If anyone is dead around here I’m sure we’ll find them. I move along Lower Ballast Street, with a quick gawk at the eight homes that make up Sailor’s Close. Sam is doing Pier Street, Windlass Row and Fumbel Alley, while Con zigzags across both sides of Railway Place and Halyard Avenue. I lock my eyes onto the tenement doors and hallways, on the lookout for the sign that some Portsider has breathed their last.We all meet outside Bradley’s Bakery on Buckingham Street.“No luck here, Paddy,” Con tells me. “Not a sign to be seen.”“Me neither,” Sam adds. “It’s only a waste of time doin’ this today.”
“Okay, let’s go on home,” I say, seeing a string of black droopy clouds coming in over the Liffey Shipward. “Maybe we’ll have more luck next time.”
As we walk home I get the smell of hot bread from the bakery air vent and my belly rumbles. The raisin bun I got for school lunch tasted moldy, so I didn’t eat it. I wish I had, cos now I’m only famished. I know it’s no good me going home until Ma gets done with cleaning offices at nine. There’ll be no hot food until then. Ma has been doing office cleaning jobs ever since daddy came back from the war in Burma. She has to work as he’s not allowed to work because he deserted the Irish Army to fight for the British.
The worst part is I don’t get to see her until late. Often she’s too dog-tired to cook a proper supper, so we mostly eat baked beans on toast. When Ma is out the food cupboard is always kept locked. She caught on when I once used a screwdriver to take off the lock. Now it’s bolted and padlocked.
“We’ve had no deaths this past week.” Sam says. “Must be the easier weather.”
“Must be,” I agree. “Or else heaven an’ hell is still closed for the Christmas holidays.” Sam laughs at that. He loves going to wakes, even more than me or Con. Sam knows every prayer worth knowing and takes it all very serious. For me a wake is a good chance to eat and drink. Con feels much the same. With nine kids in his family he doesn’t get enough to eat, even when his daddy is working. He’s been laid off at Golden’s fertilizer factory for months. Con is as thin as a whip. In a way I envy him, cos I only have to gawk at food to put on weight.“You know what we need?” I say. “Another cold snap like last month. That’Il see the old ones drop like flies.”“Just listen to yourself, Paddy!” Con growls. “I’d swear you want people to die.”“No, but they die anyway.” I say back. “The freezin’ cold kills them quicker cos their bodies are too old. That’s only a fact of life, Con.”“Just like the Dolly sisters,” Sam says, backing me up double quick.“Yeah, just like the twins.” I smile at him.“I miss them two,” Con says. “God, is it only a week since their wake? Feels like a year.”
The twin’s real names were Grace and Brigid Doyle. We called them the Dolly Sisters because they looked just like those tiny chalk-faced dolls they had sitting on their mantelpiece. They died when their supply of turf from the free fuel scheme got used up too soon. The twins tore up their floor lino. Strips of wallpaper were also pulled from the wall, but not much. Most of it stayed stuck hard. When they ran out of stuff to burn they froze to death.Ever since us three have been trying to figure out how they could let themselves die like that.“The twins got a massive wake,” Sam says, always looking on the bright side.“Yeah, massive,” I smile. “Two whole days of food and drink.”“Trust you to think of your belly,” Con laughs.“If their place was as damp as ours the wallpaper would’ve peeled off real easy,” I say. “Maybe they’d still be alive.”I’m remembering that oily smell of burnt lino that hung in the Dollys’ home all during the wake. The thought of it makes me sneeze.“Wallpaper doesn’t burn good,” Sam says, as if he’d tried it himself. “Not for all the trouble that goes into peelin’ it off the wall in scrabbly little bits, you know?”“Why didn’t the twins get a loan of some fuel?” I ask, not for the first time.
