Mrs. Finucane looks suspicious. That's very fancy stationery you have there, by. Is that your mother's? You'll give that back when you get the money, won't you, by?
Oh, I will.
From now on I'm never to come to her front door. There's a lane behind her house and I'm to come in the back door for fear someone might see me.
In a large ledger she gives me the names and addresses of six customers behind in their payments. Threaten 'em, by. Frighten the life out of 'em.
My first letter,
Dear Mrs. O'Brien,
Inasmuch as you have not seen fit to pay me what you owe me I may be forced to resort to legal action. There's your son, Michael, parading around the world in his new suit which I paid for while I myself have barely a crust to keep body and soul together. I am sure you don't want to languish in the dungeons of Limerick jail far from friends and family.
I remain, yours in litigious anticipation,
Mrs. Brigid Finucane
She tells me, That's a powerful letter, by, better than anything you'd read in the Limerick Leader. That word, inasmuch, that's a holy terror of a word. What does it mean?
I think it means this is your last chance.
I write five more letters and she gives me money for stamps. On my way to the post office I think, Why should I squander money on stamps when I have two legs to deliver the letters myself in the dead of night? When you're poor a threatening letter is a threatening letter no matter how it comes in the door.
I run through the lanes of Limerick shoving letters under doors, praying no one will see me.
The next week Mrs. Finucane is squealing with joy. Four of 'em paid. Oh, sit down now and write more, by. Put the fear of God in 'em.
Week after week my threatening letters grow sharper and sharper. I begin to throw in words I hardly understand myself.
Dear Mrs. O'Brien,
Inasmuch as you have not succumbed to the imminence of litigation in our previous epistle be advised that we are in consultation with our barrister above in Dublin.
Next week Mrs. O'Brien pays. She came in tremblin' with tears in her eyes, by, and she promised she'd never miss another payment.
On Friday nights Mrs. Finucane sends me to a pub for a bottle of sherry. You're too young for sherry, by. You can make yourself a nice cup of tea but you have to use the tea leaves left over from this morning. No, you can't have a piece of bread with the prices they're charging. Bread is it? Next thing you'll be asking for an egg.
She rocks by the fire, sipping her sherry, counting the money in the purse on her lap, entering payments in her ledger before she locks everything in the trunk under her bed upstairs. After a few sherries she tells me what a lovely thing it is to have a little money so you can leave it to the Church for Masses to be said for the repose of your soul. It makes her so happy to think of priests saying Masses for her years and years after she's dead and buried.
Sometimes she falls asleep and if the purse drops to the floor I help myself to an extra few shillings for the overtime and the use of all the big new words. There will be less money for the priests and their Masses but how many Masses does a soul need and surely I'm entitled to a few pounds after the way the Church slammed doors in my face? They wouldn't let me be an altar boy, a secondary school pupil, a missionary with the White Fathers. I don't care. I have a post office savings account and if I keep writing successful threatening letters, helping myself to the odd few shillings from her purse and keeping the stamp money, I'll have my escape money to America. If my whole family dropped from the hunger I wouldn't touch this money in the post office.
Often I have to write threatening letters to neighbors and friends of my mother and I worry they might discover me. They complain to Mam, That oul' bitch, Finucane, below in Irishtown, sent me a threatening letter. What kind of a demon outa hell would torment her own kind with a class of a letter that I can't make head nor tail of anyway with words never heard on land or sea. The person that would write that letter is worse than Judas or any informer for the English.
My mother says anyone that writes such letters should be boiled in oil and have his fingernails pulled out by blind people.
I'm sorry for their troubles but there's no other way for me to save the money for America. I know that someday I'll be a rich Yank and send home hundreds of dollars and my family will never have to worry about threatening letters again.
Some of the temporary telegram boys are taking the permanent exam in August. Mrs. O'Connell says, You should take that exam, Frank McCourt. You have a bit of a brain in your head and you'd pass it no bother. You'd be a postman in no time and a great help to your poor mother.
Mam says I should take it, too, become a postman, save up, go to America and be a postman over there and wouldn't that be a lovely life.
