telling himself, one more job, this would be the last.

……………………………………….

apartmentSix days later and the knock on the door woke Mary Brennan. t took her a few seconds to come to. She had fallen into a deep nap; ‘Coming, just a minute, who is it?’ as she opened the door she was met by the sight of a Police Uniform pegged on a strapping man standing over six feet.

Hi Mary, is Mike home?

-No he’s not, no, but he’s due any time now, is everything okay?

– Everything is fine Mary, nothing to worry about it’s just a small matter I was to meet him about

– Well why don’t you come in Pat, he can’t be long, you know the way it is on the railroad Pat.

I have some fresh currant cake, come on in and you can tell me how Annie is doing?

Officer Leyden sloped inside, all the while his eyes circling, surveying the neat little apartment . He had to meet Brennan anyhow he thought and so he may as well wait here as out in the cold patrol car. Mary had turned her back on him momentarily as she began unwrapping the cake on the work top.

– Annie is doing well, we have just had another baby Mary, a little boy.

Mary froze for a second and Leyden realised the effect of his words and the cause of her response.

-I know you had some bad luck last year. I heard through Fr Casey. Annie has been meaning to call by. At least God has spared your little Maggie.

Mary did not respond but gathered herself and began slicing the currant cake into thick slabs. Leyden thought Mary looked well. She still had that lovely, delicate porcelain complexion and a fine figure. It can’t be easy for her living with Brennan and him in and out of work, on and off the bottle, stubborn bastard that he is. She was always too good for him. Leyden remembered the first time he saw Mary, it was at the Embassy Ballroom in Sunnyside. Brennan may have been a big dog back at home. That was where farmer’s sons like him looked down their noses at townie corner boys like Leyden. In this New World the tables could be reversed very quickly. Leyden knew that in this City there was a different game to played from back home, with very different rules. Men like Brennan thought they could change the world but they were only dreamers.  He now had Brennan where he wanted him and he was going to put him to good use.

-Is it hard to get into the Department these days Pat? I mean is there anything you could do for Mike? Please don’t tell him I asked, you know how he is, he’s proud but we could do with something regular.

Mary placed the cake on the table and a small dish with a tiny piece of butter. She began pouring Leyden a coffee into a handless cup. Her eyes barely left the floor the whole time.

-I’ll see what I can do Mary. He is not twenty one anymore and they prefer to have them at that age, I just got lucky.

Their chat was interrupted when the door opened and suddenly there stood Brennan. He was surprised to see Leyden and his expression was dour. He looked at Leyden and then at Mary before putting a brown package down on the dresser. Mary knew it was from Lombardis down the street where Luca often saved some of their off cuts for Michael.

– What are you doing here Pat? I told you I’d meet you downstairs. 

Leyden stood up, half a slice of cake still in his hand.

– Well you were late Mike and I just called up to give my regards to Mary here.

Brennan opened the door and gestured towards the landing – ‘Let’s go’

He knew now that Mary would be asking questions, awkward questions. He didn’t want her to know that he had any dependence on rats like Leyden. Pat Leyden had never been any good. He had watched him growing up and was surprised to see him sign up in the summer of ’15. He remembered Leyden going home on furlough and how he had stolen a barrel of porter from Malcolmson’s yard. It was a nonsensical crime but Leyden got a month in Sligo Jail and it prevented him leaving with the 6th Battalion for France. Leyden had the survival instinct of a sewer rat and he had avoided the big push and the German Machine Gunners. Brennan remembered talking to some of the boys at home. They said that Leyden had woken up all the men on Little Water Street to share the barrel of porter with. It only confirmed to him that Leyden had pulled a stunt.

– Why did you come to my home Leyden? I told you not to, I told you Mary wasn’t to know.

 – I didn’t tell her anything’ I was freezing my socks off out here in the patrol car and you were late. You were supposed to be here at seven. I thought I might have missed you that’s all. C’mon you can tell her I just wanted to ask you a few questions about a fight on the train. You’ll think up something. It’s not the first time you’ve told her a white lie.

It was done before he knew it. His two clenched fists rested snugly underneath Leyden’s chin, the stiff uniform collar tightly twisted in his fingers.

-Leyden, I’m warning you, don’t ever underestimate me. You might think you are a big boy over here with friends in high places, but if anybody ever comes near my family, I don’t care who it is, I’ll snuff them out.

