GC-203 The Ginger Man
by J.P. Donleavy


CHAPTER ONE

Today a rare sun of spring. And horse carts clanging to the quays down 
Tara Street and the shoeless white faced kids screaming.

O’Keefe comes in and climbs up on a stool. Wags his knapsack around on 
his back and looks at Sebastian Dangerfield.

“Those tubs are huge over there. First bath for two months. I’m getting 
more like the Irish every day. Like going on the subway in the States, you 
go through a turnstile.”

“Did you go first or third class, Kenneth?”

“First. I broke my ass washing my underwear and in those damn rooms in 
Trinity nothing will dry. In the end I sent my towel to the laundry. Back 
at Harvard I could nip into a tiled shower and dive into nice clean 
underwear.”

“What will you have to drink, Kenneth?”

“Who’s paying?”

“Just been to visit my broker with an electric fire.”

“Then buy me a cider. Does Marion know you’ve hocked the fire?”

“She’s away. Took Felicity with her to visit her parents. On the moors in
Scotland. I think the Balscaddoon was getting her down. Scrabbling on the 
ceiling and groans from under the floor.”

“What’s it like out there? Does it freeze your balls?”

“Come out. Stay for the weekend. Not much in the way of food but you’re 
welcome to whatever I’ve got.”

“Which is nothing.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“I would. Since I’ve arrived here everything has been down and these guys
at Trinity think I’m loaded with dough. They think the G.I. Bill means I 
crap dollars or a diarrhea of dimes. You get your check?”

“Going to see about it Monday.”

“If mine doesn’t come, I’ll croak. And you’re saddled with a wife and 
child. Wow. But at least you get it steady. And I’ve never got it at all. 
Any loose women out there on Howth?”

“I’ll keep a watch.”

“Look I’ve got to go and see my tutor and see if I can find out where 
they hold my Greek lectures. Nobody knows, everything is secret. No more 
drink for me. I’ll come out over the weekend.”

“Kenneth, I might have your first woman waiting for you.”

“Yeah.”

CHAPTER TWO

It was a steep hill up to Balscaddoon. Winding close to the houses and 
the neighbor’s eyes having a look. Fog over the flat water. And the figure 
hunched up the road. On top it leveled and set in a concrete wall was a 
green door.

Within the doorway, smiles, wearing white golfing shoes and tan trousers 
suspended with bits of wire.

“By all means come in, Kenneth.”

“Some place. What holds it up?”

“Faith.”

O’Keefe went through the house. Opening doors, drawers, closets, flushing
the toilet, lifting its lid, flushing it again. Stuck his head in the hall.

“Say this thing really works. If we had something to eat we’d be able to 
use it. They’ve got one of those big shops down there in the town, why 
don’t you pop down with that English accent of yours and get some credit. 
As much as I like your company, Dangerfield, I’d prefer it on a full 
stomach.”

“I’m up to my eyes already.”

“And you don’t look so hot in those clothes.”

O’Keefe jumped on the floor of the drawing room. Pulled open the 
conservatory door, pinched the leaves of a dying plant and went out into 
the garden. Standing on the shaggy grass he gave a shrill whistle as he 
looked down precipitous rocks to the swells of sea many feet below. He went
round the narrow back of the house, looking in the windows. In a bedroom he
saw Dangerfield on his knees chopping a large blue blanket with an axe. He 
rushed back into the house.

“Jesus Christ, Dangerfield, what are you doing? Have you gone Asiatic?”

“Patience.”

“But that’s a good blanket. Give it to me if you’re going to chop it up.”

“Now, Kenneth, watch me. See? Put this round the neck like this, tuck in 
the ragged edges and presto. I’m now wearing Trinity’s rowing blue. Always 
best to provide a flippant subtlety when using class power. Now we’ll see 
about a little credit.”

“You shrewd bastard. I must admit it looks good.”

“Make a fire in the stove. I’ll be back.”

“Get us a chicken.”

“We’ll see.”

Dangerfield stepped out into a deserted Balscaddoon Road. The counter was
covered with rich sides of bacon and wicker baskets of bright eggs. 
Assistants, white aproned, behind the long counter. Bananas, green from the
Canary Isles, blooming from the ceiling. Dangerfield stopping in front of a
gray haired assistant who leans forward eagerly.

“Good day, sir. Can I be of any help?”

Dangerfield hesitating with pursed lips.

“Good day, yes. I would like to open up an account with you.”

“Very good, sir. Will you please come this way.”

The assistant opening a large ledger across the counter. Asking 
Dangerfield’s name and address.

“Shall I bill you monthly or quarterly, sir?”

“I think quarterly.”

“Would you like to take anything with you today, sir?” Dangerfield 
caressing his teeth together, his eyes darting among the shelves.

“Do you have any Cork Gin?”

“Certainly, sir. Large or small size?”

“I think the large.”

“And anything else, sir?”

“Do you have any Haig and Haig?”

Assistant calling to the end of the shop. A small boy goes behind the 
scenes and comes out with a bottle. Dangerfield points to a ham.

“And how many pounds, sir?”

“I’ll take it all. And two pounds of cheese and a chicken.” Assistant all
smiles and remarks. O it’s the weather. Shocking fog. No day for them ones 
at sea or the others either. And clapping his hands to the little boy.

“Come here and carry the parcels for the gentleman. And a very good day 
to you, sir.”

Up the hill, O’Keefe waiting and sweeping the packages into his arms. In 
the kitchen, laying them out on the table.

“How you do it, Dangerfield, I don’t know. The first time I went looking 
for credit they told me to come back with a letter from a bank manager.”

“It’s the blue blood, Kenneth. Now I’ll cut off a little piece of this 
cheese and give It to the little boy.”

Dangerfield returns to the kitchen smiling and rubbing his hands.

“What made you get all this damn booze?”

“Warm us up. I think a cold front is on the way from the Arctic.”

“What will Marion say when she gets back?”

“Not a word. These English wives are great. Know their proper place. 
Ought to marry one yourself.”

“All I want is my first piece of arse. Plenty of time to get snowed under
with a wife and kids. Give me some of that Scotch and out of my way now 
while I rustle up this food. Cooking is the only work I sometimes think I’m
fitted for. One summer when I was working in Newport I thought of giving up
Harvard. There was this Greek chef who thought I was wonderful because I 
could speak aristocratic Greek but they fired me because I invited some of 
the boys from Harvard into the club’s bar for a drink and the manager came 
over and fired me on the spot. Said the staff weren’t to mix with guests.”

“Quite rightly so.”

“And now I’ve got a degree in classics and still have to cook.”

“A noble calling.”

O’Keefe flipping pots and bouncing from sink to table. “Kenneth, do you 
think you’re sexually frustrated and maladjusted?”

“I do.”

“You’ll find opportunities in this fine land.”

“Yeah, lots, for unnatural connections with farm animals. Jesus, the only
time I can forget about it is when I’m hungry. When I eat I go mad. I sat 
down and read every book on sex in the Widener Library to see how I could 
get it. Did me no damn good. I must repel women and there’s no cure for 
that.”

“Hasn’t anyone ever been attracted?”

“Once. At Black Mountain College in North Carolina. Asked me to come up 
to her room to listen to some music.

She started to press up against me and I ran out of the room.”

“What for?”

“She must have been too ugly. That’s another thing against me. I’m 
attracted to beautiful women. Only thing for me is to grow old and not want
it anymore.”

“You’ll want it more than ever.”

“Jesus, that isn’t true, is it? If that’s what I’ve got to look forward 
to I may as well flip myself off the end of the back garden out there. Tell
me, what’s it like to have it steady?”

“Get used to it like most things.”

“I could never get used to it.”

“You will.”

“But what’s this little visit of Marion’s to mama and papa? Friction? 
Drinking?”

“She and the baby need a little rest.”

“I think her old man must be wise to you. How did he ever screw you out 
of two hundred and fifty notes? It’s no wonder you never got it.”

“He just took me into his study and said sorry son, things are just a 
little tight at the moment.”

“Should have said dowry or no marriage. He must have dough, an admiral. 
Give him the stuff, like to provide for Marion the way she’s accustomed to.
Could have touched him with a few of those rosy ideas of yours.”

“Too late. This was the night before the wedding. I even refused a drink 
for strategy. However, he waited a good five minutes after the butler left 
before pleading poverty.” O’Keefe spins holding the chicken by the leg.

“See, he’s shrewd. Saved himself two hundred and fifty nicker notes. If 
you had been on your toes you could have told him you had Marion up the 
pole and with a birth imminent you needed a little nest egg. Now look at 
you. All you need to do now is flunk your law exams and bingo.”

“I’m all right, Kenneth. Little money and everything’s all right. Got a 
house, wife, daughter.”

“You mean you pay rent for a house. Stop paying rent, no house.”

“Let me pour you another drink, Kenneth. I think you need it.”

O’Keefe filling a bowl with bread crumbs. Night outside and the boom of 
the sea. Angelus bells. Pause that refreshes. “This, Dangerfield, is your 
blood for which your family will starve and which will finally send you all
to the poor house. Should have played it cozy and married strictly for 
cash. Come in drunk, have a quick one and whoops, another mouth to feed. 
You’ll be eating spaghetti as I had to as a kid till it comes out of your 
eyes or else you’ll have to take your English wife and English kids and 
screw back to America.” The chicken, trussed, was laid reverently in the 
pan. O’Keefe with a smack of the lips pushed it in the oven.

“When that’s ready, Dangerfield, we’ll have chicken a la Balscaddoon. You
know, this is a pretty spooky house when it gets dark. But I don’t hear 
anything yet except the sea.”

“Wait.”

