After the Wake (11 page)

He wouldn’t even let our poor Playboy have a little potato garden and one day when he comes out to set a few spuds for himself and the care, the old fellow goes to beat him out of it and starts struggling with him for the loy* till, in the course of combat, the Playboy hits him a belt and the old fellow falls to the ground looking very dead.

Howsomever, he is not altogether gone for his tea, and the women bring him into the house and tell the Playboy not to stall but get himself away as quick as he can. They’re not that gone on the old fellow either.

The Playboy goes on the run and spends some time hiding in Connemara – three months if we are to take Tomás Ó Máille literally – ‘and it wasn’t the place he slept the night he’d be found in the morning but forever on the move as a fugitive, a Tory.’

He went through many adventures the time he was in Connemara hopping over bogs and mountains night and day and often he had to swim a lake to bring his skin with him in one piece. When he was nearly done for, he made his way to the island of Garumna where he got a boat to take him over to Aran. He had relations there, in Kilronan; a girl of the O’Malleys was married into the Hernons. He stayed with them for a while. When the word came that the police were after him there, she had him brought to Inis Meadhon by boatmen of the MacNeela clan – a decent people to this very day as I well know.

He spent a time on Inis Meadhon till the others got the word that he was there and they came over and surrounded the house in the middle of the night. The man of the house told the Playboy to get offside and he would give himself up and pretend he was the man they wanted and when the police came to the door asking for O’Malley, the Playboy opened it for them and said, ‘He’s inside – take him with you.’

The Playboy shook hands with the man of the house when they brought him off and, by the time the police had found their mistake, he was away and off down to Cork via a potato boat taking a cargo from Aran to Kerry.

He sailed into Galway Harbour years afterwards as a captain of an American steamship unknown to anyone except a few people that had helped him. He treated them well, in their turn, and that was the last known of the Playboy – and that Synge and him and the rioters and actors may get space above to argue it out – a bed in heaven to them all – even the critics.

‘I’m fed up and brassed off,’ said Crippen, ‘with the Continong.’

‘I thought the extent of your travels was to the point of the Wall,’ said I. ‘When were you on the Continent?’

‘I’m gone blue melanconnolly from reading about it. Why can’t you write about something natural? Like the time we all fell into the water at the Waxies’ Dargle? *

‘Or the time,’ said Maria Concepta, ‘the slaughterhouse
went on fire.’

‘Or, the Lord be good to us all,’ said Mrs. Brennan, ‘the time the holy chap told us the end of the world was come to Dún Laoghaire and we were all going to meet a watery end at the butt end of the East Pier.’

‘It’s like the time,’ said Maria Concepta, ‘we seen the film about the king and all the people stood up.’

‘I’d have stood up for no king,’ said Crippen crossly.

‘You would,’ said Mrs. Brennan, ‘if you’d have seen this one.’

‘He was masterful,’ said Maria Concepta, ‘like me first husband who was only five foot nothing but very stern.’

‘Maria Concepta,’ said Mrs. Brennan, ‘give us that little stave about the Waxies’ Dargle.’

‘Well’, said Maria Concepta, ‘I’m not as good as I was the time I took first place and silver medal at the Fish Coyle.’*

‘Ah, poor ould Fish,’ said Mrs. Brennan, ‘he wasn’t bad when he had it.’

‘Well,’ said Crippen, ‘give us the stave.’

‘I will so,’ said Maria Concepta, making a noise like a cinder under a gate.

‘God love your stomach,’ said Crippen.

‘Ahmen, O Lord,’ said Mrs. Brennan, with feeling.

‘Thank yous, dear faithful follyers,’ murmured Maria Concepta. ‘It may be the last time I’ll be singing at yous.’

‘Thank
you
,’
said Crippen … “
But there’s them that
says
the
divil
is
dead
…”

‘Not half sooing enough,’ said Mrs. Brennan, ‘to hell with him.’

Maria Concepta finished on a low and throbbing note.

‘That was massive,’ said Mrs. Brennan.