I'm delivering a telegram to South's pub on a Saturday and Uncle Pa Keating is sitting there, all black as usual. He says, Have a lemonade there, Frankie, or is it a pint you want now that you're near sixteen?
Lemonade, Uncle Pa, thanks.
You'll want your first pint the day you're sixteen, won't you?
I will but my father won't be here to get it for me.
Don't worry about that. I know 'tis not the same without your father but I'll get you the first pint. 'Tis what I'd do if I had a son. Come here the night before you're sixteen.
I will, Uncle Pa.
I hear you're taking that exam for the post office?
I am.
Why would you do a thing like that?
'Tis a good job and I'd be a postman in no time and it has the pension.
Ah, pension my arse. Sixteen years of age an' talking about the pension. Is it coddin' me you are? Do you hear what I said, Frankie? Pension my arse. If you pass the exam you'll stay in the post office nice and secure the rest of your life. You'll marry a Brigid and have five little Catholics and grow little roses in your garden. You'll be dead in your head before you're thirty and dried in your ballocks the year before. Make up your own bloody mind and to hell with the safeshots and the begrudgers. Do you hear me, Frankie McCourt?
I do, Uncle Pa. That's what Mr. O'Halloran said.
What did he say?
Make up your own mind.
True for Mr. O'Halloran. 'Tis your life, make your own decisions and to hell with the begrudgers, Frankie. In the heel o' the hunt you'll be going to America anyway, won't you?
I will, Uncle Pa.
The day of the exam I'm excused from work. There's a sign in an office window on O'Connell Street, SMART BOY WANTED, NEAT HANDWRITING, GOOD AT SUMS, APPLY HERE TO MANAGER, MR. MCCAFFREY, EASONS LTD.
I stand outside the place of the exam, the house of the Limerick Protestant Young Men's Association. There are boys from all over Limerick climbing the steps to take the exam and a man at the door is handing them sheets of paper and pencils and barking at them to hurry up, hurry up. I look at the man at the door, I think of Uncle Pa Keating and what he said, I think of the sign in Easons' office, SMART BOY WANTED. I don't want to go in that door and pass that exam for if I do I'll be a permanent telegram boy with a uniform, then a postman, then a clerk selling stamps for the rest of my life. I'll be in Limerick forever, growing roses with my head dead and my ballocks all dried up.
The man at the door says, You, are you coming in here or are you goin' to stand there with your face hanging out?
I want to say to the man, Kiss my arse, but I still have a few weeks left in the post office and he might report me. I shake my head and walk up the street where a smart boy is wanted.
The manager, Mr. McCaffrey, says, I would like to see a specimen of your handwriting, to see, in short, if you have a decent fist. Sit down there at that table. Write your name and address and write me a paragraph explaining why you came here for this job and how you propose to rise in the ranks of Eason and Son, Ltd., by dint of perseverance and assiduity where there is great opportunity in this company for a boy that will keep his eye on the guidon ahead and guard
his flanks from the siren call of sin.
I write,
Frank McCourt,
4, Little Barrington Street,
Limerick City,
County Limerick,
Ireland
I am applying for this job so that I can rise to the highest ranks of Easons Ltd., by dint of perseverance and assadooty knowing that if I keep my eyes ahead and protect my flanks I'll be safe from all temptation and a credit to Easons and Ireland in general.
What's this? says Mr. McCaffrey. Do we have here a twisting of the truth?
I don't know, Mr. McCaffrey.
Little Barrington Street. That's a lane. Why are you calling it a street? You live in a lane, not a street.
They call it a street, Mr. McCaffrey.
Don't be getting above yourself, boy.
Oh, I wouldn't, Mr. McCaffrey.
You live in a lane and that means you have nowhere to go but up. Do you understand that, McCourt?
I do, sir.
You have to work your way out of the lane, McCourt.
I do, Mr. McCaffrey.
You have the cut and jib of a lane boy, McCourt.
Yes, Mr. McCaffrey.