“Well, ghosts won’t bother me on a full stomach and certainly never if I 
had a full sex life. Do you know, at Harvard I finally got Constance Kelly 
in my power. There was a girl who strung me along for two years till I 
found out what a fraud American womanhood was and I squeezed her right 
under my thumb. But I can’t figure it out. I never could get it. She’d do 
anything but let me in. Holding out for wealth on Beacon Hill. I would have
married her but she didn’t want to get stuck at the bottom of the social 
ladder with me. One of her own kind. Jesus, she’s right. But do you know 
what I’m going to do? When I go back to the States when I’m fat with dough,
wearing my Savile Row suits, with black briar, M.G. and my man driving, I’m
going to turn on my English accent full blast. Pull up to some suburban 
house where she’s married a mick, turned down by all the old Bostonians, 
and leave my man at the wheel. I’ll walk up the front path knocking the 
kid’s toys out of the way with my walking stick and give the door a few 
impatient raps. She comes out. A smudge of flour on her cheek and the reek 
of boiled cabbage coming from the kitchen. I look at her with shocked 
surprise. I recover slowly and then in my best accent, delivered with 
devastating resonance, I say Constance… you’ve turned out… just as I 
thought you would. Then I spin on my heel, give her a good look at my 
tailoring, knock another toy aside with my cane and roar away.” Dangerfield
swinging back in the green rocking chair with a wiggle of joy, head shaking
in a hundred yesses. O’Keefe striding the red tiles of the kitchen floor, 
waving a fork, his one live eye glistening in his head, a mad mick for 
sure. Perhaps he’ll slip on one of the toys and break an arse bone. “And 
Constance’s mother hated my guts. Thought I’d suck her down socially. Would
open all the letters I’d write to her daughter, and I’d sit in Widener 
Library thinking up the dirtiest stuff I could imagine, I think the old 
slut loved them. Used to make me laugh thinking she’d read them and then 
have to burn them. Jesus, I repel women, damn it. Even this winter down in 
Connemara visiting the old folks, my cousin, who looked like a cow’s arse 
wouldn’t even come across. I’d wait for her to go out and get the milk at 
night and go with her. At the end of the field I’d try to nudge her into 
the ditch. I’d get her all breathless and saying she’d do anything if I’d 
take her to the States and marry her. I tried that for three nights 
running, standing out there in the rain up to our ankles in mud and cow 
flop, me trying to get her in the ditch, knock her down, but she was too 
strong. So I told her she was a tub of lard and I wouldn’t take her to East
Jesus. Have to get them a visa before you can touch an arm.”

“Marry her, Kenneth.”

“Get tangled with that beast of burden for the rest of me days? Be all 
right if I could chain her to the stove to cook but to marry the Irish is 
to look for poverty. I’d marry Constance Kelly out of spite.”

“I suggest the matrimonial column of the Evening Mail for you. Put no 
encumbrance. Man of means, extensive estates in West. Prefers women of 
stout build, with own capital and car for travel on Continent. No others 
need apply.”

“Let’s eat. I want to leave my problem uncomplicated.”

“Kenneth, this is most cordial.”

The toasted bird was put on the green table. O’Keefe driving a fork into 
the dripping breast and ripping off the legs. Pot gives a tremble on the 
shelf. Little curtains with the red spots flutter. A gale outside. When you
think of it, O’Keefe can cook. And this is my first chicken since the night
I left New York and the waiter asked me if I wanted to keep the menu as a 
memory and I sat there in the blue carpeted room and said yes. And around 
the corner in a bar a man in a brown suit offers to buy a drink. Comes and 
feels my leg. Says he loves New York and could we go somewhere away from 
the crowd and talk, be together, nice boy, high class boy. I left him 
hanging from his seat, a splash of red, white and blue tie coming out of 
his coat and I went up to Yorktown and danced with a girl in a flower print
dress who said there was no fun and nobody around. Named Jean with 
remarkable breasts and I was dreaming of Marion’s, my own tall thin blond 
with teeth fashionably bucked. On my way after the war to marry her. Ready 
to take the big plane across the sea. I first met her wearing a sky blue 
sweater and I knew they were pears. What better than ripe pears. In London 
in the Antelope, sitting in the back with a fine pot of gin enjoying these 
indubitable people. She sat only inches away, a long cigarette in her white
fingers. While the bombs were landing in London. I heard her ask for 
cigarettes and they had none. And leaning forward in my naval uniform, 
handsome and strong, please, do have some of mine. O I couldn’t, really, 
thank you, no. But please do, I insist. It’s very good of you. Not at all. 
And she dropped one and I reached down and touched her ankle with my 
finger. My, what rich, lovely big feet.

“What’s the matter, Kenneth? You’re as white as a sheet.” O’Keefe staring
at the ceiling with a half chewed chicken leg hanging in his fist.

“Didn’t you hear that? Whatever that scrabbling in the ceiling is, it’s 
alive.”

“My dear Kenneth, you’re welcome to search the premises. It moves all 
over the house. Even wails and has a rather disconcerting way of following 
one from room to room.”

“Jesus, stop it. That scares me. Why don’t you look up there?”

“Rather not.”

“That noise is real.”

“Perhaps you’d like to look, Kenneth. Trap door in the hall. I’ll give 
you an axe and flashlight.”

“Wait till I digest my meal. I was just beginning to enjoy all this. I 
thought you were kidding.”

O’Keefe at one end, carrying the ladder to the hall. With axe cocked, 
O’Keefe advancing slowly towards the trap door. Dangerfield encouraging him
on. O’Keefe pushing up the door, peering along the beam of light. No noise.
Not a sound. Bravery becoming general again.

“You look frightened to death, Dangerfield. Think you were the one up 
here. Probably just some loose papers blowing across the floor.”

“Suit yourself, Kenneth. Just give me a whistle when it gets you around 
the neck. Go in.”

O’Keefe disappeared. Dangerfield looking up into the descending dust. 
O’Keefe’s footfalls going towards the drawing room. A wail. A scream from 
O’Keefe.

“Christ, hold the ladder, I’m coming down.”

Trap door down with a slam.

“For God’s sake, what is it, Kenneth?”

“A cat. With one eye. The other a great gaping hole. What a sight. How 
the hell did it get up there?”

“No idea. Must have been up there all the time. Might have belonged to a 
Mr. Gilhooley who lived here only he fell off the cliff out there one night
and was washed up three months later on the Isle of Man. Would you say, 
Kenneth, that maybe this house has a history of death?”

“Where are you putting me to sleep?”

“Cheer up, Kenneth. You look terrified. No need to let a little thing 
like a cat get you down. You can sleep wherever you like.”

“This house gives me the creeps. Let’s build a fire or something.”

“Come into the drawing room and play a little tune on the piano for me.”

They walked along the red tiled hall to the drawing room. Set on a tripod
before the baywindows, a large brass telescope pointing out to sea. In the 
corner an ancient upright piano, its top covered with opened tins and rinds
of cheese. Three fat armchairs distorted with lumps of stuffing and poking 
springs. Dangerfield fell back in one and O’Keefe bounded to the piano, 
struck a chord and began to sing.

In this sad room

In this dark gloom

We live like beasts.

The windows rattling on the rotten sills. O’Keefe’s twisted notes. There 
you are, Kenneth, sitting on that stool, all the way from Cambridge, 
Massachusetts, freckled and fed on spaghetti. And me, from St. Louis, 
Missouri, because that night in the Antelope I took Marion to dinner and 
she paid. And a weekend after to a hotel. And I pulled down her green 
pajamas and she said she couldn’t and I said you can. And other weekends 
till the war was over. Bye bye bombs and back to America where I can only 
say I was tragic and lonely, feeling Britain was made for me. All I got out
of old man Wilton was a free taxi to our honeymoon. We arrived and I bought
a cane to walk the dales of Yorkshire. Our room was over a stream at this 
late summertime. And the maid was mad and put flowers in the bed and that 
night Marion put them in her hair, which she let down over her blue night 
gown. O the pears. Cigarettes and gin. Abandoned bodies until Marion lost 
her false front teeth behind the dresser and then she wept, wrapped in a 
sheet, slumped in a chair. I told her not to worry for things like that 
happened on honeymoons and soon we would be off for Ireland where there was
bacon and butter and long evenings by the fire while I studied law and 
maybe even a quick love make on a woolly rug on the floor.

This Boston voice squeaking out its song. The yellow light goes out the 
window on the stubs of windy grass and black rocks. And down the wet steps 
by gorse stumps and rusty heather to the high water mark and diving pool. 
Where the seaweeds rise and fall at night in Balscaddoon Bay.

CHAPTER THREE

The sun of Sunday morning up out of the sleepless sea from black 
Liverpool. Sitting on the rocks over the water with a jug of coffee. Down 
there along the harbor pier, trippers in bright colors. Sails moving out to
sea. Young couples climbing the Balscaddoon Road to the top of Kilrock to 
search out grass and lie between the furze. A cold green sea breaking 
whitely along the granite coast. A day on which all things are born, like 
uncovered stars.

A wet salty wind. And tomorrow Marion comes back. And the two of us sit 
here wagging our American legs. Marion, stay away a little longer, please. 
Don’t want the pincers on me just yet. Greasy dishes or baby’s dirty 
bottom, I just want to watch them sailing. We need a nurse for baby to 
wheel her around some public park where I can’t hear the squeals. Or maybe 
the two of you will get killed in a train wreck and your father foot the 
bill for burial. Well-bred people never fight over the price of death. And 
it’s not cheap these days. Just look a bit glassy eyed for a month and take
off for Paris. Some nice quiet hotel in Rue de Seine and float fresh fruit 
in a basin of cool water. Your long winter body lying naked on the slate 
and what would I be thinking if I touched your dead breast. Must get a half
crown out of O’Keefe before he goes. I wonder what makes him so tight with 
money.

Late afternoon, the two of them walking down the hill to the bus stop. 
Fishermen in with their chugging boats unloading catches on the quay. Old 
women watching on thick chilblained ankles with heavy breasts wallowing.

“Kenneth, is this not a fine country?”

“Look at that woman.”

“I say, Kenneth, is this not a fine country?”

“Size of watermelons.”

“Kenneth, you poor bastard.”

“Do you know, Constance had a good figure. She must have loved me. How 
could she help it. But wouldn’t let it stand in the way of marriage into 
some old Yankee family. Many are the days I sat on my cold arse on the 
steps of Widener just to watch her go by and follow her to where she was 
meeting some jerk with not an ounce of joy in him.”

“Kenneth, you wretched man.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll manage.”

Sunday. Day set aside for emptiness and defeat. Dublin city closed, a 
great gray trap. Only churches doing business, sacred with music, red 
candles and crucified Christs. And the afternoons, long lines of them 
waiting in the rain outside cinemas.

“I say, Kenneth, could you see your way clear to lending me half a crown 
repayable Monday at three thirty one o’clock? Check tomorrow and I could 
pay you at the Consulate.”

“No.”

“Two shillings?”

“No.”

“One and six?”

“No. Nothing.”

“A shilling is nothing.”

“God damn it, Dangerfield, don’t drag me down with you. For Christ’s 
sake, my back’s to the wall. Look at me. My fingers are like wet spaghetti.
Get off my back. Don’t doom us both.”

“Relax, Kenneth. Don’t take things so seriously.”

“Seriously? This is a matter of life and death. What do you want me to 
do? Shout with joy?”