I had asked my mother the same question.“They never liked asking for help,” Ma had said, blaming the people who ran the free fuel scheme for the twins dying. “What good is one lousy sack of turf for a whole month?”The last time I seen the twins alive was Christmas Day. Sam’s mother had sent him over to give the twins leftover rabbit. I went along with him. The Dolly’s had ever so nicely refused it.“Tell your mammy thanks, Sam,” Brigid said, barely cracking open the open. “But we already et our Christmas dinner.”“Say thanks for me too, love,” Grace called from inside. “Tell her not to worry over us.”“What’Il I do with this?” Sam asked as we walked home. “I’m gone off rabbit meat.”“Give it here,” I said. “it won’t go to any waste.”I ate as we strolled home. By the time we got back only the bare bones was left.“You gave them the rabbit?” Mrs. Lynch asked, eyeing me hard as I wiped grease off my chin.“Yeah,” Sam lied. “They said thanks and a happy Christmas.”
On our way home through the docks we’re still watching out for a sign. Big cold drops of rain splatter my head. At times like this I wonder why we bother. Most kids only go to wakes because their parents make them go to pray for the dead. Grown-ups believe that God listens more to children’s prayers than to their own. Sam says it’s because kids have less sins on their souls. We pass by the archway leading into the British and Irish Shipping Company. This is where Brigid and Grace had their newspaper stand for donkey’s years. It’s a pity they had to die so hard.“I think the twins just decided it was time to go,” Sam says, as if reading my mind. “They had to be sixty if they were a day.““God, that’s one hundurd an’ twenty put together,” Con gasps. “Can you imagine ever bein’ so old?” He does a quick count. “We’re all twelve. That’s, um, thirty-six years between us.”“Hey, I’m just gone thirteen I’ll have you know!”“Thirteen goin’ on a hundurd.” Con whispers into Sam’s ear.“I heard that, Con Bollard!”“Wasn’t it a lovely wake? The Dollys’, I mean?”
Sam cuts in, doing his usual to keep the peace between me and Con. “Nice coffins too.”“My ma says them coffins was awful cheap ones,” Con grumbles.I know that tone of voice but I’m not going to be egged into a row. There’s already been enough arguments over the twins’ funeral. Because they had no money, a door-to-door collection was made to bury them. Lots of people gave in cash. That’s when the trouble started. The women who did all the collecting wanted to spend most of it on the funeral, with just a small wake. The men wanted more money spent on food and drink to wake the twins. They won out as usual and two cheap caskets were got from the Ballybough Coffin Company on the North Strand.“Why not just bury them in plastic bags instead of vanished coffins?” Con eyes me sideways, just because I agree with the men. His mother had organized the collection.“It’s varnished coffins,” I tell him.“Vanished. Ma says they’ll vanish into dust within days.”“I don’t know why your ma is still up on her high horse over this, Con.” I say calmly. “After all, the twins won’t mind. A coffin only has to hold them long enough to get from here to the graveyard. Then it’s all only food for the maggots, you know like?”“I’m sure the twins don’t mind,” Sam adds. “Like, what’s done is…”“Look! There’s one!” I shout, surprised to see a death notice hanging on the iron gate outside Shanahan Mansions. It’s only two streets over from where we live. We’re so busy yapping that we almost missed it.“Where?” Con asks, wiping rain off his glasses. “I don’t see anythin’.”“Across the road.” I point to the spot. “On top of the rails. This wasn’t here earlier or I’d surely to God have seen it.”“It must have been just put up, Paddy. I wonder who died?”“It only goes to show,” I say, things come to them who wait. Let’s see who it is.”
