Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt

Kevin, love, mind yourself and don't be wearing damp shirts.

Dry your socks, Michael, or the bunions will destroy you entirely.

Paddy, go easy on the drink, are you listenin', Paddy?

Dad, Dad, don't go, Dad.

Tommy, don't forget to send the money.The children are skin and bones.

220

Peter, don't forget to be takin' the medicine for your weak chest, God help us.

Christy, don't be talkin' to them Englishwomen.They're full of diseases.

Jackie, come back. Sure we'll manage somehow. Don't go, Jack-e-e, Jack-e-e, oh, Jesus, don't go.

Dad pats our heads. He tells us remember our religious duties but, above all, obey our mother. He stands before her. She has the baby Alphie in her arms. She says, Mind yourself. He drops the bag and puts his arms around her.They stay that way a moment till the baby yelps between them.He nods,picks up his bag,climbs the steps to the station, turns to wave and he's gone.

Back at home Mam says, I don't care. I know it sounds extravagant but I'm going to light the fire and make more tea for it isn't every day your father goes to England.

We sit around the fire and drink our tea and cry because we have no father, till Mam says, Don't cry, don't cry. Now that your father is gone to England surely our troubles will be over.

Surely. Mam and Bridey Hannon sit by the fire upstairs in Italy smoking Woodbines, drinking tea, and I sit on the stairs listening. We have a father in England so that we can get all we want from Kathleen O'Con- nell's shop and pay when he starts sending the money in a fortnight. Mam tells Bridey she can't wait to get out of this bloody lane to a place with a decent lavatory that we don't have to share with half the world. We'll all have new boots and coats to keep off the rain so we won't be coming home from school famished. We'll have eggs and rashers on Sunday for breakfast and ham and cabbage and potatoes for dinner. We'll have electric light and why shouldn't we? Weren't Frank and Malachy born to it in America where everyone has it?

All we have to do now is wait for two weeks till the telegram boy knocks at the door. Dad will have to settle into his job in England, buy work clothes and get a place to stay, so the first money order won't be big, three pounds or three pounds ten, but soon we'll be like other fam- ilies in the lane, five pounds a week, paying off debts, buying new

221 clothes, putting something in the savings against the time we'll pack up and move to England entirely and save there to go to America. Mam herself could get a job in an English factory making bombs or some- thing and God knows we wouldn't know ourselves with the money pouring in. She wouldn't be happy if we grew up with English accents but better an English accent than an empty belly.

Bridey says it doesn't matter what class of an accent an Irishman has for he'll never forget what the English did to us for eight hundred long years.We know what Saturdays are in the lane.We know some families like the Downeses across from us get their telegram early because Mr. Downes is a steady man who knows how to have a pint or two on a Friday and go home to his bed.We know men like him run to the post office the minute they're paid so their families won't know a minute of waiting or worry. Men like Mr. Downes send their sons RAF wings to wear on their coats.That's what we want and that's what we told Dad before he left, Don't forget the RAF badges, Dad.

We see the telegram boys on their bicycles swing into the lane. They're happy telegram boys because the tips they get in the lanes are bigger than anything they get in the grand streets and avenues where rich people will begrudge you the steam of their piss.

The families that get the early telegrams have that contented look. They'll have all day Saturday to enjoy the money.They'll shop, they'll eat, they'll have all day to think about what they'll do that night and that's almost as good as the thing itself because Saturday night when you have a few shillings in your pocket is the most delicious night of the week.

There are families don't get the telegram every week and you know them by the anxious look. Mrs. Meagher has waited at her door every Saturday for two months. My mother says she'd be ashamed of her life to wait at the door like that.All the children play in the lane and keep an eye out for the telegram boy. Hoi, telegram boy, do you have any- thing for Meagher? and when he says no they say, Are you sure? and he'll say, Course I'm sure. I know what I have in my feckin' pouch.

Everyone knows the telegram boys stop coming when the Angelus rings at six and darkness brings desperation to the women and children.

Telegram boy, will you look in your pouch again? Please.Aw, God.

I did. I have nothing for ye.