“You’re upset.”

“I’m not upset, I’m prudent. I want to eat tomorrow. Do you honestly 
think these checks are going to be there?”

“Quite.”

“When you’re sitting on your arse in the poor house screaming for drink I
don’t want to be next to you. Let one of us go down, that’s enough. Not 
both. I want to eat tonight.”

“I want some cigarettes.”

“Look, here’s my bus, I’ll give you three pence and have it for me 
tomorrow.”

“Kenneth, I want to tell you one thing before you go. You’re a jewel 
among men.”

“Look, don’t bother me, if you don’t want the three pence, I’ll take it 
back. It’ll pay half my fare.”

“Kenneth, you lack love.”

“Ass and money.”

Bus pulling away. O’Keefe’s head vanishing on the top deck and over a 
green sign, Guinness is good for you. How true.

Turning up the hill. Sunday on the desert of Edar. Great to know the old 
names. Do a bit of deep breathing. Lately been having the dreams of arrest.
Come up from behind and grab me for committing a public nuisance. So long 
as it isn’t indecency. Go over to this shop and have this good man fetch me
up some cigarettes.

“A fine day, sir.”

“Aye.”

“Forgive the impertinence, sir, but are you the new gentleman living up 
on the rock?”

“O aye.”

“I thought so, sir. And is it to your liking?”

“Splendid.”

“That’s fine, sir.”

“Bye, bye now.”

O I tell you. I tell you, names and numbers. Want to wear a sack over the
face. Why don’t you come up and watch me eat? Steam open my letters and see
if I wear a truss. And I like to have my wife in bare feet. Good for a 
woman. They say it’s great for the frigidity. I’m all for wiping that out. 
Come watch me through any window.

Walking up to the Summit and down there is Gaskin’s Leap, Fox Hole and 
Piper’s Gut. And the Casana Rock which is great for the sea birds. Bit of 
warmth in the air. How I like it. Lonely and Sunday. Faced with the cat. 
Should have locked O’Keefe up there with it. Take the ladder away. Give him
a lesson in courage.

A girl approached.

“Mister, could I have a light?”

“Certainly.”

Dangerfield striking a match, holding it to her cigarette. “Thank you 
very much.”

“You’re welcome on a lovely evening like this.”

“Yes, it is lovely.”

“Quite breathtaking.”

“Yes, it is breathtaking.”

“Are you out for a walk?”

“Yes, my girl friend and I are walking.”

“Around the head?”

“Yes, we like it. We’ve come out from Dublin.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“Well, I guess I work.”

“At what?”

“My girl friend and I work in Jacob’s.”

“Biscuit factory?”

“We label tins.”

“You like it?”

“It’s all right. Gets boring.”

“Walk along with me.”

“All right. I’ll get my girl friend.”

Three of them walking along. Some trivia. Names, Alma and Thelma. And 
telling of the steamship Queen Victoria, wrecked off here at 3 o’clock on 
the morning of February 15th, 1853. Tragic disaster. And there is the 
quarry. See the stones. Built the harbor with this rock. Oh I tell you Alma
and Thelma, Howth’s the great place for the history. And I might say I’m 
adding to it meself. In my own little way. And they thought he was having 
them on and they were Catholics and giggled at this Protestant face.

Little dark now. Just let me take your hands now. O a dangerous place, 
this Howth at night. Young women want protection. And I’ll hold your hand 
Alma and it’s a nice hand in spite of the work. Thelma walking ahead. Mind 
Alma? Thelma away in the dark. Stop here now, like this. It’s better, a 
little arm around you. Keep you. You like that? Well, you’re a fast worker,
and kissing a stranger, what will my girl friend think? Tell her I’m such a
lonely gent and you couldn’t resist a little innocent embrace. My house is 
here, come in? O no. A drink? I’m a member of the Pioneers. Have a glass of
water then. I could come next Sunday. I’ll be in Africa in the middle of 
the Congo. You have a nice bosom, Alma. You shouldn’t make me do those 
things. Now Alma, come in for a little while and I’ll show you my 
telescope. Don’t be rude, besides I can’t leave my friend. Honesty never 
gets me anywhere. Let me kiss you goodbye, Alma. Don’t think I didn’t like 
it but my girl friend would go back with a tale to my sister. Bye.

Alma running away through the evening. With her new-warmed heart touched 
by a stranger and I know you are thinking I would have seen your nice new 
underwear. Go in the drawer tomorrow for a week. And for a nice Protestant 
like him and there would have been chocolate and taxi rides and dances. 
Torturing chances, may not ever come again. Thelma, wasn’t he a smasher.

Through my green haunted door. Into this house of sounds. Must be the 
sea. Might even come up through the floor. The cat. Just like O’Keefe with 
one eye. Says he can’t catch a ball. And when they took him to the hospital
and took it out they never told him he had only one left. Kenneth, I love 
you all the same. And even more if you could have buried the axe in the 
cat, just behind the ears. I think the drawing room the safest tonight. 
Don’t want to crowd the demons. And have a little nightcap. And read my 
nice fat American business magazine. No one will ever know what it’s done 
for me in my sad moments. My bible of happiness every month. Open it up and
I’m making sixty three thousand big bucks a year. Odd three thousand makes 
it more authentic. And must drive into my office from Connecticut. I insist
upon that. And repair evenings to my club. Difficult in New York with the 
Irish getting into everything. Imitating the Protestants. And I’ll have a 
nice little family of two children. Use the best in contraception. Never 
should let the lust sneak up on one. Passion of the moment, a disaster over
the years. Must not bungle more than twice. Could be fatal. Marion making 
that sucking noise with those front teeth. Sucking them in and out, surely 
it’s not done. Just not done, that sort of thing. On and off her gums. 
Little circle of hair round her nipples, tickle the baba’s mouth. O she’ll 
live a long time. They’ll put me to rest. But not before I’ve seen a bit of
the corporation law and maybe later a bit of investment banking. Sebastian 
Bullion Dangerfield, chairman of Quids Inc., largest banking firm in the 
world. Then I would act. Change the interest rates in the pawn shops. Lower
them? No, make them higher. People shouldn’t be pawning anyway. And send 
O’Keefe to the Sudan so he can run naked.

Dangerfield settled with feet up and back against the wall. Wind shaking 
the windows. A sudden long haunted wail from the ceiling.

“God’s teeth.”

Must keep a grip. Won’t do to lose courage. And moaning under the floor. 
For the love of Jesus.

Fetching the axe, going into his room. The sea air, a great wet ghost, 
coming in the open window. Slamming it shut. Tearing the covers back from 
the bed. Make sure of no rattlesnakes. Go flush the toilet now, take the 
edge off the fear.

And straighten out the room, make the bed. And another sup of the good 
Cork Gin. Wallop a little freshness into this pillow. Good grief. The room 
filling with floating feathers. Well God damn it. For the love of Jesus, if
that’s the way you want it. Off with this damn mattress.

And Dangerfield lifting the axe above a wild head, driving it again and 
again through the pillow. Screams of money, money. Dragging the mattress 
out the door, along the hall to the kitchen. Up on the table with it. And 
the axe is right here ready to cleave the first imposter who sets foot in 
this room. One more good swig of this. I’m sure it’s good for the bowels 
and at least hurry me to bye byes. Left my soul sitting on a wall and 
walked away, watching me and grew cold because souls are like hearts, sort 
of red and warm, all like a heart.

CHAPTER FOUR

There was a tugging at his leg. Slowly opening eyes to see the irate face
of Marion looming over him on this Monday morn of chaos.

“Good God, what’s happened to the house? Why weren’t you at the station 
to meet me? Look at you. Gin. This is horrid. I had to take a taxi out 
here, do you hear me? A taxi, fifteen shillings.”

“Now, now, for Christ’s sake have some patience and let me explain 
everything.”

“I say, explain? Explain what? There’s nothing to explain, it’s all quite
evident.”

Marion holding aloft the gin.

“All right, I’m not blind, I see it.”

“O dear, this is frightful. Why you honestly are a cad. If Mommy and 
Daddy could only see what I’ve got to come back to. What are you doing on 
the table?”

“Shut up.”

“I won’t shut up and don’t look at me like that. What are these feathers 
doing all over the place? Dishes broken on the floor. What were you doing?”

“Goat dance.”

“How frightfully sordid it all is. Disgusting. Feathers in everything. 
You damn, damn drinker. Where did you get the money? Didn’t meet me at the 
train. Why? Answer me.”

“Shut up. Be quiet for the love of Jesus. The alarm didn’t work.”

“You’re a liar. You were drinking, drinking, drinking. Look at the 
grease, the mess, the filth. And what’s this?”

“A sea bird.”

“Who paid for all this? You had smelly O’Keefe out here. I know you did, 
I can smell him.”

“Just leave me alone.”

“Did you pay the milk?”

“Yes, now sweet Jesus shut up, my head.”

“So you paid it, did you? Here it is. Here it is. Exactly where I left it
and the money gone. Lies. You blighter. You nasty blighter.”

“Call me a bugger, I can’t stand the gentility on top of the yelling.”

“O stop it, stop it. I don’t intend to go on living like this, do you 
hear me? Your brazen lies, one after the other and I was trying to get 
Father to do something for us and I come back to this.”

“Your father. Your father is a sack of excrement, genteel excrement, as 
tight as they come. What has he been doing, playing battleship in the tub?”

Marion lunged, her slap landing across his jaw. The child began to scream
in the nursery. Sebastian up off the table. He drove his fist into Marion’s
face. She fell backward against the cupboard. Dishes crashing to the floor.
In tattered underwear he stood at the nursery door. He kicked his foot 
through and tore off the lock to open it. Took the child’s pillow from 
under its head and pressed it hard on the screaming mouth.

“I’ll kill it, God damn it, I’ll kill it, if it doesn’t shut up.”

Marion behind him, digging her nails into his back.

“You madman, leave the child alone, I’ll get the police. I’ll divorce 
you, you blackguard, coward, coward, coward.”

Marion clasping the child to her breast. Sobbing, she lay her long 
English body and child across the bed. The room echoing the hesitations of 
her wailing voice. Sebastian walked white faced from the room, slamming the
broken door, cutting off the sound of suffering from a guilty heart.