-Jesus Christ man, you’re a fuckin crazy son of a bitch. I’m here to help you Michael’ Leyden was now shaking uncontrollably. ‘C’mon we go way back, the men of the west stand together for one another. 

– Did you stand with us in Ypres or at Ballymacowen Leyden? Where were you then Leyden when you were needed?

For a few seconds Brennan thought about apologising but he couldn’t bring himself to. He despised Leyden, he despised his type. The type of men that professed their love of Ireland in drinken song and yet couldn’t live there, the run with the hare, run with hound man, the type that scavenged on the bones of a carcass but would never kill themselves, yet here he was again, he Mike Brennan, even the width of an Ocean couldn’t quench the sense of Deja Vú, he was killing again to keep even more ungrateful Irishmen in privileged positions, positions they neither earned nor deserved, leeches, leeches all.

The Patrol Car took off across town, crossing the Bridge into the man made canyons of Manhattan before turning North and eventually stopping outside an impressive apartment building near Columbus Circle. Leyden hopped out and spoke to the Doorman whilst pointing back at Brennan still seated in the back of the patrol car. Leyden then opened the door;

– Lemmy will look after you from here and you can make your own way home Mike. We’ll forget about earlier. I’m sorry I shouldn’t have gone near your apartment. I just wasn’t thinking.

-This way sir’ and the door man ushered Brennan into the building before handing him over to another staff member, a young lad who brought him up to the 8th floor and an impressive suite. ‘Miss Slowey will see you in a few minutes Sir’. He sat down on a chaise longue admiring the luxury of his surroundings.

-Mr. Brennan I presume’ A slim blonde lady dressed in evening wear approached him from down the corridor.

-Yes Miss ….

-I’m Evie Slowey, pleased to meet you at last. Come this way….. I can’t thank you enough for what you have done for us, well for me personally. Did you know Larry?

-No mam, I heard of him and saw him once. I read about him but no, I didn’t know him

 -He would be happy that he was avenged by one of his own. My pappy always told us that we should forgive our enemies, but not before they are dead.

 –I think I heard that saying before, mam.

 –Cut out the mam stuff, I don’t do titles, I’m just a girl from Texas made it to the big lights and got lucky. Larry left me a wealthy gal ….. but I do miss him terribly. He was dashing and boy did he have a wardrobe fit for a king. There’s no one like him left about this town, there’ll never be another Larry Fay. Did you know this guy Moloney?

-I never knew of him until I got here.

-He was a no-good double crossing rat Mr. Brennan. You have done this city a great service but you have done me a great honour. I have your reward here. You received the down payment already. The Commissioner advised me that the Department have to carry out an investigation…. Don’t worry it’s a formality ….. you have nothing to worry about.

-That’s good, I have a young family, I can do without the hassle.

dollar bills Miss Slowey handed the package to Brennan. He had never held so much money in his hands before. His younger brother had written to him last month. Land prices had dropped dramatically at home. What he earned on this one job could buy a fine place. Mary would need convincing to go back. They had Maggie to think of now too and maybe her best chances were here in America. He was torn but at least now he could pay off his debts, perhaps rent a bigger apartment up in the Bronx and with what was left he could send some home, maybe buy a few acres to begin with.

 –Just one thing Mr. Brennan, Did he suffer? Did you make that bastard suffer? Did you let him know that this was because of what he did to Larry?

-Yes it was the last thing he heard before he left this mortal earth Miss Slowey, he knew he was going to die for killing Mr. Fay.

          Of course it wasn’t exactly how it happened but he had to tell his employer what she wanted to hear. She looked content now. She wanted revenge pure and simple, an eye for an eye and if he learned anything from his life, Brennan knew that soon the whole world would be blind from eye gouging every beef. The ‘job’ hadn’t played out like he told her, he didn’t want her gloating over the death of a brave man, that wasn’t part of the deal. He had already disarmed Moloney before he walked him down the alley behind the Pearl Street Warehouses. Their conversation if it could even be classed as such was brief and to the point. Moloney knew he was going to die at any moment. It struck Brennan how calm he was, even having the presence of mind to make three final requests; ‘do it quick and clean brother and say an Act of Contrition before you leave me here tonight’. He wanted to make peace with his maker and Brennan nodded that he would do that for  him. Who  can blame a man for hoping to save his soul, even at this late stage . The third and last request worried Brennan, who was conscious of leaving any clues that might link him to the killing. Moloney asked that he take the holy scapular from around his neck and post it to his mother in Tipperary. Miss Slowey was done with him now and she walked him towards the elevator.

