Maggie's Breakfast (21 page)

A waiter, apparently mimicking her voice, sang:
“I dreamt I’d a pair of marble balls with something or other beside me!
”

Another, not to be outdone, warbled:
“Eileen, I’m sure there is somebody knittin’! If you come over here I will piss on your kitten!”

Clearly some waiters didn’t want to be known only as talkers but as singers as well.

One of the older waiters, adjusting his bow tie with trembling fingers, started up, “She was in the dining room a few years ago and returned every dish she ordered. The potatoes went from
boiled to mash to steamed and in the end she ended up eatin’ none of it. She had little else to do if you ask me. Before she left here the last time, she caught me lookin’ in her photo
book. It was on top of her big trunk outside her door. That day when I thought she was takin’ a walk around Stephen’s Green she appeared in front of me and demanded to know if I was
lookin’ into her private life. Divine Jesus, I nearly lost what was left of me mind when she saw me. I didn’t know what she was talkin’ about. I only picked up the book and saw
them photos of her when she was young.”

A soon-to-be-retired old porter volunteered: “About three years ago I served dinner in her room and I was exposed to that screechy record machine she has with her all the time. Me eardrums
were burstin’ and poundin’ with the noise comin’ from it! All the loud stuff was in Italian as well to make it worse. I think she put it on to torment me.”

Those who didn’t speak favourably of Margaret Sheridan wished she had stayed away, not only from the hotel, but from Dublin as well. Nevertheless the news of Margaret Sheridan’s
arrival replaced the regular complaints of how hard and difficult it was to live and survive in the Dublin of the 1950’s.

A hall porter turned from his locker and looked as if he was about to leave the dressing room but instead sat down on the bench and presented himself as if he was about to give a lecture to the
mice who inhabited the place when he was away on duty.

“Do you know anythin’ about Madame Sheridan?” he asked anybody who was listening.

Turning from the dressing room mirror an elderly waiter mumbled, “She’s a Japanese, a singer.”

“A Japanese singer?”

“Yis.”

“Madame wasn’t and isn’t a Japanese singer.”

“She’s not?”

“No.”

“What is she?”

“An opera singer! She sang the part of a Japanese!” the porter yelled and continued. “You wouldn’t know much about opera, would ya?”

“What the fuck is that?” the newcomer from Donegal asked.

“You don’t know what it is, do you?”

“No.”

“How could you? You’re from Donegal where the only exposure to culture is the west wind that blows up your arsehole.”

“As long as
you
know!” the newcomer responded with a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

“Yes! Down here in civilised Dublin some people have a bit of an education.”

From the other side of the locker room somebody farted. The hall porter stood up and looked as if he was about to punch anyone who disagreed with him. Nobody challenged him and he presumably
felt he had got his day off to a good start. With a broad grin on his face that underlined an expression of superiority he gripped his coat lapels and continued to blabber on.

“An’ she’s from Mayo. Just a country girl from Castlebar. Mayo!”

A voice from across the room bellowed out: “I wish to God somebody would send her back down there!”

“Castlebar is up! Not down, you eejit!” the porter called back.

A fellow wearing a kitchen apron and white hat approached. “I saw a picture of her in the
Herald
with President de Valera the last time she was here. She was never married and if
you ask me that’s always been her problem.” He tied the apron strings around his waist. “Didn’t somebody say she was half-mad about an Italian Count who shot himself dead
one night when she was singin’ some kind of religious song in Italy? The poor fella didn’t know who he loved the most – Mayo Maggie or whatever they call wives over there in
Italy.”

“I’ve heard the stories,” said the porter. “She fell in love with a married man and lost half her brain over him when he wouldn’t leave his wife.”

“I’ve heard John McCormack a few times on the wireless. He was a singer as well. The Pope made him a Count. Miss Sheridan was made into something like that in Italian.”

“Something like what?”

“She was made into something like the Pope made John McCormack into! Count John McCormack, a Prince of the Church!”

“John McCormack was a great singer.”

“How’d ya know all that?”

“Me?”

“You, ya gobshite!”

“I read newspapers. I’ve read newspapers more times than you’ve wiped your arse.”