Dangerfield took a late morning bus to Dublin. Sat up the top side in 
front, clicking the teeth. Out there the mud flats and that windy golf 
course. North Bull Island shimmering in the sun. Cost money to leave 
Marion. Vulgar blood in her somewhere, may be from the mother. Mother’s 
father kept a shop. Bad blood leaks out. I know it leaks out. And I ought 
to get out. One way on the boat. She doesn’t have the nerve for divorce. I 
know her too well for that. Never gave me a lousy chance to explain the 
account. Let her rot out there. I don’t care. Got to face the facts of this
life. The facts, the facts. Could square things with her. She’s good with 
the cheese dishes. Few days without food will weaken her. Maybe I’ll come 
back with a tin of peaches and cream. She’s always airing the house. 
Opening up the windows at every little fart. Tells me she never farts. At 
least mine come out with a bang.

Fairview Park looks like a wet moldy blanket. Feel a little better. 
O’Keefe broke a toilet bowl in that house. Fell into it when he was trying 
to sneak a look behind a woman’s medicine chest. Long suffering O’Keefe, 
bent over tomes in the National Library studying Irish and dreaming of 
seduction.

Amiens Street Station, Dangerfield stepping down from the bus, crossing 
and using the ostrich step up the Talbot Street. My God, I think I see 
prostitutes with squinting eyes and toothless mouths. Don’t relish a trip 
up an alley with one without wearing impenetrable armour and there is no 
armour at all in Dublin. I asked one how much it was and she said I had an 
evil mind. Invited her for a drink and she said the American sailors were 
rough and beat her up in the backs of taxicabs and told her to take a bath.
She said she liked chewing gum. And when she had a few drinks she got 
frightfully crude. I was shocked. Asked me how big it was. I almost slapped
her face. With it. Provocation I calls it. And told her to confess. Dublin 
has more than a hundred churches. I bought a map and counted them. Must be 
a nice thing to have faith. But I think a pot of Gold Label run from the 
barrel in the house of the aspidistras. Settle the nerves. No time to be 
nervous now. With youth on my side. I’m still a young man in the late 
twenties, although the Lord knows I’ve been through some trying times. A 
lot of people tell you, caution you. Now young man, don’t get married 
without money, without a good job, without a degree. E. E. E. They are 
right.

Into the pub with stuffed foxes behind the potted plants. And the snug 
stained brown. Reach over and press this buzzer for action.

A young man’s raw face flicked around the door.

“Good morning, Mr. Dangerfield.”

“A fine spring morning, a double and some Woodbines.”

“Certainly, sir. Early today?”

“Little business to attend to.”

“It’s always business isn’t it.”

“O aye.”

Some fine cliches there. Should be encouraged. Too many damn people 
trying to be different. Coining phrases when a good platitude would do and 
save anxiety. If Marion wants to make the barbarous accusation that I took 
the milk money, it’s just as well I took it.

A tray comes in the discreet door.

“On your bill, Mr. Dangerfield?”

“If you will, please.”

“Grand to be having some decent weather and I think you’re looking very 
well.”

“Thank you. Yes, feel fine.”

I think moments like sitting here should be preserved. I’d like friends 
to visit me at my house and maybe have a cocktail cabinet, but nothing 
vulgar. And Marion could make nice little bits. Olives. And kids playing on
the lawn. Wouldn’t mind a room a bit on the lines of this. Fox on the 
mantelpiece and funereal fittings. Outside, the world, I think is driven. 
And I’m right out in front. To keep friends, photographs and letters. Me 
too. And women stealing alimony for young lovers. Wrinkled buttocks astride
rose wood chairs, weeping signing each check. Become a lover of women over 
fifty. They’re the ones that’s looking for it. Good for O’Keefe. But he 
might balk. A knowledgeable man but a botcher. And now get that check. I 
want to see dollars. Thousands of them. Want them all over me to pave the 
streets of me choosey little soul.

“Bye, bye.”

“Bye now, Mr. Dangerfield. Good luck.”

Across the Butt Bridge. Covered with torn newspapers and hulking 
toothless old men watching out the last years. They’re bored. I know you’ve
been in apprenticeships and that there was a moment when you were briefly 
respected for an opinion. Be in the sight of God soon. He’ll be shocked. 
But there’s happiness up there, gentlemen. All white and gold. Acetylene 
lighted sky. And when you go, go third class. You damn bastards.

And walking along Merrion Square. Rich up this way. Wriggle the fingers a
bit. American flag hanging out there. That’s my flag. Means money, cars and
cigars. And I won’t hear a word said against it.

Spinning up the steps. Big black door. With aplomb, approaching the 
receptionist’s desk. Unfallow Irishwomen of middle age and misery. 
Belaboring poor micks headed for that land across the seas. Giving them the
first taste of being pushed around. And ingratiating to the middle western 
college boy who bounces by.

“Could you tell me if the checks have arrived?”

“You’re Mr. Dangerfield, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Yes the checks have arrived. I think yours is here somewhere. However, 
isn’t there some arrangement with your wife? I don’t think I can give it to
you without her consent.” Dangerfield warming to irritated erection.

“I say, if you don’t mind I will take that check immediately.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Dangerfield but I have had instructions not to give it to
you without the permission of your wife.”

“I say, I will take that check immediately.”

Dangerfield’s mouth a guillotine. This woman a little upset. Insolent 
bitch.

“I’m very sorry but I will have to ask Mr. Morgue.”

“You will ask no one.”

“I’m terribly sorry, but I will have to ask Mr. Morgue.”

“What?”

“You must remember that I am in charge of handling these checks.”

Dangerfield’s fist swished through the air, landing with a bang on the 
desk. Receptionist jumped. And her jaw came down with a touch of obedience.

“You’ll ask no one and unless that check is given me this instant I’ll 
have you charged with theft. Do you understand me? Am I clear? I will not 
have an Irish serf interfering in my affairs. This irregularity will be 
reported to the proper authorities. I will take that check and no more 
nonsense.” Receptionist with mouth open. Trickle of spittle twisted on her 
jaw. An instant’s hesitation and fear forced a nervous hand to deliver the 
white envelope. Dangerfield burning her with red eyes. A door opening in 
the hall. Several bog men, watching from the staircase, slipped hurriedly 
back to seats, caps over folded hands. A final announcement from 
Dangerfield.

“Now, God damn it, when I come in here again I want that check handed to 
me instantly.”

From the door, a middle western accent.

“Say buddy, what’s going on here?”

“Twiddle twat.”

“What?”

Dangerfield suddenly convulsed with laughter. Spinning on his heel, he 
pushed open this Georgian door and hopped down the steps. The rich green of
the park across the street. And through the tops of the trees, red brick 
buildings on the other side. Look at these great slabs of granite to walk 
on. How very nice and solid. Celtic lout. I’m all for Christianity but 
insolence must be put down. With violence if necessary. People in their 
place, neater that way. Eke. Visit my broker later and buy a French Horn 
and play it up the Balscaddoon road. About four a.m. And I think I’ll step 
into this fine house here with ye oldish windows.

This public house is dark and comforting with a feeling of scholarship. 
With the back gate of Trinity College just outside. Makes me feel I’m close
to learning and to you students who don’t take the odd malt. Maybe I put 
too much faith in atmosphere.

Put the money away safely. A bright world ahead. Of old streets and 
houses, screams of the newly born and grinning happy faces escorting the 
lately dead. American cars speeding down Nassau Street and tweedy bodies of
ex-Indian Army officers stuttering into the well-mannered gloom of the 
Kildare Street Club for a morning whiskey. The whole world’s here. Women 
from Foxrock with less thick ankles and trim buttocks shod closely and 
cleanly with the badge of prosperity, strutting because they owned the 
world and on their way to coffee and an exhibition of paintings. I can’t 
get enough. More. See Marion like that. Going to make money. Me. A sun out.
With Jesus for birth control. This great iron fence around Trinity serves a
good purpose. World in resurrection. Yellow banners in the sky, all for me,
Sebastian Bullion Dangerfield.

And dear God

Give me strength

To put my shoulder

To the wheel

And push

Like the rest.

CHAPTER FIVE

Spring warmed into summer. In Stephen’s Green, actors were sitting in 
three penny chairs getting a bit of tan. Here there are great rings of 
flowers and ducks sliding around the sky. And citizens riding the late 
trams to Dalkey for a swim. On this June morning, Dangerfield came in the 
front gate of Trinity and went up the dusty rickety stairs of No. 3 where 
he stood by the dripping rust-stained sink and banged on O’Keefe’s door.

A minute passed and then the sound of padding feet and latches being 
undone and the appearance of a bearded, dreary face and one empty eye.

“It’s you.”

The door was swung open and O’Keefe plodded back to his bedroom. A smell 
of stale sperm and rancid butter. Mouldering on the table, a loaf of bread,
a corner bitten from it with marks of teeth. The fireplace filled with 
newspapers, old socks, spittle stains and products of self pollution.

“Christ, Kenneth, don’t you think you ought to have this place cleaned 
up?”

“What for? Does it make you sick? Vomit in the fireplace.”

“Don’t you have a skip?”

“I’ve better things to spend my money for than having a footman. I’m 
leaving.”

“What?”

“Leaving. Getting out. Do you want some ties? Bow ties.”

“Yes. Where are you going?”

“France. Got a job.”

“Doing what?”

“Teaching English in a Lycee. Besangon, where Paul Klee’s mother was 
born.”

“You lucky bastard, you’re telling the truth?”

“I’m leaving in exactly an hour from now. If you watch me very, very 
carefully, you’ll see me fill this sack with four packs of cigarettes, a 
pair of socks, two shirts, a bar of soap and a towel. Then I put on my cap,
spit on my shoes and give them a wipe with my sleeve. I’m out that door, 
drop my keys off at the front gate and I’m into Bewley’s for a cup of 
coffee, alone I might add, unless you have money to pay for yourself. Then 
if you’re still watching, I’ll saunter down O’Connell Street past the 
Gresham and take a sharp right at the corner and you will see my slender 
form disappear into a green bus marked airport and finis. Do you see what I
mean?”

“I can only say I’m delighted, Kenneth.”

“See? System. The well ordered life.”

Dangerfield waving a hand around the room.

“Is this what you call ordered? Hate to see you in disorder.”

O’Keefe tapping his skull.

“Up here, Jack, up here.”

“What are you going to do with that jug on the dresser? Still has the 
price on it.”

“That? It’s yours. Do you know what that is? I’ll tell you. A year ago 
when I got into this hole I was full of big ideas. Things like rugs and 
easy chairs and maybe a few paintings on the wall, have some of these pukka
public school boys up to tea to have a look at my objets d’art. I thought 
things would be like Harvard only I’d be able to crack into a few of the 
clubs as I was never able to do in Harvard. I felt it would be best to 
start the furnishing with a few bedroom items, so I bought that jug for one
and four as you can plainly see, and that was that. Needless to say I never
cracked or rubbed shoulders with these public school boys. They talk to me 
but think I’m a little coarse.”