222

Aw, God, please look. Our name is Meagher.Will you look?

The children claw at him up on his bicycle and he kicks at them, Jesus, will ye get away from me.

Once the Angelus rings at six in the evening the day is over.The ones with the telegrams are having their supper with the electric light blazing away and the ones that didn't get the telegrams have to light candles and see if Kathleen O'Connell might let them have tea and bread till this time next week when surely with the help of God and His Blessed Mother the telegram will come.

Mr. Meehan at the top of the lane went to England with Dad and when the telegram boy stops at Meehan's we know we'll be next. Mam has her coat ready to go to the post office but she won't leave the chair by the fire in Italy till she has the telegram in her hand.The telegram boy rides down the lane and swings over to Downeses'. He hands them their telegram, takes the tip and turns his bicycle around to head back up the lane. Malachy calls, Telegram boy, do you have something for McCourt? Ours is coming today.The telegram boy shakes his head and rides away.

Mam puffs on her Woodbine.Well, we have all day though I'd like to do a bit of shopping early before the best hams are gone at Barry the butcher. She can't leave the fire and we can't leave the lane for fear the telegram boy might come and find no one at home.Then we'd have to wait till Monday to cash the money order and that would destroy the weekend entirely.We'd have to watch the Meehans and everyone else parading around in their new clothes and staggering home with eggs and potatoes and sausages for Sunday and sailing off to the films on Sat- urday night. No, we can't move an inch till that telegram boy comes. Mam says don't be too worried between noon and two because so many telegram boys go for their dinner and there will surely be a big rush between two and the Angelus. We don't have a thing to worry about till six. We stop every telegram boy. We tell them our name is McCourt, that this is our first telegram, it should be three pounds or more, they might have forgotten to put our name on it or our address, is he sure? is he sure? One boy tells us he'll inquire at the post office. He says he knows what 'tis like to wait for the telegram because his own father is a drunken oul' shit over in England that never sent a penny. Mam hears him inside and tells us you should never talk about your father like that. The same telegram boy comes back just before the

223 Angelus at six and tells us he asked Mrs. O'Connell at the post office if they had anything for McCourt all day and they didn't. Mam turns toward the dead ashes in the fire and sucks at the last bit of goodness in the Woodbine butt caught between the brown thumb and the burnt middle finger. Michael who is only five and won't understand anything till he's eleven like me wants to know if we're having fish and chips tonight because he's hungry. Mam says, Next week, love, and he goes back out to play in the lane.

You don't know what to do with yourself when the first telegram doesn't come.You can't stay out in the lane playing with your brothers all night because everyone else is gone in and you'd be ashamed to stay out in the lane to be tormented with smells of sausages and rashers and fried bread.You don't want to look at electric light coming through the windows after dark and you don't want to hear the news from the BBC or Radio Eireann from other people's wirelesses. Mrs. Meagher and her children are gone in and there's only the dim light of a candle from their kitchen.They're ashamed too.They stay inside on Saturday nights and they don't even go to Mass on Sunday mornings. Bridey Hannon told Mam that Mrs. Meagher is in a constant state of shame over the rags they wear and so desperate she goes down to the Dispensary for the public assistance. Mam says that's the worst thing that could happen to any family. It's worse than going on the dole, it's worse than going to the St.Vincent de Paul Society, it's worse than begging on the streets with the tinkers and the knackers. It's the last thing you'd do to keep yourself out of the poor house and the children from the orphanage. There's a sore at the top of my nose between my eyebrows, gray and red and itching. Grandma says, Don't touch that sore and don't put water near it or it'll spread. If you broke your arm she'd say don't touch that with water it'll spread.The sore spreads into my eyes anyway and now they're red and yellow from the stuff that oozes and makes them stick in the morning.They stick so hard I have to force my eyelids open with my fingers and Mam has to scrub off that yellow stuff with a damp rag and boric powder.The eyelashes fall off and every bit of dust in Limer- ick blows into my eyes on windy days. Grandma tells me I have naked eyes and she says it's my own fault, all that eye trouble comes from sit- ting up there at the top of the lane under the light pole in all kinds of weather with my nose stuck in books and the same thing will happen

224 to Malachy if he doesn't give over with the reading.You can see little Michael is getting just as bad sticking his nose in books when he should be out playing like a healthy child. Books, books, books, says Grandma, ye will ruin yeer eyes entirely.