I dash over to peer up at the square piece of white paper bordered in black.“What’s it say, Paddy? Who died?”“Lemme see. . .” I stand on a step to gawk up at the notice written in blue ink. It’s streaked with rain and hard enough to see clear. “Rest In Peace…” I read at the very top of the notice.“They all say that!” Con snorts. “Tell us who.”“Shut your face, Con! If you’re in such a hurry read it yourself.”I just know that will shut him up. He can’t read a single word. Sam isn’t much better, except he can read a bit if the words are short and done in blocky letters. But he’s no good at this curly joined-up kind.“All I say is you don’t have to say the Rippy part,” Con sniffs.“RIP is on every notice.”“Con…” Sam jabs him in the ribs. “Just say nothin’. You know how Paddy carries on like this. Let him read the thing, otherwise we’ll all be drownded in the pissin’ rain.”“What do you mean, Sam? I don’t carry on!”“Ah, I don’t mean it. Will you just read the notice, please?”“Okay.” I pull up on my tippytoes to read it again. “R.I.P … it says. Rest In Peace.” I pause, glaring at Con. “Finn, age eleven, beloved son of Sean and Noeleen Dillon. Died on the forth day of-hey, ‘fourth’ is spelled wrong. It should have a…”“Just read the bleedin’ thing!” Con hisses. “God, I’ll be gray an’ buried by the time you’re done.”“Okay, where was I? The fourth day of January 1959. Lying-in to be held on Tuesday…”“That’s today!”“Shut up, Con. Can’t you hear I’m still readin’ it?”“Then hurry it up, for fucksake!”“Tuesday the fifth at five,” I say, dragging out each word. “At the Dillon home.”“Dillon?” Con raises an eyebrow. “That family is fairly new around here, isn’t it?”“I only met Finn a couple of times,” Sam says in a sad voice. “He’s a nice lad-was, I mean. I hear he was very sickly. He looks a bit like you, Paddy, with curly black hair and a hare lip.’ “When do we go over there to say our prayers?” Con asks.“We’ll meet outside Dillon’s at five,” I tell them. “Con, be sure to wash your face this time.”I didn’t tell them that my dad had served with Mister Dillon in the British Army. That he and my dad had deserted the Irish Army on the same day.
We arrive at Shanahan Mansions shortly after five o’clock. The Dillon’s flat is on the third balcony and overlooks the Tolka river. From up here I can see some dockers sitting inside the Diamond Bar, downing their pints.“Listen, Con, don’t overdo it with the booze,” I say as we walk towards the flat.“Look who talks! Remember the Brady wake two weeks ago? We nearly had to carry you home! Just as well I told your mother you were stayin’ over at our place.”“Let’s go in,” Sam says with a sigh. “We’re here to pray, not to get locked.”We go in quietly, our faces set as sad as a wet Sunday. Already the place is beginning to stir with people calling in to pay their respects. Men with faces covered in fine white dust have come from the fertilizer factory on their way from work. They will only stay a short while, returning later after a good wash at home.“Hey!” I whisper, pointing to the kitchen table. “Look at all the grub. Porky pig heaven, so it is.”“And we know who the pig is,” Con mutters.I gawk at plates piled high with thick sandwiches. We’re here early enough for the good meaty ones, before the adults get to eating everything in sight. I move towards the table to eye the food better. Jesus, they even have sardine sandwiches, my very favourites.“First things first, Paddy.” Sam pulls me back. “We’ll pray for his soul, then eat.” He nudges me towards the bedroom where Finn lies.“See?” Sam whispers, looking at Finn from the doorway “You look a lot like him, Paddy.”