You have the look of the lane all over you. All over you from poll to toe cap. Don't try to fool the populace, McCourt. You'd have to rise early in the morning to fool the likes of me.
Oh, I wouldn't, Mr. McCaffrey.
Then there's the eyes. Very sore eyes you have there. Can you see?
I can, Mr. McCaffrey.
You can read and write but can you do addition and subtraction?
I can, Mr. McCaffrey.
Well, I don't know what the policy is on sore eyes. I would have to ring Dublin and see where they stand on sore eyes. But your writing is clear, McCourt. A good fist. We'll take you on pending the decision on the sore eyes. Monday morning. Half six at the railway station.
In the morning?
In the morning. We don't give out the bloody morning papers at night, do we?
No, Mr. McCaffrey.
Another thing. We distribute The Irish Times, a Protestant paper, run by the freemasons in Dublin. We pick it up at the railway station. We count it. We take it to the newsagents. But we don't read it. I don't want to see you reading it. You could lose the Faith and by the look of those eyes you could lose your sight. Do you hear me, McCourt?
I do, Mr. McCaffrey.
No Irish Times, and when you come in next week I'll tell you about all the English filth you're not to read in this office. Do you hear me?
I do, Mr. McCaffrey.
Mrs. O'Connell has the tight mouth and she won't look at me. She says to Miss Barry, I hear a certain upstart from the lanes walked away from the post office exam. Too good for it, I suppose.
True for you, says Miss Barry.
Too good for us, I suppose.
True for you.
Do you think he'd ever tell us why he didn't take the exam?
Oh, he might, says Miss Barry, if we went down on our two knees.
I tell her, I want to go to America, Mrs. O'Connell.
Did you hear that, Miss Barry?
I did, indeed, Mrs. O'Connell.
He spoke.
He did, indeed.
He will rue the day, Miss Barry.
Rue he will, Mrs. O'Connell.
Mrs. O'Connell talks past me to the boys waiting on the bench for their telegrams, This is Frankie McCourt who thinks he's too good for the post office.
I don't think that, Mrs. O'Connell.
And who asked you to open your gob, Mr. High and Mighty? Too grand for us, isn't he, boys?
He is, Mrs. O'Connell.
And after all we did for him, giving him the telegrams with the good tips, sending him to the country on fine days, taking him back after his disgraceful behavior with Mr. Harrington, the Englishman, disrespecting the body of poor Mrs. Harrington, stuffing himself with ham sandwiches, getting fluthered drunk on sherry, jumping out the window and destroying every rosebush in sight, coming in here three sheets to the wind, and who knows what else he did delivering telegrams for two years, who knows indeed, though we have a good idea, don't we, Miss Barry?
We do, Mrs. O'Connell, though 'twouldn't be a fit subject to be talking about.
She whispers to Miss Barry and they look at me and shake their heads.
A disgrace he is to Ireland and his poor mother. I hope she never finds out. But what would you expect of one born in America and his father from the North. We put up with all that and still took him back.
She keeps talking past me again to the boys on the bench.
Going to work for Easons he is, working for that pack of freemasons and Protestants above in Dublin. Too good for the post office but ready and willing to deliver all kinds of filthy English magazines all over Limerick. Every magazine he touches will be a mortal sin. But he's leaving now, so he is, and a sorry day it is for his poor mother that prayed for a son with a pension to take care of her in her latter days. So here, take your wages and go from the sight of us.
Miss Barry says, He's a bad boy, isn't he, boys?
He is, Miss Barry.
I don't know what to say. I don't know what I did wrong. Should I say I'm sorry? Good-bye?
I lay my belt and pouch on Mrs. O'Connell's desk. She glares at me, Go on. Go to your job at Easons. Go from us. Next boy, come up for your telegrams.
They're back at work and I'm down the stairs to the next part of my life.
XVII
I don't know why Mrs. O'Connell had to shame me before the whole world, and I don't think I'm too good for the post office or anything else. How could I with my hair sticking up, pimples dotting my face, my eyes red and oozing yellow, my teeth crumbling with the rot, no shoulders, no flesh on my arse after cycling thirteen thousand miles to deliver twenty thousand telegrams to every door in Limerick and regions beyond?