‘Not a diver in the Port and Docks could have got under that,’ said Crippen.

‘I would like, as you’re the most melodious mezzo-soprano that ever muffled the markets,’ said Mrs. Brennan, ‘if you’d condescend to give us a verse of the
Zozzoligcal
Gardings
.’

‘Ah, the dear old days,’ said Maria Concepta.

‘Quite right,’ said Mrs. Brennan, explaining, ‘we both met our husbands in the Zoo.’

‘Quite right, ma’am, and damn the lie,’ said Maria Concepta, ‘myself and my poor fellow’ – she choked from emotion – ‘we met in the monkey house. And shared a bag of nuts with an orang-outang.’

‘Well, carry on with the coffing, the corpse’ll walk,’ said Crippen, jovially, ‘give us that bit of a bar.’

‘I will so and the divil thank the begrudgers,’ said Maria Concepta, ‘with no more ahdo,’ and without further ado she broke into a croak:

‘My poor ould uncle – oney …’

‘Owney?’ I asked.

‘Oney a marriage relayshing,’ went on Mrs.
Brennan. ‘He used to sing that. Till they buried him – after he died – in Kilbarrack. Out be Howth direction. That cementery is so healthy for dead people that if a live one had have went out there, they’d be there yet, and going on for all time, meeting themselves coming back.’

And, as the man said, it wouldn’t be the first time. This is the time of the year for it. In the winter, Paris is habitable by brass monkeys and, in the summer, you’d die for a breath of the sea. That’s when people from here learn to appreciate our situation. A shilling will take you to the Bull Wall or the Forty Foot but, in the heat of the Paris summer, it’ll cost you two shillings to go into the
Piscine
which is a sort of floating swimming pool on the Seine. For one hour only. They control the length of time by a system of coloured tickets and when they shout out that it’s time up for the yellow tickets or the blue tickets it’s no good gaming on that you don’t know what
jaune
or
bleu
means.

You can’t stop there till it shuts and they’ll charge you the difference afterwards – like travelling first class on a third class Metro ticket The inspector, if he catches you, will waste no time bemoaning the
dishonesty of any part of the human race, yours or his. He’ll hold out his hand for a ten-shilling fine.

And once, at a party held on a little island, under the auspices of some students from Trinity College, Dublin, I dived in from the Pont Notre Dame. The
pompiers
,
or river fire brigade, shone searchlights from their boats.

I hardly had my clothes on when the
flic
were down wanting to know what I thought I was making of the place altogether and where I was from and had I my papers? I showed them my papers and they saw the cover of the passport and bothered me no more. One nodded to the other not to mind me, that I was an Irishman, and tapped the side of his cap to indicate that I was one of the Gormans of Grange and a foreman in the puzzle factory.

He saluted and wished me a civil good-night and they went off, much gratified, to the strains of
The
Marseillaise
sung by the choir of Trinity scholars in the version attributed to its distinguished alumnus known as The Pope:

As the Paris police are mentioned, let me say this much about them. Some people from the island across the way and Irish visitors from that stratum of society that would eat cooked Kenyan if they thought the Quality over the way were doing likewise adversely criticise them as armed State police as compared to the dear old village constable in Dryraching-under-the-water.

My grandmother’s favourite toast was: ‘Here’s to the harp of old Ireland and may it never want for a
string as long as there’s a gut in a Peeler,’ and I am not that mad about police of any sort myself but my experience of the Paris police has been a pleasant one.

In a spirit, quite in keeping with the democratic tradition of their country, they will reprimand the wealthy
rentier
in his
delage
and the workman carrying his child on the back-wheel and as freely assist them. French or foreign, rich or poor, they are at everyone’s disposal and, if your papers are right, they don’t care how little else you have in your pocket; you can go on home and the sleep will do you good.

The best spot from which to view the chestnuts and beautiful Paris in the spring is the top of the Arc de Triomphe. I was up there, like any other tourist, and worse is to come, a true born Dubliner:
I
have
been
on
top
of
the
Pillar
.