“Pity.”

“Yeah, pity. I’ll give you the jug to remember me when I’m gone from the 
ould sod, sacked in with some lovely French doll. Jesus, if I had your 
accent I’d be set here. That’s the whole thing, accent. I’m beat even 
before I get my nose in. Anyway it won’t stop me in France.”

“I say, Kenneth, I don’t want to be personal-”

“Yeah, I know. Where did I get the money. That my friend is an affair of 
state which is top secret.”

“Pity.”

“Come on, let’s go. Take the ties if you want them and the jug, anything 
that’s left for that matter. This is the last I’ll ever see of this dreary 
setup. Never even had a fire in my fireplace. I’m twenty-seven years old 
and I feel like sixty. I don’t know, I think I’d die before I’d go through 
this again. Wasted time. No degree. I think I got to four Greek lectures 
and two in Latin in the last six months. This place is tough, not like 
Harvard. These boys work day and night.”

“How about these used razors?”

“Take anything. I’ll be as poor as a church mouse for the rest of me 
days.”

Sebastian gathered the bow ties in his fist and stuffed them in his 
pockets. Filled a wash cloth with razor blades and several slivers of soap.
On the table, a pile of penny notebooks.

“What are these, Kenneth?”

“Those are the fruits, rotten ones I might add, of my efforts to become a
great writer.”

“You’re not leaving them behind?”

“Certainly. What do you want me to do?”

“Never know.”

“I happen to know. One thing I’m sure of, I’m no writer. I’m nothing but 
a hungry, sexstarved son of a bitch.”

Dangerfield turning the pages of the notebook. Reading aloud.

“In the ordinary Irish American family this would have been a very happy 
occasion of hypocritical and genuine gaiety, but the O’Lacey’s were not the
ordinary Irish American family and the atmosphere was almost sacrilegiously
tense-”

“Cut it out. If you want to read it, take it. Don’t remind me of that 
crap. I’m finished writing. Cooking is my trade.”

Two of them passing out of the bedroom with newspapers spread on the 
mattress springs. Imprint of the body. January in here and June outside. 
Sad rat, O’Keefe, the hunk of bread gnawed. And the scullery a blackened 
vestibule of grease. Under the gas ring lie bacon rinds the color green and
a broken cup half full of dripping; O’Keefe’s first move, no doubt, to open
up a highbrow restaurant. Lives punctuated with shrewd business deals, 
quick flashes of happiness ending in dismal abortion. Keeps one awake at 
night and poor as well.

They tripped and bounced down the worn stairs. Walked across the cobbles.
O’Keefe leading, hands plunged in pockets, lilting, a caterpillar walk. 
Followed austerely, nervously, by the twitching Dangerfield on his bird 
feet. Into No. 4 to urinate.

“Pissing always gives me a chance to think. It’s all the good this thing 
has ever done me. But I’m out. On the move again. Best feeling in the 
world. How does it feel to be loaded with wife and child, Dangerfield? It’s
a problem for you even to get out the door.”

“One manages, Kenneth. Be better days. I promise you that.”

“Be Grangegorman.”

“Did you know, Kenneth, that Trinity graduates get preferential treatment
in the Gorman?”

“Good, you’ll be murdered. But you know, Dangerfield, I don’t dislike you
as you might think. I’ve got a soft spot somewhere. Come on, I’ll buy you a
cup of coffee even though it’s bad to encourage tenderness.”

O’Keefe disappearing into the porter’s lodge with his keys. Porter 
looking at him with a grin.

“Leaving us, sir?”

“Yup, for the sunny Continent, yours truly.”

“The very best of luck, always, Mr. O’Keefe. We’ll all miss you.”

“So long.”

“Goodbye, Mr. O’Keefe.”

Prancing out to Dangerfield waiting under the great granite arch, and 
swinging around the front gate to Westmoreland Street. They entered the 
smoke and coffee scented air and sat in a cozy booth. O’Keefe rubbing his 
hands.

“I can’t wait to get to Paris. Maybe I’ll make a rich contact on the 
plane. Rich Yankee girl coming to Europe for culture who wants to see the 
points of interest.”

“And perhaps your own, Kenneth.”

“Yeah, if she saw that I’d make sure she saw nothing else. Why is it that
I can’t have something like that happen to me? That guy who came around to 
my rooms who was over from Paris, a nice guy, told me once you cracked a 
clique in Paris you were set. Like the theatrical crowd that he knocked 
around with, a lot of beautiful women looking for guys like me who haven’t 
got looks but brains and wit. Only one drawback he says, they like to ride 
in taxis.”

Waitress comes over and takes their order. Two cups of coffee.

“Do you want a cream cake, Dangerfield?”

“Most cordial suggestion, Kenneth, if you’re sure it’s all right.”

“And waitress, I want mine black with two, two remember, full jugs of 
cream and heat the rolls a little.”

“Yes, sir.”

Waitress giggling, remembering a morning when this short madman with 
glasses came in and sat down with his big book. All the waitresses afraid 
to serve him because he was so gruff and had a funny look in his eyes. 
Sitting alone all morning turning page after page. And then at eleven he 
looked up, grabbed a fork and started banging it against the table 
screaming for service. And never took his cap off.

“Well, Dangerfield, in less than an hour I’m off in search of me fortune.
Jesus, I’m excited, like I was going to lose my cherry. Woke up this 
morning with an erection that almost touched the ceiling.”

“And they’re twenty feet high, Kenneth.”

“With spiders crawling all over them. Jesus, a couple of weeks ago I was 
desperate. Jake Lowell came to see me, pukka Boston from Harvard but he’s 
colored. Gets women like flies but having a slack period at the moment. 
Said I ought to go queer. Said it was more intellectual and more down my 
alley. So he gave me my debut one night. It was just like going to a dance 
at Harvard. I got shaky all over and my stomach in a panic. And we went to 
a pub where they hang out. He gave me all the coy dope to let them know 
you’re on the make. Said all the invitations that mean anything come when 
you’re in the jacks.”

“All rather risque, Kenneth.”

“A wild goose chase. We finally get an invitation to a party and here I 
am getting all excited thinking of how a woman must feel and then they say 
it’s off because Jake’s colored and there’d be too many fights over him at 
the party. Note. No one fighting over me.”

“Kenneth, it’s hard but it’s fair. Always remember that.”

“Jesus, what do I do.”

“Animals left, or make a public exposure with indecent intent and have a 
placard with your name and address.”

“I’ve got charm. Make a magnificent husband. And I’ve been beaten, 
beaten. But maybe I only wanted to marry Constance Kelly because I knew she
would never consent. If she came up and said O Kenny, dear, I surrender, 
I’m yours, I’d be on her like a shot and away twice as fast. I think, 
looking back, that the only time I’ve ever been happy was in the army. 
Except for the South, stationed down there with those miserable crackers. 
But I had it damn good. Got fat. Company commander was a Harvard man so 
needless to say I was put behind a big desk with some one to make coffee 
for me. And I’d hear all these bastards groaning about the lousy food and 
gee I miss mom’s cooking and I told them my mother could never cook this 
good. They wanted to beat me up. The food almost made me weaken to the 
point of an army career until I discovered you could get this food outside 
if you made money.”

“Talking about money, Kenneth.”

O’Keefe’s jaw clamping. He reached quickly for a bun. “Look, Kenneth, I 
know this is rather an impromptu request, but could you possibly let me 
have ten quid?” O’Keefe looked around with his one eye for the waitress and
beckoned her over.

“Give me my bill, two coffees, two rolls and this bun. I’m getting out of
here.”

O’Keefe, hands fore and aft, pulling his cap squarely in place. Picking 
up his sack he swung it over his shoulders. Dangerfield up, a faithful dog 
following the precious bone.

“Kenneth, ten quid, promise to have it to you in four days, be there when
you arrive. No question about that. Air tight loan. My father’s sending me 
a hundred quid Tuesday. I say, Kenneth, air tight, your money is safer with
me than in your pocket, may get killed on the plane.”

“Thoughtful of you.”

“Make it eight.”

“You’re making it eight, I’m not making it anything, I haven’t got it. 
I’m hounded fuckless through the streets, beaten to the wall, scratching up
pennies and for the first time in months I’ve got a few beans to have a 
bath and haircut and get out and you come and push me to the wall again. 
Jesus, why do I know poor people.”

They were walking out between the chairs and tables with their glass tops
and the waitresses lined along the counter, arms folded over black breasts,
clink of cups and butter balls, and smell of roasted coffee beans. Standing
by the high cash desk, O’Keefe fumbling in his pocket. Dangerfield waiting.
“All right, all right, watch me, go ahead. Yeah, you’re right, I’ve got 
money. You’ve put me up, fed me, all right, all right but now you’re 
beating me.”

“I’ve said nothing, Kenneth.”

“Here then, God damn it, here, take it for Christ’s sake and get drunk, 
throw it away, tear it up, do anything but there’s one Goddamn thing, I 
want that money there when I arrive. You’ve beaten me.”

“Now, Kenneth, no need to feel this way.”

“I’m a fool. If I were rich I could tell you to go to hell. Poor 
crippling the poor.”

“Poverty is temporary, Kenneth.”

“With you it may be, but I’m not fooling myself, I know damn well that I 
can go down for ever and stay. This whole damn setup exists to keep me in 
penury. And I can’t stand any more. I had to break my ass to get this 
dough. Work. Use my head.”

“Tell me how.”

“Here, read this.”

O’Keefe pulling several penny notebook sheets from his pocket. Scribbled 
torn and dirty.

“Rather scruffy, Kenneth.”

“Read it.”

* * *

This is my position. I haven’t got any clothes to wear nor have I eaten 
in two days. I have to have my fare to France where I have a job. In my 
present condition I have absolutely no scruples or any regard for the 
respectable name of O’Keefe. I am therefore going to present myself to the 
U.S. Consulate for deportation and see that it gets an ample airing in the 
“Irish Press” and “Irish Independent” who would find it extremely amusing 
and good gas that an American is in the ould country without a penny, 
ignored by his relatives. If I get money by the end of the week I will 
leave for France immediately where you won’t hear of me again. Quite 
frankly either alternative would suit me however I must think of my 
relatives and what the neighbors would say. I think it would kill my mother
with shame.

Yours truly,

K. O’KEEFE.

* * *

O’Keefe drew another letter from his pocket.