-Thank you so much Mr. Brennan They shook hands and he noticed the size of the diamond rings she was wearing. -Who knows we might do business again. Now Schulz will see you out. The young bell hop came out from the shadows at the end of the hall. 

 –You’re welcome Miss Slowey but it’s not a business I’m intending to expand.

 –What a shame, you are very good at it!

It was a business transaction. That is all. As the elevator began its descent Brennan recalled how Moloney had called him brother, somehow that had made his task easier.

-I won’t shake hands with you in this life brother, whoever you are, but at least I know who sent you and I know why.

 –It’s a crazy country we left and a crazier one we came to’ replied Brennan.

 -I’d imagine we have both done things against God but if he does show us mercy and we meet in the hereafter, we will share a glass and toast dear old Ireland.

revolverBrennan did not reply, he squeezed the trigger. Thy will be done. Tears began to roll down his face  as he stood over the body of his fallen countryman.  He had killed a brother but wasn’t this the way it was always  destined to be. What a fool he had been to think that their noble fight back home would have changed anything. When the dust settled and the guns put away, and the men had no work, their families had no food. What difference did it make to the rich in their comfortable drawing rooms,? Not a whit. He was finished railing against the world. He opened the dead mans blood soaked collar and tag the penknife from his hip pocket he cut the scapular from around Moloney’s neck. He saw that the wound was neat passing right through the base of the neck.  Oblivion was instant. The exit hole in his throat was large but the morticians would cover it and the family, if he had one out here, could have an open casket.

         scapulaBrennan rolled up the scapula and the little medal attached to it before carefully placing it in his inside jacket pocket which it now shared with the .38. He knew that he would find out over the next few days where Moloney was from. Word would quickly pass through the bars and speak-easys about the killing.  He would find out more details about his victim, whose fate had been handed to him. He scooped out the contents of the dead man’s wallet. He would send on the contents too to the relatives anonymously. This would also make it look like a robbery saving the Cops having to invent a motive. Finally with the chorus of foghorns, steamers and an overhead train, he knelt down on the cold cobbles. Holding the still warm hand of the man he had just killed, he leaned in and whispered contritely into his ear.

 ‘O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee’

 

 

 

The Moustache is hiring

Bar in QueensAs he crossed Queens Boulevard and strolled up the wide sidewalk towards the Bar, Tommy McKillen checked his watch again, 8.45pm. His mate Jimmy had said he’d be there by 9.00pm. Tommy didn’t want to be late. He wondered had Jimmy changed much? He hadn’t seen him in five years now. They had grown up beside each other and were inseparable. Jimmy’s family had returned to the States when he was 14. Growing up in the North West there were several American born kids in school? There was the Harrington’s who were from New Jersey, who could ever forget Colleen Harrington playing basketball in the front courts at school. Tommy remembered how they had all gone to support the school team in the Connacht Finals but the truth was they had all gone to watch Colleen strut around the court. Tommy was shy back then and if she had spoken to him he knew he would have probably died there and then. Joe Burke and Jimmy were from Sunnyside, Brian O’Donnell was Chicago. Then there was that lad from Cashel who was from San Francisco, he was Moran, Tommy couldn’t recall his first name. He did remember him out at Annagh Lake one summer, at swimming lessons, bragging about little league baseball.  Jimmy later punched his lights out at the back of the school gym. God knows what had ignited the row but he recalled afterwards that Moran and Jimmy shared a cigarette; Moran’s hands were trembling so much he could barely hold the match to light his smoke.  Later he gave the entire pack to Jimmy, a sort of peace offering or reparations. We smoked some of the cigarettes under the Cryan’s Bridge until Tommy was dizzy and sick. Then we smoked some more that evening when Jimmy came with me to count the cattle over in Annagh. That’s when he told me they were going back.