“You think so?” I say, staring over at the deathbed.Fair dues to Sam, he knows how to go about things. As soon as he enters the room he falls on his knees beside Finn’s bed. He begins praying aloud, head bowed and hands joined. His chin juts up towards a holy statue of Saint Jude perched on a wooden shelf over Finn’s head. Sam looks like the hair-oiled boy on the cover of A Catholic’s First Holy Communion Book. He knows all the prayers for the dead and never stutters while praying. I just know the usual prayers, such as the Hail Mary and Our Father. Sam says the Hail Holy Queen. I don’t know it by heart like he does, so I repeat his words a fraction later.“…To thee do we cry, poor famished children of Eve; to thee do we send up our size, moany and weepy in this valley of tears…”Me and Con follow Sam’s lead and kneel beside the narrow bed. As we pray I see a red-eyed woman and just know it has to be the mother. Finn looks almost lost among the starched white bedsheets. Sam is right. He does look a fair bit like me, hare lip and all. Except his face is the colour of wallpaper paste. After praying for a while my knees are hurting from the hard wooden floor. I rise and walk to where Mrs. Dillon sits. Con follows me. Sam doesn’t notice us as he’s in a world of his own, eyes shut tight.“My ma says to tell you she’s awful sorry for yer loss, Ma’am,” I tell the woman. I’m sure it’s what Ma would say if she was here, so it’s not a complete lie.“Thanks,” Mrs. Dillon whispers. “You’re very good to come and pray for Finn.”From the corner of my eye I see someone place more sandwiches on the kitchen table.“Can I help in any way?” I wait a second. “Like, serve tea?”“I think we’re okay for now, son,” she says softly. “Just help yerself to some food.”I don’t need any more telling. In five seconds I have my hands wrapped around a nice drippy sardine sandwich. Con does the same. Sam is still on his knees. He’ll join us in his own good time. As I eat I take a good gander around me. It’s easy to tell that Finn is an only child. The place has nice clean furniture, white lacy curtains and spotless wallpaper. I see some crates of Guinness and other bottles stacked under the table. Mr. Dillon is pouring glasses of Dry Fly sherry for two old women. It’s too early in the evening for hard stuff like whiskey. That will surely come later.Father Senan Stack, the parish priest, is talking to Mrs. Dillon. Whatever he’s saying only seems to make her sad. Mr. Dillon spills some of the sherry he’s pouring. I can see he’s a bit distracted because his wife is sobbing.“Will I help you pour the drinks, Mister Dillon?” I give him a big smile.’Hello Paddy. How is your Da these days?’
Don’t know, he’s over in Liverpool looking for a job.’
‘I could use a job too.’ The man sighs.
He hands me the two bottles, one sherry the other port, and heads to his wife. I move around the parlour, making sure that all the adults have their glasses topped up. That way they’ll be less inclined to eye me.“Don’t forget us, Paddy,” Con says as I pass him. “We have mouths on us too.” He points at three blue-tinted drinking glasses put aside for us.“Here goes,” I whisper. “Youse two keep watch.”Both stand so as to shield me from gawkers.“All clear.” Sam licks his lips.“Now,” Con orders.I glance over my shoulder, but people are too busy praying or gossiping to notice us.I smile when Mr. Dillon comes over to say I’m doing a great job and could I also hand out bottles of Guinness. Con and Sam help me with this.“Christ, them fellas drink like fishes,” Con says. He nods to a handful of old men sitting in silence sipping Guinness, looking lost in their own minds. Maybe they’re wondering which of them will be waked next. I’m beginning to feel loopy from the booze, so I stop drinking and eat instead. Sam hardly eats anything, just sips sherry topped up with red lemonade.“Go easy, Sam,” I tell him. “That’s your second glass.”“Don’t worry your head over me,” Sam grins. “Us Lynch’s can easy handle drink.”I pat a pocket full of biscuits, promising myself I’ll save some for tomorrow. But I know I’ll keep eating as long as I can stuff food into my face. All in all it’s turning out to be a nice wake.