Mrs. O'Connell said a long time ago she knew everything about every telegram boy She must know about the times I went at myself on top of Carrigogunnell, milkmaids gawking, little boys looking up.
She must know about Theresa Carmody and the green sofa, how I got her into a state of sin and sent her to hell, the worst sin of all, worse than Carrigogunnell a thousand times. She must know I never went to confession after Theresa, that I'm doomed to hell myself.
A person that commits a sin like that is never too good for the post office or anything else.
The barman at South's remembers me from the time I sat with Mr. Hannon, Bill Galvin, Uncle Pa Keating, black white black. He remembers my father, how he spent his wages and his dole while singing patriotic songs and making speeches from the dock like a condemned rebel.
And what is it you'd like? says the barman.
I'm here to meet Uncle Pa Keating and have my first pint.
Oh, begod, is that a fact? He'll be here in a minute and sure there's no reason why I shouldn't draw his pint and maybe draw your first pint, is there now?
There isn't, sir.
Uncle Pa comes in and tells me sit next to him against the wall. The barman brings the pints, Uncle Pa pays, lifts his glass, tells the men in the pub, This is my nephew, Frankie McCourt, son of Angela Sheehan, the sister of my wife, having his first pint, here's to your health and long life, Frankie, may you live to enjoy the pint but not too much.
The men lift their pints, nod, drink, and there are creamy lines on their lips and mustaches. I take a great gulp of my pint and Uncle Pa tells me, Slow down for the love o' Jasus, don't drink it all, there's more where that came from as long as the Guinness family stays strong and healthy.
I tell him I want to stand him a pint with my last wages from the post office but he says, No, take the money home to your mother and you can stand me a pint when you come home from America flushed with success and the heat from a blonde hanging on your arm.
The men in the pub are talking about the terrible state of the world and how in God's name Hermann Goering escaped the hangman an hour before the han
ging. The Yanks are over there in Nuremberg declaring they don't know how the Nazi bastard hid that pill. Was it in his ear? Up his nostril? Up his arse? Surely the Yanks looked in every hole and cranny of every Nazi they captured and still Hermann wiped their eye. There you are. It shows you can sail across the Atlantic, land in Normandy, bomb Germany off the face of the earth, but when all's said and done they can't find a little pill planted in the far reaches of Goering's fat arse.
Uncle Pa buys me another pint. It's harder to drink because it fills me and makes my belly bulge. The men are talking about concentration camps and the poor Jews that never harmed a soul, men, women, children crammed into ovens, children, mind you, what harm could they do, little shoes scattered everywhere, crammed in, and the pub is misty and the voices fading in and out. Uncle Pa says, Are you all right? You're as white as a sheet. He takes me to the lavatory and the two of us have a good long piss against the wall which keeps moving back and forth. I can't go into the pub again, cigarette smoke, stale Guinness, Goering's fat arse, small shoes scattered, can't go in again, good night, Uncle Pa, thanks, and he tells me go straight home to my mother, straight home, oh, he doesn't know about the excitement in the loft or the excitement on the green sofa or me in such a state of doom that if I died now I'd be in hell in a wink.
Uncle Pa goes back to his pint. I'm out on O'Connell Street and why shouldn't I take the few steps to the Jesuits and tell all my sins this last night I'll be fifteen. I ring the bell at the priests' house and a big man answers, Yes? I tell him, I want to go to confession, Father. He says, I'm not a priest. Don't call me father. I'm a brother.
All right, Brother. I want to go to confession before I'm sixteen tomorrow. State o' grace on my birthday.
He says, Go away. You're drunk. Child like you drunk as a lord ringing for a priest at this hour. Go away or I'll call the guards.
Ah, don't. Ah, don't. I only want to go to confession. I'm doomed.
You're drunk and you're not in a proper spirit of repentance.
He closes the door in my face. Another door closed in the face, but I'm sixteen tomorrow and I ring again. The brother opens the door, swings me around, kicks my arse and sends me tripping down the steps.