For the hotel staff, talking about guests was something of a hobby. But when it came to talking about Margaret Burke Sheridan it was close to being an obsession. It probably had to do with the
fact that she was in many ways just like them. She was Irish and it was easier and maybe more comforting for them to criticise one of their own. When it came to discussing her they were all
experts.

“The fella who invented the wireless is said to be the one who paid for all her singin’ education. He heard her one day singin’ in some rich person’s house in London. I
think it was Churchill’s mother or cousin or somebody close to that family.”

“I thought you said she was sent to Italy?”

“She was sent to Italy by an Italian fella who was married to a woman from Galway.”

“Wasn’t it the man who invented the wireless that sent her?”

“Yes! He was Italian! Or at least he had an Italian name. Marconi.”

“Marconi? Who’s that?”

“The man who invented the wireless! The thing you listen to with them big ears of yours every day.”

“Didn’t you hear the other story?”

“What‘s your arse talkin’ about now?” the hall porter said as he moved closer to the door.

“It’s not me arse that’s talkin’. I’m repeatin’ something me father told me.”

“What did he tell ya?”

“When she went to the House of Commons and yelled something in Irish. Didn’t you hear that story?”

“Yes, I fuckin’ heard it!”

“What did she yell?”

“She yelled ‘What about Roger Casement?’”

At that the hall porter called out as he left, “Go to work, you pack of bollocks!”

* * *

“That man sitting over near the winda’ there sent boxes of arms and ammunition to Israel from Ireland.”

“Who?”

“Him.”

“The old fella with the hat?”

“Right you are.”

“Mr. Briscoe?”

“You know his name?”

“Of course I do. Everybody knows his name. His picture’s been in the paper enough times for God’s sake. Wasn’t it about the floatin’ coffins or
somethin’?”

“Who told ya that?”

“I had an apparition from the Virgin Mary.”

“Don’t get blasphemous.”

“I’m too religious to be whatever it is you said.”

“Blasphemous. It’s a word you hear when you enter a public toilet.”

“Just because you went to the University of Toilet Paper.”

“I’m a historian.”

“You’re definitely somethin’.”

“I should be more than a waiter sufferin’ from varicose veins.”

“Give me the skinny on your man there.”

“Mr. Briscoe?”

“I know who he is now.”

“Your arse, you do.”

“I do.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s the Lord Mayor of Jerusalem.”

“Wrong.”

“He the Lord Mayor of . . . here? Isn’t he?”

“I’m not goin’ to tell you.”

“Well, I’m askin’ ya.”

“You want me to tell you?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

“You want t’know about the floatin’ coffins and all that stuff?”

“Go ahead. Resist tellin’ me.”

“When he lived in Cork he put rifles in coffins and sent them to Israel.”

“You’re jokin’? How did he do that?”

“He opened the top of the box like any eejit would do, you half a gobshite!”

“Lower your voice.”

“I’m only whisperin’.”

“He sent the boxes from Cork?”

“He sent coffins from Cork.”

“With nobody dead in them?”

“That’s not what I was attemptin’ to get at, you dried-up ring of Clonakilty puddin’!”

“What are ya gettin’ at then?”

“I don’t want to continue educatin’ you.”

“You said he was puttin’ somethin in boxes and sendin’ them out a Ireland, didn’t ya?”

“Ya heard me?”

“I did. You said he put arms and legs in boxes and sent them to –”

“I said he put arms and ammunition into bleedin’ coffins and sent them out a this country to Israel. Y’didn’t know that, did ya?”

“I think I heard it someplace.”

“I didn’t say a bleedin’ thing about legs. Jaysus sakes! You and your arms and legs! Why don’t you clean out them ears of yours? I didn’t say a thing about legs,
you pot of stale piss!”

“You’re dyin’ to show you know how to read. So go on.”

“He put the guns into coffins and shipped them to Israel. That little fella over there sippin’ his tea is a very important man. Robert Briscoe. Lord Mayor of this kip! He’s a
hero here and he’s a hero in Israel.”

“He put guns in coffins. Jaysus!”

“The Brits thought the coffins had dead bodies in them and let the coffins in. It goes to show ya how the Brits have more respect for the dead than the livin’. Briscoe knew that
about the Brits and he sent everythin’ to Israel pretendin’ it was dead.”