She's having tea with Mam and I hear her whisper,The thing to do is give him St.Anthony's spit.

What's that? says Mam.

Your fasting spit in the morning. Go to him before he wakes and spit on his eyes for the spit of a fasting mother has powerful cures in it.

But I'm always awake before Mam. I force my eyes open long before she stirs.I can hear her coming across the floor and when she stands over me for the spit I open my eyes. God, she says, your eyes are open.

I think they're getting better.

That's good, and she goes back to bed.

The eyes don't heal and she takes me to the Dispensary where the poor people see doctors and get their medicines. It's the place to apply for public assistance when a father is dead or disappeared and there's no dole money, no wages.

There are benches along the walls by the doctors' offices. The benches are always packed with people talking about their ailments. Old men and women sit and groan and babies scream and mothers say hush, love, hush.There's a high platform in the middle of the Dispen- sary with a counter circling it chest-high. When you want anything you stand in a queue before that platform to see Mr. Coffey or Mr. Kane.The women in the queue are like the women at the St.Vincent de Paul Society. They wear shawls and they're respectful to Mr. Coffey and Mr. Kane because if they're not they might be told go away and come back next week when it's this minute you need the public assis- tance or a docket to see the doctor. Mr. Coffey and Mr. Kane love to have a good laugh with the women.They'll decide if you're desperate enough for the public assistance or if you're sick enough to see a doc- tor.You have to tell them in front of everyone what's wrong with you and they often have a good laugh with that.They'll say,And what is it you want, Mrs. O'Shea? A docket for the doctor, is it? And what is your trouble, Mrs. O'Shea? A pain, is it? A touch of the wind, maybe. Or maybe too much cabbage. Oh, the cabbage will do it right enough. They laugh and Mrs. O'Shea laughs and all the women laugh and say Mr. Coffey and Mr. Kane are funny men, they'd give Laurel and Hardy a run for their money.

225

Mr. Coffey says, Now, woman, what's your name?

And what's up with you?

'Tis my son, sir. He has two bad eyes.

Oh, by God, he does, woman.They're desperate-looking eyes alto- gether.They look like two rising suns.The Japs could use him on their flag, ha ha ha. Did he pour acid on his face or what?

'Tis some class of infection, sir. He had the typhoid last year and then this came.

All right, all right, we don't need the life story. Here's your docket to Dr.Troy.

Two long benches are filled with patients for Dr.Troy.Mam sits next to a woman who has a big sore on her nose that won't go away. I tried everything,missus,every known cure on God's lovely earth.I'm eighty- three years of age and I'd like to go to my grave healthy. Is it too much to ask that I meet my Redeemer with a healthy nose? And what's up with yourself, missus?

My son.The eyes.

Ah, God bless us and save us, look at them eyes.They're the sorest two eyes I ever seen in me life. I never seen that color red before.

'Tis an infection, missus.

Sure there's a cure for that.You need the caul.

What's that now?

Babies are born with this thing on their heads, a class of a hood, rare and magical. Get a caul and put that on his head any day that has a three in it, make him hold his breath for three minutes even if you have to clap your hand over his face, sprinkle him with holy water three times head to toenail and his two eyes will shine in the dawn.

And where would I get a caul?

Don't all the midwives have cauls, missus.What's a midwife with- out a caul? It cures all classes of disease and keeps off more.

Mam says she'll talk to Nurse O'Halloran and see if she has a spare caul.Dr.Troy looks at my eyes.Into the hospital with this boy at once. Take him to the eye ward at the City Home. Here's the docket to get him in.

What does he have, Doctor?

The worst case of conjunctivitis I've ever seen in my life and some- thing else in there I can't make out. He needs the eye man.

226

How long will he be in, Doctor?