“Here’s the reply from Father Moynihan. He’s the one my mother gave me 
the shoes for and I told the customs man that if I had to pay a penny of 
duty on them I’d fling them into the sea. He let them through. Jesus, will 
I ever forget this bastard.”

Dangerfield holding the blue notepaper between his hands.

* * *

I find myself incapable of even addressing you since this is the most 
despicable letter I have ever had the displeasure to receive and it amounts
to blackmail. It is difficult to believe that you are the product of a good
Catholic home or, for that matter, my nephew. You are an insult to the 
American people. However, there seems to always be an element, the scum and
evil minds bred in the gutter, who are a threat to those decent people who 
have devoted their lives and sweat to rearing ungrateful blackguards. How 
dare you threaten me with such insolence. It is only that you are my 
sister’s son that I have not brought your filthy correspondence to the 
attention of the police. Enclosed are your thirty pieces of silver and let 
it be understood that I shall not tolerate hearing from you again. While 
here as my guest you violated my hospitality and also the dignity to which 
I am accustomed in this parish. I am also aware of your efforts to corrupt 
the purity of one of Mrs. Casey’s daughters. Let me warn you, should I 
again hear anything of you, I shall send the details of this execrable 
outrage to your mother.

J. MOYNIHAN P.P.

* * *

“Kenneth, this is fantastic. What did you do down there?”

“O me. I don’t want to remember. I told the girl who worked in the 
library she ought to liberate herself. She was fascinated. No doubt had 
remorse when I left and told the old bastard in the confessional I had 
touched her on the arm, same old thing. Nothing new. Same old pattern, 
despair, frustration, misery. And that sneaky old bastard with his bottles 
of whiskey and dignity neatly misered away. I was never so damn cold in my 
life. Damn house was like a morgue. Wouldn’t put an extra piece of turf on 
the fire. Soon as he found out I hadn’t a bean and I’m living on his 
charity, there’s no fire at all and the cigarettes that were lying around 
the house disappear and the housekeeper watches the kitchen like a hawk. 
However, no cause to be bitter, that letter of abuse arrived with ten quid 
in it. When I asked him before for money, he sent me a half crown.”

“One thing can be said for you, Kenneth, you’re resourceful. If you ever 
go back to America you’ll be rich.”

“I want money here. Stay here till my last breath if I had the necessary 
nicker. But what tight bastards. Stay out of the country. After my visit 
with the Reverend Moynihan I thought I’d see what could be had in the way 
of hospitality on my father’s side. A bunch of damn phonies. But when I 
first arrived they gave me the best of what they had but it was 
embarrassing. I’d be sitting at the other end of the table with a table 
cloth and napkin and they’d be gobbling off the bare boards. I’d say, look 
why can’t I be the same as you and eat off the bare boards and they’d tell 
me, O no, you’re from America and we want you to fee! at home. They even 
kept the pigs and chickens outside which I didn’t mind. But then they 
wondered when I’d be going and like a jerk I said I was broke. Bingo. The 
chickens and pigs in the house, table cloth and napkin gone. But I hung on 
till Christmas Eve when my uncle says now let’s all kneel down and say the 
rosary. And there I was, on hard cold stone mumbling hail marys and 
thinking of ass I was missing in Dublin. I beat it the next day after 
Christmas dinner. I thought it was the least I could do was to eat the 
dinner.”

“A fine concession.”

They crossed the street and O’Keefe bought an Irish Times and moved 
jauntily over the bridge, both filled with a torrent of words bled from 
O’Keefe’s excitement and memories of Dublin. They looked a curious pair and
a group of small boys called after them, Jews, Jews, and O’Keefe spun back 
with an accusing finger, Irish, Irish, and they stood barefooted in 
silence.

“That’s what I like about Ireland, so open about hatreds. I guess all I 
want out of this life is a decent fire in the grate, a rug on the floor and
a comfortable chair to sit in and read. And just a few quid I don’t have to
slave for and mix with people with money, not, I may add, in your exact 
circumstances, Dangerfield. But Jesus, when you don’t have any money, the 
problem is food. When you have money, it’s sex. When you have both it’s 
health, you worry about getting rupture or something. If everything is 
simply jake then you’re frightened of death. And look at these faces, all 
stuck with the first problem and will be for the rest of their days.”

“And what’s mine, Kenneth?”

“You just sail dream boats. You think because you were born rich you’re 
going to stay that way. Too many guys like me around waiting for a slip up.
Get your degree, passport to security, and use contraceptives. If you get 
snowed by kids you’re whipped.”

“Touch of truth there.”

“Keep in with these rich Trinity students. They all like you. I’m 
crippled by my accent but as soon as I have my phonetics taped, watch my 
smoke. I’ll come back from France a new man.”

At Cathal Brugha Street, they turned and O’Keefe bought the Paris edition
of the Herald Tribune and The Western People. He shoved the papers in his 
sack and faced Dangerfield.

“This is where I leave you. It’s against my principles to have people see
me off.”

“As you wish, Kenneth. I’d like to thank you for the money.”

“Don’t make it painful. Just send it to me. I’m counting on it. Let there
be no bungling.”

“No bungling.”

“So long.”

“Take care of yourself, Kenneth, and wear armour.”

“I want nothing between me and flesh the first time. God bless.”

Dangerfield stood adjusting the strands of wire which held his trousers. 
Clenched fist of notes. O’Keefe loose, lost and sinned upon. Bought a green
army surplus shirt to keep him in the running longer.

Kenneth O’Keefe turned and sallied forth this sunny morning. Cuffless 
trousers wrapping round the legs Constance Kelly had said were so smooth. 
Cap set square to deceive beggars and his one eye, a wet gem seeking out 
the sign which pointed the road to the limbo of the living, the deep 
carpeted womb of the idle rich.

CHAPTER SIX

0 summer and soft wind. Relieves the heart and makes living cheaper. Get 
that fire out in the grate. Get it out. That’s better.

There’s the butcher a few houses up the street. A tram line goes by the 
window. And across the road is the most fantastic laundry with forty girls 
and great steaming vats. O I think they are a bunch for using just the 
little touch of acid.

Mr. and Mrs. Sebastian Dangerfield and their daughter, Felicity Wilton, 
late of Howth, are now residing at 1 Mohammed Road, The Rock, Co. Dublin.

It was decided to get out of the haunted house of Howth. But there were 
hesitations till the morning after the storm when Marion opened the kitchen
door to get the milk and she screamed and Sebastian came running and they 
looked down into a mud stained sea into which had fallen the back garden 
and turf shed. They moved.

The new house was not new. And you didn’t want to walk too fast in the 
front door or you’d find yourself going out the hack. Mr. Egbert Skully 
took Mr. Dangerfield aside and said he was glad he could rent to an 
American because he and his wife had worked for twenty years in Macy’s 
Department Store and loved New York and was pleased he could find tenants 
like themselves. And I hope you, your wife and little one will be happy 
here. I know it’s a little small but I think you’ll like the cozy quality, 
ha, you look like a gentleman, Mr. Dangerfield as likes his cozy comforts, 
and do you play golf? O aye. But my clubs are indisposed. Having them 
looked over by a professional for flaws, particular about alignment, you 
know. A very good idea, Mr. Dangerfield and perhaps my wife can give yours 
some recipes. Great.

Walls newly papered with brown flowers even feel soggy to the touch. And 
a nice brown, fourth-hand Axminster rug on the sitting room floor and a 
scabrous, blue settee. The kitchen was fine but the tap and sink were out 
the door. Up steep narrow stairs, a closet with plate sized skylight, the 
conservatory. And a toilet bowl wedged between two walls, the lavatory. 
Tory was a great suffix in this house. And the sitting room window two feet
oil the sidewalk was perfect for the neighbors passing by, so don’t want to
get caught with the pants down. But the tram rumbling by keeps one on one’s
guard.

A visit to the fuel merchant for coal to keep piled under the stairs. 
Marion got crates and covered them with table cloths for color and 
respectability. And my special maps one or two of which are rare and old. 
The one I have of a cemetery I keep under thick glass. And got the card 
table for a desk under the window. The laundry girls will take me mind off 
the awful grind of studying. They come out twice a day, hair in curlers and
breasts like needles in these American uplift bras. Think the Bishop had 
something to say about that and rightly too. Then watch them line up for 
the tram, a row of steamed white faces. And some of them giving a giggle in
this direction at the madman behind the curtain.

Facing the summer ahead. Living in this little house was calm. No 
drinking and minding the baba when Marion was off to shop. Had a cup of 
beef tea in the morning. Also see a rather pleasant creature up there in 
the window. Catch her looking in here with rather large brown eyes, no 
smiles or giggles. A little disdain, her dark hair straight and thick. And 
I think I see intelligence, a little embarrassing that look. Retreat into 
the kitchen. Most exciting.

Made a little case and filled it with books of law, a short life of 
Blessed Oliver Plunket and others on birds. Bottom shelf for business 
magazines for the big days ahead. And then a section for my extensive 
collection, which, God forgive me, I stole from Catholic Churches. But I 
did it because I needed strength in paupery. My favorites are, “This Thing 
Called Love,”

“Drink Is A Curse,” and “Happiness In Death.”

The first morning tram almost shakes one to the floor and Felicity gives 
the twisted cry from the conservatory. Growl back to sleep. Pull the legs 
up in the foetal crouch. Marion wearing my underwear. Sometimes the sun 
would sneak in. Then Marion beating barefoot on the linoleum. Entreaties. O
do get up. Don’t leave me to do everything every morning. In my heart where
no one else can hear me, I was saying, now for God’s sake, Marion, be a 
good Britisher and get down there in that little nest of a kitchen and buzz
on the coffee like a good girl and would you, while you’re at it, kind of 
brown up a few pieces of bread and I wouldn’t mind if maybe there was just 
the suggestion of bacon on it, only a suggestion, and have it all ready on 
the table and then I’ll come down and act the good husband with, ah darling
good morning, how are you, you’re looking lovely this morning darling and 
younger every morning. A great one that last. But I come down martyred and 
mussed, feeble and fussed, heart and soul covered in cement.

But later in the morning great things were to be seen. Sound of horses on
the cobble stones. Then up to the bedroom to look down in the street. These
sleek black animals glistening in soft rain. Heads high, driving slits of 
steam in the morning air. Sometimes I see through the little glass windows,
a lily on a pine box. Take me with you too. And I can’t help murmuring from
memory poems I read in the Evening Mail:

Sleep thy last sleep,

Free from care and sorrow.