Approaching the Bar the Elevated line roared overhead as the Number 7 braked for its stop at the 40th Street station. The old steel frames vibrated, the rails rattled all the way to Manhattan. The Citibank building in the distance stood there proud, alone defiant against the bigger skyline across the East River. Inside the bar was quiet. Tommy pulled in halfway down the bar and picked the middle of three vacant stools. Two older guys on his left were talking about a ball game. Slowly he got his bearings relishing the air-conditioning. There were two girls and a guy on his right who were shooting the breeze about some friend of theirs who had flunked in College. The girl looked nice, a lovely tan, blonde hair and white teeth. Frankie the barman nods as they make contact, Frankie the Greek/ Italian/ Irish barman. “Hey Tommy, What’s up?’ his right hand outstretched to shake mine as his left throws a fresh beermat on the counter. ‘I’m good Frankie’, a cold bottle of Bud is placed on the beermat. Jimmy threw down a few bills beside it. ‘Has Jimmy McHugh being in yet?’ ‘No haven’t seen Jimmy in months. He’s living up state now. Up around Tarrytown’. Tommy nodded and sipped the cold beer. He had telephoned Jimmy’s mother on Tuesday, or was it Wednesday. He wasn’t sure now but she told him shed she’d be speaking to Tommy. When he spoke to her again yesterday and she said Tommy would be here by 9.00pm. He sipped some more.

New york bar‘Jimmy’s a good guy. I like him. We went to the same High School’ utters Frankie as he passes by wiping the counter with a cloth, fastidious, clean cut Frankie. Tommy notes that there a baseball game on the television. He hates the isolation and sitting here listening to other people’s conversations, longing to join in. He checks his watch again, 9.10pm and wishes Jimmy would arrive and not leave him waiting like this.

Tommy’s contemplation is broken by one of the guys on his left, ‘give us two more here Frankie….. and two Irish Whiskies’ Tommy could see the moustachioed guy in the mirror behind the bar. ‘Here you go Roger, what type whiskey you want, I got Jameson, Tullamore Dew, Paddy?’ The Moustache thinks before replying ‘Two Jameson on the rocks and have one yourself my friend’. Tommy takes out his cigarettes and lights a Parliament before stopping to read the matchbox.

‘American Festival Café, Rockefeller Center, 600 5th Ave, New York, NY 10020’

He hates his job there, hates been out in the sun all day, hates the way he must play this phoney friendly waiter all day long. The match card has the famous statue as its centre piece. One of his colleagues Andy said he likes the statue at work, said he saw it in a movie, ‘You do know the Restaurant closes in winter and is turned into an ice rink’. Tommy nodded before telling Andy that the statue is of Prometheus. ‘Oh yeah’ shrugged Andy, ‘that’s cool’ before racing off to berate the two Bengali busboys again. A few days ago he argued with Tommy that the correct term was Bangladeshi when Tommy said you could also say Bengali. Tomato, Tomato, who cares, whatever, fini

Tullamore DewFrankie comes back with the whiskies. ‘Hey aren’t you having one yourself? C’mon Frankie I’m buying, have a drink with us even if those Mets suck, at least the Knicks are flying’ the Moustache is well on it, looks like he’s been here all evening, getting slowly pissed and gradually louder. Frankie takes a shot glass and grabs a bottle of Tullamore Dew, he pours himself a drink. Tommy sucks on his Parliament watching the proceedings out of the side of my eye and through the mirror. Where the fuck is Jimmy, 9.21pm. ‘Here’s to those Knicks, going to do it this season, you heard it here first, and don’t forget it’ Yeah that’s a very loud moustache, muses Tommy, his mate doesn’t even respond, the glasses raised, clink and down the hatch. Tommy watches Frankie; the whiskey doesn’t knock a stir out of him. He recalled one of the Barmen telling him that sometimes Bartenders have their own favourite shot. ‘So it goes like this’ he explained, ‘Couple of guys want a Jaeger, you fill them a Jaeger and then they start putting pressure on you to have one, so you have your own bottle, let’s say it’s a whiskey, so you take out your bottle of Tullamore Dew and fill your glass, you do the shot with them, and the next one and so on. They think you’re a great guy, part of their night out, but they are getting wasted, you’re not because your Tullamore Dew is filled with Iced Tea, all you have to do is clean up the fucking tips’. Frankie has a bottle of Tullamore Dew which he returns under the counter not on the shelf, he’s in on it notes Tommy, determined some night to play him at his own game just to let him know, that he knows. It won’t happen tonight because Tommy is skint. He is hoping Jimmy has some contacts, anything, a phone number, Tommy needs work.