A week after Finn’s funeral I meet Mrs. Dillon on Gardiner Street. She’s carrying two bags of shopping. She looks jaded tired so I offer to take a bag for her. When we reach her flat she invites me for tea. I sit by a blazing fire eating apple tart. Her husband spends his afternoons sitting on the Custom House steps playing cards with other jobless men. She asks questions and we get to talking for a long while. I tell her that Ma works until late. That she has to work as my father had been blacklisted by the government and not allowed to work for a living. Mrs. Dillon says it must be hard to be left alone all day to fend for myself. I say I prefer it that way, but I don’t think she believes me. I also tell her she bakes the best apple tart I’ve ever tasted. She smiles and tells me it’s Finn’s favourite too.“Paddy, would you do somethin’ for me?”“Sure, Mrs. Dillon.” “Will you visit me again soon-if you’d like to?”“Sure,” I say, eyeing the leftover tart. “I’ll come by after school tomorrow if it’s okay?”“Grand. Do you like fruit cake?”I’m nicely sprawled in front of the coal fire reading one of Finn’s comic books. I like dropping in here after school. I’m thinking it’s so much better than being at home. Noeleen Dillon feeds me and asks how I’m doing. It’s nice having someone older to talk to. When Ma gets home she’s too tired for that. I don’t know why, but I’ve never told her about visiting Noeleen’s. As far as she knows I’m at home or out with Con and Sam.
Noeleen comes out of Finn’s room carrying some clothes.“That looks nice.” I point to a navy blue suit on a wooden hanger. “Can I try it on?” The words just come out of my mouth.“I don’t think-““Pleeease.”“Um… “ She shakes her head as if she means no. “Okay.”My own suit came free from the St. Vincent De Paul, as Ma didn’t have money to buy one. I’m thinking how awful shitty that was compared to Finn’s. While Noeleen is sorting out more stuff in the bedroom I put on the suit and stand before a long mirror. It’s such a nice fit on me too.In the glass I see Noeleen standing by the door. She stares at me as if she’s never sawn me before. The look on her face. I don’t know how to say it, but there’s a kind of wanting in all of her. Her mouth opens a little, making a small o.She runs back into the bedroom and I start pulling off the suit, thinking it’s all upset her.“No, leave it on, son,” she calls, and suddenly she’s beside me. “Here, try these.” She hands me a pair of shiny black shoes. They fit perfect.“Well?” she says. “What do yeh think?”“It’s all nice,” I say, “I’m sure Finn looked …”
Suddenly I’m being pressed into her body and everything is dark and soft and warm. She kisses my head again and again.“Ooooh, my lovely boy,” she whispers.Wet drops are falling on my hair and before I know it she’s crying like a demented one. I half want to pull away, but I don’t. She squeezes me so that I can’t ever move, so I just let myself be, breathing in her sweet flowery smell of Lux soap. It seems like a long, long while before she lets go of me. Funny, even after she does I still feel like I’m being held.As she dries her eyes with a dish towel I’m thinking she might give Finn’s things to me. Instead she hands back my own clothes and folds Finn’s suit real slow and careful like, as if in a world of her own. I tell myself she wants to keep his things for another while. At least until she gets more used to her boy being stone cold dead and all. I expect she’ll give them to me soon enough. God, my feet can hardly wait to jump into those shoes.Before leaving I ask her if it’s okay to let Con and Sam play with Finn’s things next time, as they are my best pals. I haven’t been seeing so much of them lately.“No, son,” she says real quick, “maybe later.”
“You’ve been goin’ over to her place for ages,” Con says in a sulky way.“Yeah, what do you do over there?”Both of them is just bursting to know so I do have to say something.“Noeleen lets me play with Finn’s toy soldiers and things. She lets me wear his clothes too.”“Hah! I don’t believe it,” Con laughs. “Finn was a skinnier one!”“His clothes fit me good, Con.’“Why does she let you wear them?”“Why not?” I smile. “You’re only jealous.”The two of them looks at each other, then at me.“What?” I ask. “Why the hairy looks?”“Nothin’,” Con says. “Just that I couldn’t bear to be there.”“It’s not so bad. Noeleen’s just lonely is all. What’s the harm?”Con rolls his eyes, giving me that don’t-ask-if-you-don’t know kind of look.“It’s not normal, like.” He nudges Sam. “Tell him, Sam Lynch.”“Con’s sayin’ the truth, Paddy. What else happens there?”“Nothin’… well, sometimes she hugs me for no reason, you know?”