Rest where none weep,

And we too, shall follow.

And I see the grinning faces popping out the windows of the cab, radiant 
with the importance of the dead. Hats being tipped along the road and hands
moving in a quick sign of the cross. Whiskey passed from hand to hand. 
Green, greedy mouth is dead. A fiddle across the fields. Mushrooms fatten 
in the warm September rain. Gone away.

Then time to go for the paper. And back with it to the lavatory. Between 
the green peeling walls. Always feel I’m going to get stuck. One morning 
there was sunshine and I was feeling great. Sitting in there grunting and 
groaning, looking over the news, and then reach up and pull the chain. 
Downstairs in the kitchen, Marion screamed.

“I say, Marion, what is it?”

“For God’s sake, stop it, stop it, Sebastian, you fool. What have you 
done?”

Moving with swift irritability down the narrow stairs, stumbling into the
kitchen at the bottom. Perhaps things have gotten too much for Marion and 
she’s gone mad.

“You idiot, Sebastian, look at me, look at the baby’s things.”

Marion trembling in the middle of the kitchen floor covered with strands 
of wet toilet paper and fecal matter. From a gaping patch in the ceiling 
poured water, plaster and excrement.

“God’s miserable teeth.”

“Oh damnable, damnable. Do something, you fool.”

“For the love of Jesus.”

Sebastian stalking away.

“How dare you walk away, you damnable rotter. This is horrible and I 
can’t bear any more.”

Marion broke into sobs, slammed into silence with the front door.

Walking past the parking lot, down the little hill to the station. Stand 
by this wall here and watch the trains go by. Just take a crap and look 
what happens. This damn Skully probably put in rubber pipes. Three pounds a
week for a rat hole, with brown swamp grass on the walls and cardboard 
furniture. And Marion has to be standing right under it. Couldn’t she hear 
it coming? And the sun’s gone in and it looks like rain. Better get back to
the house or it’ll weaken my position. Get her a little present, a fashion 
magazine filled with richery.

Marion sitting in the easy chair sewing. Pausing at the door, testing the
silence.

“I’m sorry, Marion.”

Marion head bent. Sebastian tendering his gift.

“I really am sorry. Look at me, I’ve got a present for you. It’s hot 
tamale with ink dressing, see.”

“O.”

“Nice?”

“Yes.”

“Like the gold teeth of God?”

“Don’t spoil it now.”

“My little Marion. I’m such a bastard. I tell you the whole thing up 
there is just a bunch of roots.”

“I’ll have something to read in bed.”

“I’m an incredible pig, Marion.”

“Aren’t these suits nice.”

“Don’t you hear me, Marion? I’m a pig.”

“Yes, but I wish we were rich and had money. I want to travel. If we 
could only travel.”

“Let me kiss you, Marion, at least.”

Marion arose, embracing him with blond arms, driving her long groin 
against his and her tongue deep into his mouth.

Marion you’re good underneath it all and not a bad feel. Just irritable 
at times. Now go in there and cook the dinner. And I’ll relax here in the 
chair and read my Evening Mail. I see listed conscience money. Great thing,
the conscience. And letters about emigration and women who marry for quids.
And here’s a letter about Blessed Oliver Plunket. Went up to see him there 
in the St. Peter’s Church, Drogheda. A decapitated, two hundred and sixty 
year old head. Made me feel hushed. Gray, pink and battered and a glint of 
dead, bared teeth in the candle light. Charwomen told me to touch it, touch
it now, sir, for it’s great for luck. I put my finger, afeared, in the 
mouldy nose hole, for you can’t have too much luck these days.

Now I see them across the street coming out of the laundry. Pouring into 
the road, faces lining up for the tram. There’s the girl with the brown 
eyes and dark hair, her face colorless but for handsome lips. Her legs in 
lisle stockings and feet in army surplus boots. Hatless and hair in a bun. 
Goes to the newsboy, calves knotting softly on the backs of her legs. Tucks
the paper under her arm and waits in the queue.

In my heart I know she isn’t a virgin, but perhaps childless with pink 
buds for nipples or even if they’re sucked and dark I don’t mind. Wears a 
green scarf around her nice neck. Necks should be white and long with a 
blue nervous vein twitching with the nervousness of life in general. My 
good gracious savior, she’s looking over here. Hide? What am I? A 
scoundrel, a sneak? Not a bit. Face her. You’re lovely. Absolutely lovely. 
Put my face on your spring breasts. Take you to Paris and tie your hair in 
knots with summer leaves. “Sebastian, it’s ready, do bring in the chair.”

In the kitchen cutting a thick slice off the loaf, scraping butter out of
a cup.

“Sebastian, what about the toilet?”

“What about it?”

“Who’s going to fix it?”

“Marion, I beg of you, this is dinner time. Do you want to give me 
ulcers?”

“Why won’t you take some responsibility?”

“After dinner. Don’t drive me up the wall over Irish plumbing, it’s new 
to the country and the pipes got mixed.”

“But who’ll pay?”

“Skully out of his little gold egg.”

“And the smell, Sebastian. What can we do about the smell.”

“It’s just healthy shit.”

“How dare you use that ugly word.”

“Shit’s shit, Marion, even on judgement day.”

“It’s foul and I won’t have it said in the same house as Felicity.”

“She’ll hear it and also in the matter of foulness I’ll see to it she’s 
laid before she’s fifteen.”

Marion silently seized. Putting egg shell in the coffee to make it 
settle. Notice her fingers bitten. She moves through the mess.

“All right, Marion, take it easy. It’s just adjustment. Got to get used 
to it here.”

“Why must you be so raw?”

“The mean meat in me.”

“Be sincere. You weren’t like this before we came to Ireland. This vulgar
filthy country.”

“Easy now.”

“Children running barefoot in the streets in the middle of winter and men
wagging their things at you from doorways. Disgusting.”

“Untruths. Lies.”

“They’re a foul lot. I understand now why they’re only fit to be 
servants.”

“I say, Marion, a little bitterness?”

“You know it’s true. Look at that frightful O’Keefe and his dirty ideas. 
America doesn’t seem to help. Brings the worst out in them. He’s not even 
fit to be a servant.”

“I think Kenneth’s a gentleman in every respect. Have you ever heard him 
fart? Now, have you?”

“Absolute frightful rot. One has only to watch him leering over the cat 
when it’s in heat to see he’s dreadfully base. When he comes into the room 
I feel he’s criminally assaulting me in his mind.”

“It’s legal.”

“It’s the revolting lechery of an Irish peasant. And he tries to give the
impression of good breeding. Watch him eating. It’s infuriating. Grabs 
everything. That first time we had him to dinner he just came in as if we 
were servants and proceeded to eat before I even had time to sit down. And 
pulling hunks out of the bread, how can you be blind to these things.”

“Now, now, a little patience with the people who have given your country 
a Garden of Eden to play in, make your fires and serve your tea.”

“I wished we had stayed in England. You could have waited for Oxford or 
Cambridge. And we could have at least maintained a measure of dignity.”

“I’ll admit there’s not much of that.”

Long limbed Marion settled in the chair. What makes you so tall and 
slender. You raise your eyelids and cross your legs with something I like 
and wear sexless shoes with sexiness. And Marion I’ll say this for you, 
you’re not blatant. And when we get our house in the West with Kerry cattle
out on the hills sucking up the grass and I’m Dangerfield K.C., things will
be fine again.

A tram pounding by the window, grinding, swaying and rattling on its 
tracks to Dalkey. A comforting sound. Maps shaking on the wall. Ireland a 
country of toys. And maybe I ought to go over to Marion on the couch. We’re
experimenting with marriage. Got to find the contraceptives or else another
screaming mouth for milk. The brown-eyed girl in the laundry is about 
twenty-five. Marion sucking on her false teeth again, I think it must be a 
sign of wanting it.

In the bedroom, Dangerfield rubbing stockinged feet on the cold linoleum.
And the sound of Marion using the piss pot behind Skully’s genuine Ming 
dynasty screen. And a little tug at these tattered shades for the privacy. 
Even in this great Catholic country you’ve got to keep covered, you know, 
or they watch you undress, but mind you, the Protestants use a field glass.

And Marion clutching the hem of her dress and drawing it over her 
shifting shoulders. She said there was only thirty shillings left.

“Our good accents and manners will see us right. Didn’t you know, Marion,
they can’t put Protestants in jail?”

“You’ve no responsibility and to have my child raised among a lot of 
savage Irish and be branded with a brogue for the rest of her life. Pass me
my cream, please.”

Sebastian passing the cream, smiling and waving his feet from the edge of
the bed. Letting his body fall with a squeal of springs and looking at the 
patches of pink in the ceiling.

Marion a bit upset and confused. Difficult for her. She was breaking. 
Isn’t as strong as me, led a sheltered life. Maybe shouldn’t have married 
me. Matter, all of it, of time. Pumping it around and around and around, 
air in, air out and then it all goes like the shutters of a collapsing 
house. Starts and ends in antiseptic smell. Like to feel the end would be 
like closing leaves of honeysuckle, pressing out a last fragrance in the 
night but that only happens to holy men. Find them in the morning with a 
smile across the lips and bury them in plain boxes. But I want a rich tomb 
of Vermont marble in Woodlawn Cemetery, with automatic sprinkler and 
evergreens. If they get you in the medical school they hang you up by the 
ears. Never leave me unclaimed, I beg of you. Don’t hang me all swollen, 
knees pressing the red nates of others where they come in to see if I’m fat
or lean and all of us stabbed to death on the Bowery. Kill you in the 
tenement streets and cover you in flowers and put in the juice. By God, you
hulking idiots, keep the juice away from me. Because I’m a mortician and 
too busy to die.

“Marion, do you ever think of death?”

“No.”

“Marion, do you ever think you’re going to die?”

“I say, Sebastian, would you mind awfully stopping that sort of talk. 
You’re in that nasty mood.”

“Not at all.”

“You are. Coming up here every morning to watch the funerals of these 
wretched people. Dreadful and sordid. I think you get a perverse pleasure 
out of it.”

“Beyond this vale of tears, there is a life above, unmeasured by the 
flight of years and all that life is love.”

“You think you’re frightening me with these sinister airs of yours. I 
find them only boring and they tend to make you repulsive.”

“What?”

“Yes, they do.”

“For the love of Jesus, look at me. Look at my eyes. Go ahead, come on.”

“I don’t want to look in your eyes.”

“Honest globes they are.”

“You can’t talk seriously about anything.”