So Roger is the name of Moustache. Now he’s telling his mate about his little girl and what a smart kid she is. Tommy notices the girl to his right again, lovely long tanned legs, hint that she’s been out on the beach, it reminds me to call out to visit his Grandmothers cousins in Breezy Point. She looks about 21. She lazily drapes her arm over the shoulder of one of the guys with her. He is in the middle of some story too, stories being told all around him but what story am I in?wonders Tommy. Then it kicks off to his left ‘Get the fuck out of here, you fucking asshole’. Tommy turns just in time to see Roger the Moustache jumping up and over his mate who is now stretched on the ground with a right hook, his stool is lying beside him, he is gingerly getting to his feet, raising a hand as if to protect himself from any more punishment. Tommy didn’t see the punch clearly but the blood now trickling from the guy’s mouth suggests that it was a sweet connection. Frankie has jumped the counter and is holding the Moustache, ‘Easy Roger, not here man, take your quarrel outside, not here’, ‘You dirty bastard’ the moustache roars trying to kick his former mate, ‘douchebag’. The wounded friend is now on his feet backing away to the door, then he is gone, his shadow passing by the window heading towards Woodside. Frankie still has a bear hold of the Moustache who stretched out is a big unit, 6’2 or 6’3 at least; they go over to a corner by the pool table. Tommy sips his beer again. Move on, nothing to see here, move along.

JukeboxThe girl next to Tommy asks ‘What is that all about?’ ‘I have absolutely no idea’ gesturing with open arms to reinforce his view. They all laugh and shrug shoulders, bemused. The girl gets up and goes to the juke-box, she starts flicking through the lists. ‘You’re Irish’ says one of the guys. ‘Yes I can’t hide it can I?’ ‘My family are Irish, from County Cork; my Gran never lost her brogue even though she is here since the early 50’s’. ‘I’d imagine that it’s hard to keep your accent in a place like this’ I reply for the sake of replying. Tommy remembers a girl who went to work in Bundoran for a summer, seven weeks later and it was all ‘Ock aye’ and ‘wee’ this and ‘wee’ that. Frankie comes back behind the Bar. ‘Sorry about that folks, excitement over. The guys had a bit of a disagreement, Roger there was right though so I’m letting him stay of that’s okay. He’s a good guy, he’s from the neighbourhood’. A few minutes later Roger the Moustache comes back from the restrooms, he has on a Polo shirt, cream shorts, white socks and sneakers. He takes up again on his stool, gathering his money, folding the bills before placing them again on the counter in a neat pile.

Tommy lights another Parliament, the jukebox kicks into life, Ace of Base. The trio on his right start chatting again, he is on his own again, and he is going to kill McHugh, 10.04pm. ‘I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes, I saw the sign…’ Frankie comes back with some bowls of pretzels, placing one in front of the Moustache and one in front of me. ‘Cheers man’ says the moustache ‘I’m sorry Frankie you know I’m not like that but fucking hell what an asshole’Frankie is working his way along the bar only half listening, so the Moustache starts talking to Tommy. ‘You just never know do you?’ he says. ‘Know what?’‘This guy, I was drinking with him for like two hours, seemed like a decent guy, he was Navy so was my Dad, ya’know, just having a beer. I was telling him how my father was chosen to be Neptune when they crossed the Equator, you know the tradition right, meant so much to my old man’ He stopped for a moment and threw his whiskey on his head and slammed the glass on the counter. ‘Son of a bitch! So I was telling him about my daughter and showed her photo like this’ he takes his wallet out and shows Tommy a photo of this young oriental looking girl, his daughter. Must have got a mail order wife assumes Tommy, Thai, Filipino somewhere like that. ‘So he says nice kid and asks me do I want to see his, I say yeah sure, I thought you weren’t married blah! Blah! and he takes out his wallet and shows me some pictures of young kids nude, disgusting man, young kids, fucking paedo, sick bastard!’Christ I think, he was right to box him so, ‘I’m sorry kid but this guy really got me, if Frankie wasn’t here I would have done some real harm, Frankie give is two beers and I’m gone’ Frankie places two fresh beers on the counter, ‘There on me’ The moustache is off again, ‘I was just telling your friend here about that creep, fucking hell’ Frankie winks at me without the Moustache seeing and heads back up along the bar. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get your name kid, I’m Roger by the way, Roger Wallstein’ his hand is out so I shake hands, ‘How are ya, I’m Tommy’‘Irish huh, this neighbourhood was all Irish once upon a time, when I was growing up it was all Irish, all the businesses too. I’m Catholic, German, family, Bavarian, yeah a good Catholic boy. So what’s your story Tommy?’ 