Harry Guiney, the know-all waiter, then turned to me as if he wanted to teach me a lesson in Irish and Jewish History as well.

“Is that man there Jewish, d’ya think?” he asked me.

“I don’t know what he is,” I said.

Mickey Quinn couldn’t resist taking up the challenge. “Of course he’s Jewish. He lives up on the South Circular Road.”

“You have to be Jewish to live up on the South Circular Road?” said Guiney. “I’ll tell you somethin’ else.”

“What?”

“They’re not all Jews up there.”

“Did I say they were?” said Quinn. “I didn’t say that, did I?”

“You said somethin’ like that.”

“You didn’t listen.”

“Did ya know that all the Jews in Dublin live up on the South Circular Road?” Guiney asked.

“Doesn’t everybody know that?”

“You didn’t know it until I mentioned it.”

“Me father mentioned it once to me.”

“Your father, me arse. He didn’t know where he lived himself!”

“Where do
you
live?”

“Cabra!”

“You like it there?”

“I’d like to move to tell you the truth. You know the song: ‘
Abracadabra, I don’t want to live in Cabra – oh no, no, no!’
”

“Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you live near the Jews up there in Cabra?”

“Do I live near any Jews in Cabra?”

“Are you askin’ me a question?”

“No! I’m askin’ me dead mother the question! What the hell are you askin’ me if I live near any Jews for? I don’t know if I do or not. I don’t
know.”

“I know you don’t know.”

“Do you?”

“You’re askin’ me the same question I asked you.”

“What did you ask me?”

“Do you live near the Jews in Cabra?”

“Are you tryin’ to tell me I’m Jewish?”

“No, I’m not. I don’t know what the fuck you are.”

“I go to Mass so how can I be Jewish?”

“You live in Cabra and you don’t know who you live near?”

“I live near the person in the house next to me.”

“Are the people you live next to Jewish?”

“What people?”

“You have neighbours, don’t ya?”

“Of course.”

“Are they Jewish?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Two of the girls are nuns.”

“How do you know?”

“They were walkin’ around with them black clothes on them. I know what a nun looks like. I go to Mass, don’t I?”

“You talk like you know everythin’. If you know so much why are you only a waiter down on his heels?”

“I’m not down on me heels.”

“You are so! You ought to go over and ask Mr. Briscoe to give you a helpin’ hand. He’s good for that, you know. That’s why I asked you if you lived near any Jews up there
in Cabra. If you did you’d probably have a better shirt to wear when you come to work. You need help. There’s a charitable Jewish organisation up near where you live and you ought to
ask for a bit of assistance.”

“Go piss off with yourself!”

I was standing by, listening like an anxious schoolboy. I looked over at Mr. Briscoe, the man Guiney said was the Lord Mayor of Dublin. He looked very serious. I was afraid he had heard the chat
that was going on behind him. Normally when he came into the lounge for his afternoon tea he’d bid hello or tip his hat but today he didn’t. Had I known earlier the things Guiney said
about him I would have paid more attention to him.

Guiney tapped me on the shoulder. “Walsh, go make sure Mr. Briscoe has enough hot water.”

I went over to the table. “Is everything all right, sir?”

Mr. Briscoe took his eyes away from the newspaper and stared at me. I was expecting him to answer right away but he didn’t. He continued to look at me and I began to regret my
intrusion.

“Would you like another pot of hot water, sir?”

All of a sudden he looked happy. “I would, thanks. Kind of you to ask.”

I rushed back into the kitchen and filled a silver teapot with boiling water and ran back out to Mr. Briscoe’s table. I put the pot in front of him.

“Here you are, sir.”

“Are you new here?” he asked me.

“I’m here a short while.”

“Sit down,” he said.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Who else would I be talking to?”

“I’m workin’, sir. If I sit down I’ll be sacked.”

Mr. Briscoe raised his voice a little bit. “Sit down!”

I sat down.

He looked across the room at the other waiters as if to taunt or defy them in some way. The waiters were somewhat mystified by the sight of me sitting. Mr. Briscoe folded his paper and placed
his hat on top of it. He looked as if he was about to get up and leave but he didn’t. I made a feeble gesture to stand up but just as I did Mr. Briscoe raised his voice.