It just comes right out and I’m not sure why I say it.“She does?” Con snorts. “Hugs is only for babbies.”“I’m no babby. I have to let her, else she bawls her two eyes out if I don’t do it.”“Ah, Noeleen’s from Stonybatter,” Sam says, as if that explains it all. “Anyways, what’s wrong with hugs? Infant’s do love them.““I’m no bloody infant’, Sam!” I say to his face.“Then don’t be actin’ like one!” Con hisses.“You don’t like hugs, do you?”“It’s like being squashed tighter than a sardine.”
Why am I saying it like this? Why am I making Noeleen look bad when she isn’t? ‘I think you should stop going over to her flat.’ Sam says.
‘Sam is right, Paddy.’ Con adds.
And in my heart I know what I should do.I‘m buying firewood from Liam Gunnary’s coalyard in Watermill Lane when I see Noeleen coming way in the distance. I haven’t seen hide or hair of her for days. I pray for the ground to open up and swally me rather than meet her. I cross the laneway and get past her without being seen. Even from here I can see she’s been drinking like a camel. She sways as she walks, then slips on the footpath and falls hard on her arse. I get the sudden urge to run over and help her home. But I just keep on walking. I think I’m getting away when I hear her.“Paddy … she calls out in a slurry voice. “Come here an’ help me!”I grip my bundle of firewood and clatter away. I’m waddling like a drunken duck, trying to hold onto loosening sticks while moving as fast as my two legs will carry me.“Pleeease, Paddy!”Some sticks fall out. I don’t stop for them. I hate myself for running off on her, but I know if she lays a hold on me and hugs me I’ll never get away again. I’ll be hers forever and ever. I just know it in my bones. The knowing of that should feel so awful but it doesn’t. Not really. Yesterday I almost visited Noeleen on my way home from school. I even stood outside her door but didn’t knock.I don’t know why.“Do it now, Paddy,” I tell myself. “Go on over there and say sorry.”I run up the steps to Noeleen’s place, take a deep breath and hold up a fist to knock on the door. Suddenly it swings open and Mr. Dillon staggers out, carrying a wooden tea chest on one shoulder. He sees me and stops.“Hello, Paddy,” he says softly, resting the chest on the concrete balcony. It’s crammed full of clothes. I stare into a front room bare of furniture. Only cardboard boxes and plastic bags are left.“What’s up?” I ask, taking a step into the hallway. “Where’s Noeleen-Mrs. Dillon?”
I’m hearing myself hollow in the empty room.“She’s in Saint Brendan’s Hospital this two days gone. She hasn’t been well since Finn died.”“Saint Brendan’s?” I whisper.“She’ll be there for just a few days.” He’s smiling, but I see how hurted he looks. “Then we’ll be moving back to Stonybatter.”
He rubs eyes that look red and sore. He looks over the balcony, hearing some dockers laughing outside the Diamond Bar. “I grew up around here with your father, but all her relations are living over there. They’ll be a help to her.”Where were they for the past few weeks, I feel like asking, as I didn’t see hide nor hair of them.
But I say nothing.“I better move, Paddy.”
He bends and lifts the chest onto a shoulder, then walks down the passageway. As he turns right to go downstairs something flitters out of the tea chest. It’s Noeleen’s scarf
I walk home, fingering her scarf in my pocket. I’m thinking I’ll go inside and try and open Ma’s padlocked cupboard. I don’t know. It seems like a heap of trouble. Instead I sit down on the concrete stairs and take out the scarf. I press it to my face and close my eyes. It smells of Noeleen and before I know it I’m crying my eyes out. I look at the drops on the scarf, half amazed to see them. I hardly ever cry.
“What’s the matter, Paddy,’ Sam puts a hand on my right shoulder, ’it’s not the end of the world, is it?’
‘No,’ Con adds.’ I know, let’s go and find if anyone has kicked the bucket in Portside.’
‘That’ll take your mind off things, Paddy.’ Sam agrees.
And so it did.