Tommy takes a drag out of his cigarette before answering, ‘Well I was supposed to meet a mate of mine but he’s stood me up. Irish guy I grew up with, well he was born here but family came back to Ireland and then back over here again. Frankie knows him. I’m looking for work to be honest, only been here six weeks. Have a job in a bar in midtown but the hours aren’t great’ ‘Midtown not great for tips either save Thursday and Friday afternoons’ says Roger. ‘There’s some temporary positions going in our place, easy work, money is okay’. This sounds good thinks Tommy, ‘Where bout’s that? Doing what?’ ‘It’s an apartment block on the Upper East Side, concierge, you know, Doorman, elevator cars that sort of thing. You might get a few months’ work, who knows’. ‘That would be great, really need something soon’. ‘Frankie give me a pen’ When the pen arrives Roger starts writing an address and number,

Empire House, 180 East 72nd St 3rd & Lex., Shaun Richards

‘You give them a call or call in and speak to Richards. Who knows he might give you a break’. The Moustache looks at his watch ‘Oh my god, I’m out of here!  Nice talking to you ….’ ‘it’s Tommy’ ‘yeah Tommy’ he throws his bottle on his head, picks up his Bills and throws a twenty back on the counter, ‘Thank you Frankie, I’m sorry about earlier buddy’. With that Roger the Moustache is gone. Tommy looks at the napkin, Upper East Side he thinks and places the napkin in his wallet. Frankie is over and picks up his tip and wipes the counter down, ‘Roger was in good form tonight eh Tommy?’ ‘Yeah, certainly was a bit of drama alright, I never met him before’. Frankie continues wiping the counter ‘I suppose he told you all about the wife leaving him, he really misses his daughter. He met this girl Chinese or something through some agency in the church, she comes over, they marry, have a kid, lovely little girl, then she ups stick and are now living in Manhattan with some other Chinese guy. Roger thinks he was set up, maybe he was but he certainly got her a green card and she’s here to stay but he’s left paying the bills. He’s drinking a good bit these days. I worry about him’. Frankie reaches into the under-counter fridge and pulls out another Bud for me ‘That guy surely ruffled his feathers earlier’ Frankie goes through the whole story about the  porn pics in the wallet and the man claiming they were his kids. ‘Dirty bastard’ Tommy shakes his head and then asks ‘What does Roger do for a crust? ‘He works in some building in the city, security or something. Not sure Tommy’

apartmentBack in the Apartment Tommy tip toes by their Ecuadoran room-mate. There is no sign of Andy in the bedroom, out on the town again. With the stifling heat, Tommy can’t wait to turn on the fan for some relief. There is no air conditioning in the apartment and they struggle to sleep. The noise of the city wakes him up and he looks at his watch; it’s just after 7.30am and he is covered in a lather of sweat. The pillow is soaked through and the sheets also. He even kicked off his boxer shorts during the night. Not able to sleep any more he takes a shower, relief, relief god that water is good he thinks but then he can’t dry himself with the towel, as he starts sweating again. He hates this heat, he hates this apartment, but most of all he hates being broke in this city. In a few minutes he is gone down the stairs out into the bright, blinding white of day. He wants to go home but he can’t. In the Diner he has some breakfast Canadian bacon, eggs and coffee. He can feel a slight thud in his forehead. Jimmy never showed. He takes several refills of coffee and read the The Post.

Two hours later and he comes up out of the subway station. He takes a few seconds to orientate when he does he continues over East 72nd Street and into a shady atrium. Tommy walks to the front door and is met by a man in a smart uniform and white gloves. ‘Can I help sir?’ he asks, stretching his arms across to ensure Tommy doesn’t consider entering the building. ‘Can you show where the reception is?’ ‘Reception’ he looks curiously ‘this is an apartment building not a hotel. This is the main entrance and is for tenants only sir; you’re going to have to move on sir’. Tommy turns to walk away but then shouts after the Doorman, ‘I’m looking for the manager Mr. Richards, Shaun Richards?’  ‘Go back to the service entrance on the corner of 71st and 3rd, you better go now’.