There are twenty beds in the ward and there are men and boys with bandages around their heads, black patches on their eyes, thick glasses. Some walk around tapping at beds with sticks.A man cries all the time that he'll never see again, he's too young, his children are babies, he'll never see them again. Jesus Christ, oh, Jesus Christ, and the nuns are shocked at the way he takes the name of the Lord in vain. Stop that, Maurice, stop the blasphemy.You have your health.You're alive.We all have our problems. Offer it up and think of the sufferings of Our Lord on the cross, the crown of thorns, the nails in His poor hands and feet, the wound in His side.Maurice says,Oh,Jesus,look down and have pity on me. Sister Bernadette warns him if he doesn't mind his language they'll put him in a ward alone and he says,Heavenly God,and that isn't as bad as Jesus Christ so she's satisfied.

In the morning I have to go downstairs for drops.The nurse says, Sit in this high chair and here's a nice sweet.The doctor has a bottle with brown stuff in it. He tells me put my head back, that's right, now open up, open your eyes and he pours the stuff into my right eye and it's a flame going through my skull.The nurse says, Open the other eye, come on be a good boy, and she has to force the eyelids open so the doctor can set fire to the other side of my skull. She wipes my cheeks and tells me run along upstairs but I can barely see and I want to stick my face into an icy stream.The doctor says, Run along, be a man, be a good trooper.

The whole world is brown and blurry on the stairs. The other patients are sitting by their beds with dinner trays and mine is there too but I don't want it with the way my skull is raging. I sit by my bed and a boy across the way says, Hoi, don't you want your dinner? I'll take it, and he comes for it.

I try to lie on the bed but a nurse says, Now, now, no lying on the bed in the middle of the day.Your case isn't that serious.

I have to sit with my eyes closed and everything going brown and black, black and brown and I'm sure I must be having a dream because Lord God above, is that the little fella with the typhoid, little Frankie, the moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, is that your- self, Frankie, for wasn't I promoted out of the Fever Hospital, thank God, where there's every class of disease and you never know what germs you might be bringing home to the wife in your clothes and

227 what's up with you, Frankie, and the two eyes in your head all gone brown?

I have an infection, Seamus.

Yerra, you'll be over that before you're married, Frankie.The eyes need exercise.The blink is great value for the eyes. I had an uncle with bad eyes and the blink saved him. He sat an hour ever day and blinked and it stood to him in the end. Wound up with powerful eyes, so he did.

I want to ask him more about the blink and the powerful eyes but he says, Now do you remember the poem, Frankie, the lovely poem of Patricia?

He stands in the aisle between the beds with his mop and his bucket and says the highwayman poem and all the patients stop their moaning and the nuns and nurses stand and listen and on and on goes Seamus till he comes to the end and everyone goes mad clapping and cheering him and he tells the world he loves that poem he'll have it in his head forever no matter where he goes and if it wasn't for Frankie McCourt and his typhoid there and poor Patricia Madigan with the dipteria that's gone God rest her he'd never know the poem and there I am famous in the eye ward of the City Home Hospital and all because of Seamus.

Mam can't come to visit every day, it's a long way out, she doesn't always have the money for the bus and the walk is hard on her corns. She thinks my eyes look better though you can't tell with all that brown stuff, which looks and smells like iodine and if it's anything like iodine it must burn. Still, they say the bitterer the medicine the quicker the cure. She gets permission to take me for a walk around the grounds when the weather clears and there's a strange sight, Mr.Timoney stand- ing against the wall where the old people are with his eyes raised to the sky. I want to talk to him and I have to ask Mam because you never know what's right or wrong in a hospital.

Mr.Timoney.

Who is it? Who do we have?

Frank McCourt, sir.

Francis, ah, Francis.

Mam says, I'm his mother, Mr.Timoney.

Well, then, the two of ye are blessed. I have neither kith nor kin nor Macushla my dog.And what are you doing in this place, Francis?

I have an infection in my eyes.

228

Mr.Timoney, would you like me to read to you?