I first noticed the Pillar, one day not long ago, when I met a man, a pal of my cradle days. We graduated together to the more serious considerations of ‘the make in,’ ‘fat,’ ‘pontoon,’ and the ‘ha’penny rummy’*, before emigration parted us. He went to the Navan end of Cabra and Paw and Maw and us broke virgin soil in the highlands of Kimmage.

I came out of Henry Street and who should I see but my old school mate staring up at the top of the Pillar before.

‘Me tearing man, Jowls. I didn’t know you were out.’

‘Aw hello the hard. Yes, this three weeks. Wasn’t bad, I was in the laundry during the winter.’

He was still examining your man on the Pillar as
closely as he could from a distance of a hundred feet.

‘Very interesting that. Up there.’

‘Nothing got to do with us.’

He looked at me angrily.

‘Why hasn’t it got something to do with us?’

I had never suspected such loyalty in the bosom of the Jowls who sat with me, a boy, under the watchful eye of the French Sisters of Charity in the North William Gaeltacht.*

‘Did you ever go up and look at him?’

I started off the usual long spiel about being a Dublin man, but Jowls cut me short.

‘Come on up, and I’ll show you. It’ll give us an appetite for a couple.’

We started in and, to cut a long story short, I died seven deaths on the way up, all from shortness of breath. Jowls was in better condition being just back to this sinful world from his place of retirement. We got up to the top and I crawled out after him to the platform, or whatever you call it, and knelt before Nelson. I hadn’t the strength to stand.

Jowls looked up at the Hero of Trafalgar, sighed deeply, and reached up to pat the sword, victorious shield of England, home and beauty. I looked up at Jowls and said humbly, ‘Napoleon wasn’t a bad one either.’

He came out of his reverie, ‘Wha’? Do you see that?’ He tapped the point of the sword. I nodded up to him.

‘D’you know what I’m going to tell you, there’s about a fiver’s worth of scrap in that. It’s not much but not much trouble either, of a dark evening, and bring it down wrapped up in brown paper; they’d never miss it till morning.’

‘It’s not every day in the week I get invited to an eviction,’ said I.

‘It’s not an eviction,’ said Dion. ‘Only a seizure of the goods, as heretofore mentioned. One Chrysler motor car on which there are twelve instalments owing to the Farmers and Merchants Heart and Hand United Mutual Assistance Company (Incorporated in Great Britain).

‘I’m owed nothing. My commission came out of the first advance from the Farmers and Merchants, God bless them,’ he added cheerfully. ‘I’m only there to identify the goods. We’re meeting Mr. Claythorpe of the Farmers and Merchants at the premises of Mr. Genockey, the purchaser of the Chrysler car, aforesaid. Mr. Carr here – very appropriate name – is going to seize the car, or what’s left of it, and give it over to Mr. Claythorpe.

‘I’m there to identify the goods and renew acquaintance with Mr. Genockey who has, in the transaction, benefitted me to the extent of some scores of pounds and is, in my opinion, one of the most remarkable men of our time. If you ask my opinion, he’s a credit to his country and the sort of man that Ireland wants. Mr. Carr, as a Sheriff’s man of some antiquity …’

‘Fifty year, and only off suspended once over me little trouble.’ Mr. Carr is a small man, wearing a black suit with little lapels and drainpipe trousers like a Teddy Boy gone backwards and with an old pair of eyes, God bless the mark, that look as if he’s got them in a forced sale. ‘And though I won’t go as far as to
agree with Dionysius about Mr. Genockey, the defaulter in the present case, as to say that he is a credit to his country, I will say he keeps us Sheriff’s men going. It’s only a year or so since the case of the washing machine.’

‘This Mr. Genockey,’ said Dion, driving North from Lower Mount Street, ‘hires a washing machine, pays one down payment but no more and, after hiring it out to every old one in the neighbourhood at three bob an hour
and
pay for the juice for two years, they finally got round to seizing it. You were there, Mr. Carr?’