The building is huge, Tommy looks up at the sky and it seems to cover an entire city block, a central tower with two substantial wings with probably several hundred apartments in total. He walks around the block and thinks about abandoning his mission. He stands at the entrance for a few seconds. This is not near as glamorous as the entrance on the other side of the building where he’s just been. A couple of men point me towards the office and he enters the bowels of the building, down a ramp and into furnace like heat and the deafening noise of a rubbish compactor. Men in overalls push overflowing garbage bins up the ramp to waiting trucks. At the bottom of the ramp a corridor leads on and he sees a sign for the office. There is a glass window and he can see a number of men inside deep in conversation. There is a time clock on the wall and a large board with dozens of employee’s time cards in neat rows. Tommy pauses before knocking on the door but when nobody answers he just opens it. A man is sitting at a desk; he is on the phone but momentarily puts the mouthpiece to his chest and says ‘What you want?’ ‘I’m looking for Mr. Shaun Richards’. He points towards another door, returns to his call and I go on further, knock on the door,

‘Come in’ is the reply so Tommy opens the door, ‘C’mon, c’mon I don’t fucking bite, what can I do for you?’ says a Burt Lancasteresque figure in a sharp suit. ‘I’m here to meet Mr. Richards’ ‘Oh yeah well I’m Richards, Shaun Richards, who are you?’  he roars, why is he roaring? ‘Tommy McKillen, here about the job, Roger sent me’ He gleams with big white teeth showing and a powerful stare. ‘Roger?  Roger who?’ ‘Roger Wallstein’ I reply. ‘I have no idea what the fuck you are talking about son, Saunders! Saunders get in here!’ the man on the phone rushes in., ‘Saunders are we hiring? Summer relief? You know anything?’ ‘Well yes sir we do need some cover yep’, ‘Listen this kid looks the part, and he’s got balls to walk in on me like this’ says Richards as he reverts his gaze back on Tommy‘ look son we have a few weeks work that’s all but there may be something more permanent come out of it. Be on time, always be on fucking time and be polite to the tenants, if you’re not, you’ll have me to deal with, now get the fuck out of here’.

Saunders leads Tommy out of the office and down the corridor where he takes out a bunch of keys and opens the door. When the lights flicker on Tommy can see rack upon rack of uniforms, some still in dry-cleaning covers. ‘What size waist?’ asks Saunders ‘34”’ ‘Here try these’ the trousers don’t fit so Tommy tries another. With trial and error he gets fully kitted out and is then given a locker in the changing rooms to keep his stuff in. ‘Get a lock, get 3 or 4 white shirts, always come in clean and tidy. No bad breath or BO, you start tonight at 11.00pm, you be here by 10.30pm and relieve the man at Elevator 6 at 10.45. You give good relief you get a good relief. In the morning your replacement will try and be in for 6.45am. Where are you living?’ ‘Oh Elmhurst, just off Broadway’ replies Tommy. ‘Okay, if you haven’t shirts there is a Sears out at the Queens Center, it’s just another couple stops on your train, get some’

At 10.44pm that night Tommy takes the service elevator up to the lobby. It is a beautiful hall of mirrors with a water feature behind the main entrance where he had initially been this afternoon. Two door men look towards him and he can sense they are checking him out. Tommy has a piece of paper with instructions about polishing brass and cleaning mirrors, on the other side is his Roster for the next 3 weeks. He walks towards where I’ve been told Elevator 6 is. A uniformed man with a moustache stands outside the car, looking in the mirror, fixing his collar, ‘Hi Roger I got the job’ Tommy announces excitedly, ‘Hey kid, thanks for the relief’ he looks peculiarly at Tommy, ‘We met in the Blackthorn last night, remember?’ but Roger just frowns, ‘The Blackthorn?’ he looks at Tommy vacantly.  ‘Yes remember the old guy with the kid’s photos?’ Roger opens the door to the service elevator, grabs his bag and says ‘I’m sorry kid I think you must be mixing me up with someone else, have a good one’