With them eyes, Francis? Ah, no, son, Save the eyes. I'm beyond reading.In my head I have everything I need.I was smart enough to put things in my head in my youth and now I have a library in my head. The English shot my wife. The Irish put down my poor innocent Macushla. Isn't it a joke of a world?

Mam says,Terrible world but God is good.

Indeed, missus. God made the world, it's a terrible world, but God is good. Good-bye, Francis. Rest your eyes and then read till they fall out of your head.We had good times with old Jonathan Swift,didn't we, Francis?

We did, Mr.Timoney.

Mam takes me back to the eye ward. She tells me, Don't be crying over Mr.Timoney, he's not even your father. Besides you'll be ruining your eyes.

Seamus comes to the ward three times a week and brings new poems in his head. He says,You made Patricia sad, Frankie, when you didn't like the one about the owl and the pussycat.

I'm sorry, Seamus.

I have it in my head, Frankie, and I'll say it for you if you don't say 'tis foolish.

I won't, Seamus.

He says the poem and everyone in the ward loves it.They want the words and he says it three more times till the whole ward is saying,

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea

In a beautiful pea-green boat.

They took some honey, and plenty of money

Wrapped up in a five-pound note.

The Owl looked up to the stars above,

And sang to a small guitar,

O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,

What a beautiful Pussy you are,

You are,

You are.

What a beautiful Pussy you are.

229

O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,

What a beautiful Pussy you are,

You are,

You are.

What a beautiful Pussy you are.

Then Seamus comes with no mop and no bucket and I'm afraid he's sacked over the poetry but he's smiling and telling me he's off to En- gland to work in a factory and earn decent wages for a change. He'll work for two months and bring the wife over and God might be pleased to send them children for he has to do something with all the poems in his head and what better than saying them to small ones in memory of that sweet Patricia Madigan dead of the dipteria.

Good-bye, Francis. If I had the right fist I'd write to you but I'll get the wife to write when she comes over. I might even learn to read and write myself so that the child that comes won't have a fool for a father.

I want to cry but you can't cry in the eye ward with brown stuff in your eyes and nurses saying,What's this what's this be a man, and nuns going on, Offer it up, think of the sufferings of Our Lord on the cross, the crown of thorns,the lance in the side,the hands and feet torn to bits with nails.

I'm a month in the hospital and the doctor says I can go home even if there's still a bit of infection but if I keep the eyes clean with soap and clean towels and build up my health with nourishing food plenty of beef and eggs I'll have a pair of sparkling eyes in no time ha ha. Mr. Downes across the way comes back from England for his mother's funeral.He tells Mrs.Downes about my father.She tells Bridey Hannon and Bridey tells my mother. Mr. Downes says that Malachy McCourt is gone pure mad with the drink, that he squanders his wages in pubs all over Coventry, that he sings Irish rebel songs which the English don't mind because they're used to the way the Irish carry on about the hundreds of years of suffering, but they won't put up with any man

230 that stands up in a pub and insults the King and Queen of England,their two lovely daughters and the Queen Mother herself. Insulting the Queen Mother is going beyond the beyonds.What did she ever do to anyone,that poor old lady? Time after time Malachy drinks away his rent money and winds up sleeping in parks when the landlord throws him out. He's a regular disgrace, so he is, and Mr. Downes is glad McCourt is not a Limerickman bringing shame to this ancient city.The magistrates in Coventry are losing their patience and if Malachy McCourt doesn't stop the bloody nonsense he'll be kicked out of the country entirely.

Mam tells Bridey she doesn't know what she's going to do with these stories from England, she never felt so desperate in her life. She can see Kathleen O'Connell doesn't want to give any more credit at the shop and her own mother barks at her if she asks for the loan of a shilling and the St.Vincent de Paul Society want to know when she'll stop asking for charity especially with a husband in England. She's ashamed of the way we look with the dirty old torn shirts, raggedy ganseys, broken shoes, holes in our stockings. She lies awake at night thinking the most merciful thing of all would be to put the four boys in an orphanage so that she could go to England herself and find some type of work where she could bring us all over in a year for the better life. There might be bombs but she'd prefer bombs anytime to the shame of begging from this one and that one.