“I just asked you about death. Want to know how you feel, really get to 
know you. Or maybe you think this is forever.”

“Rubbish. You think it’s forever, I know you do. You’re not as flippant 
as this in the mornings, I notice.”

“Takes me a few hours to adapt. Snap out of the dream.”

“And you scream.”

“What?”

“You were yelling a few nights ago, how do I get out of this. And another
time you were screaming, what’s that white thing in the corner, take it 
away.”

Dangerfield holding his belly, laughing on the squeaking springs.

“You can laugh, but I think there’s something serious at the root of it.”

“What’s at the root? Can’t you see I’m mad. Can’t you see? Look. See. 
Madness. E. I’m mad.”

Sebastian ogled and wagged his tongue.

“Stop it. Always willing to clown but never to do anything useful.”

Dangerfield watched from the bed as she flexed her long arms behind her 
back and her breasts fell from the cups of her brassiere, tan nipples 
hardening in the cold air. Red line on her shoulder left by the strap. 
Stepping wearily out of her underpants, facing the mirror and rubbing white
cream into her hands and face. Little brown strands growing round the 
nipples. You’ve often said, Marion, about giving it the wax treatment but I
like them that way after all.

Sebastian quietly stepping from the bed approaching the naked body. 
Pressing his fists against her buttocks and she pushes his hands away.

“I don’t like you touching me there.”

And kissing her on the back of the neck. Wet the skin with the tongue and
the long blond hair gets in the mouth. Marion taking the blue nightdress 
from the nail. Sebastian stripping and sitting naked on the edge of the 
bed, taking white fluff out of the navel, and doubling himself, plucking 
the congealed dirt from between his toes.

“Sebastian, I wish you’d take a bath.”

“Kills the personality.”

“You were so clean when I first knew you.”

“Given up the cleanliness for a life of the spirit. Preparation for 
another and better world. Hardly take offence at a little scruffiness. 
Clean soul’s my motto. Take off your nightie.”

“Where are they?”

“Under my shirts.”

“And the vaseline?”

“Behind the books on the box.”

Marion ripping the silver paper. Americans great for packages. Wrap 
anything up. And she draws the opening of her nightdress back from her 
shoulders, letting it fall to her feet and folding it carefully across the 
books. She kneels on the bed. What are other men like, do they grunt and 
groan, are they all curved and circumcised, with or without. She climbs 
into bed, a soft voice.

“Let’s do it the way we used to in Yorkshire.”

“Umn.”

“Do you still like my breasts the way they are?”

“Umn.”

“Tell me things, Sebastian, talk to me. I want to know.” Sebastian rolled
near, pressing the long, blond body to his, thinking of a world outside 
beating drums below the window in the rain. All slipping on the cobble 
stones. And standing aside as a tram full of Bishops rumbles past, who hold
up sacred hands in blessing. Marion’s hand tightening and touching in my 
groin. Ginny Cupper took me in her car out to the spread fields of Indiana.
Parking near the edge of woods and walking out into the sunny rows of corn,
waving seeds to a yellow horizon. She wore a white blouse and a gray patch 
of sweat under her arms and the shadow of her nipples was gray. We were 
rich. So rich we could never die. Ginny laughed and laughed, white saliva 
on her teeth lighting up the deep red of her mouth, fed the finest food in 
the world. Ginny was afraid of nothing. She was young and old. Her brown 
arms and legs swinging in wild optimism, beautiful in all their parts. She 
danced on the long hood of her crimson Cadillac, and watching her, I 
thought that God must be female. She leaped into my arms and knocked me to 
the ground and screamed into my mouth. Heads pressed in the hot Indiana 
soil and pinned me in a cross. A crow cawed into the white sun and my sperm
spurted into the world. Ginny had driven her long Cadillac through the 
guard rails of a St. Louis bridge and her car shone like a clot of blood in
the mud and murk of the Mississippi. We were all there in the summer 
silence of Suffolk, Virginia, when the copper casket was gently placed in 
the cool marble vault. I smoked a cigarette and crushed it out on the black
and white squares of the tomb. In the stagnant emptiness of the train 
station after the cars were gone, I walked into the women’s toilet and saw 
the phallic obscenities on the wooden doors and gray walls. I wonder if 
people will think I’m a lecher. Ginny had gardenias in her lovely brown 
hair. I hear the train, Marion’s breath in my ear. My stomach’s shaking, my
last strength. The world’s silent. Crops have stopped growing. Now they 
grow again.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Marion, I think I’ll go and study in the park this morning.”

“Take the baby with you.”

“The pram is broken.”

“Carry her.”

“She’ll piss on my shirt.”

“Take the rubber sheet.”

“How am I going to study, watching her? She’ll crawl into the pond.”

“I say, can’t you see? I’ve got my hands full with all this, the mess. 
Look at the ceiling. And there you are, and you’re wearing my sweater. I 
don’t want you wearing my sweater. What do I have.”

“Jesus.”

“And why don’t you go to see Mr. Skully and have this loathsome toilet 
fixed? I know why. You’re afraid of him, that’s why.”

“Not a bit of it.”

“You are. All I have to do is say Skully and you’re off up the stairs 
like a frightened rabbit, and don’t think I can’t hear you crawling under 
the bed either.”

“Just tell me where my sun glasses are, that’s all.”

“I didn’t have them last.”

“I must have them. I absolutely refuse to go out of this house without 
them.”

“Well look.”

“Do you want me to be recognized? Do you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“God damn this house. It’s the size of a closet and I can’t even find my 
own foot in it. I’ll break something in a minute.”

“Don’t you dare. And here, a revolting postcard from your friend 
O’Keefe.”

Marion flicked it across the room.

“Watch my correspondence. I don’t want to have it thrown about.”

“Your correspondence, indeed. Read it.”

Scrawled in large capitals:

WE HAVE THE FANGS OF ANIMALS

“E. O aye.”

“That’s what he is, a detestable animal.”

“What else?”

“Bills of course.”

“Well don’t blame me.”

“I will blame you. Who started the account in Howth? Who was the one who 
bought whisky and gin? Who was?”

“Where are my sun glasses?”

“And who pawned the fire irons? And who pawned the electric kettle-”

“Now look Marion, can’t we be friends for this morning? The sun’s out. 
Christians at least.”

“See? You immediately get sarcastic. Why do we have to live like this?”

“My glasses, damn it. British hide everything. Can’t hide the toilet now,
anyway.”

“I won’t have this talk.”

“Have this then.”

“Someday you will regret all this. Wulgar.”

“Do you want bird calls all your life, the B.B.C.? I’ll do a series of 
programs for you called ‘My Bottom was Green’.”

“Your nasty mind.”

“I’m cultured.”

“Yes, from your chromium plated life in America.”

“I’m distinguished-looking. Speak the King’s English. Impeccably 
tailored.”

“What rot. I don’t know how I ever let you meet Mommy and Daddy.”

“Your Mommy and Daddy thought I had lots of money. And I, for that 
matter, thought that they had lots of money. Neither had nicker, no notes, 
no love.”

“That’s a lie. You know it’s a lie. There never was a question of money 
until you started it.”

“All right. Get the baby. I can’t stand it any more. I need a long 
trolley ride in the womb, to take me out of this.”

“Take you out? I’m the one who ought to be taken out and it may be any 
day now.”

“All right. Let’s be friends.”

“Yes, it’s easy isn’t it. Just like that, after being so horrid.”

“I’ll take the baby.”

“And you can do some shopping too. Get me some bones from the butcher and
don’t bring back one of those revolting sheep’s heads, and don’t let 
Felicity fall in the pond.”

“I insist on a sheep’s head.”

“Be careful shutting the door. It fell on the mailman this morning.”

“Suffering saints and sick sinners. I’ll be god damn well sued on top of 
everything.”

Out on Mohammed road wild with traffic and thundering trams. The laundry 
a hive of activity. See them in there beating sheets and that’s the way it 
ought to be. Warm yellow sun. Most beautiful country in the world, full of 
weeds and weeds are people. Stay here to die and never die. Look at the 
butcher shop. Look at the hooks, groaning with the meat. He has his sleeves
rolled way up with the chopper. A bunch of them behind the counter.

Entering the park. Green, green grass, soft and sweet from the night 
rain. The flower beds. Circles and crosses and nice little fences. Pick 
that bench. Newly painted. If my father dies by Autumn I’ll be very rich, 
golden udder. And sit on a park bench for the rest of my life. What a warm,
lovely day. I’d like to take off my shirt and let a sup of sun to me chest 
but they’d be hounding me out of the place for indecency. Help my hairs to 
grow, give them a fashionable tinge of blond. Dear child, stop kicking me 
in the back. Here, now get on this blanket and play and I don’t want any 
nonsense from you. Jesus, let go of the blanket, think I was going to kill 
you. Papa’s got to study his law and become a big big K.C. and make lots of
money. A great big golden udder. A tan on my chest means wealth and 
superiority. But I’m proud of my humility. And here, reading the dead 
language, my little book of Roman Law. For parricide, flung off the cliff 
in a bag with a viper. Fat ugliness writhing in the crotch. And little 
daughter, gurgling on the grass, have fun now. Because papa is finished. 
Getting it from all sides. Even in dreams. And last night I dreamt I was 
carrying a bundle of newspapers under my arm and climbed on a bus and went 
racing across the Curragh with massive horses galloping beside. In the bus,
a man studying butterflies with a magnifying glass. And we were going to 
the West. Then a bullock leaped from behind a hedge and the bus cut him up 
and left him hanging on a huge hook in front of a village butcher shop. 
Then suddenly I was in Cashel. Streets filled with goats and gutters brown 
with dried blood. And in the hot sun’s stillness, a crowd of men and women 
in thick black overcoats walking down the middle of a winter road, summer’s
hesitating heat on every side. The funeral of the gombeen man. He caught 
her, lips bubbling, eyes spinning, sitting on the shop assistant on a crate
from Chicago and he heard it collapse and was after them with a hatchet. 
And they conspired between hot wet lips, clutching at each other’s clothes 
to put poison in the tea, trembling hands to the till and each other’s 
flesh, to wind a cocoon of sin between the pineapple and peaches. The box 
was closed. Summer. The long line shuffling. Through Cashel. A song:

Shuffling through Cashel

A box in the sun

Through Cashel, through Cashel

The gombeen man’s dead.

The gombeen man’s dead

In a box in the sun.

The assistant got the wife

And the gombeen man got done.

Poor mercy on the gombeen man.

There’s a hand in the till,

There’s a box in the sun,

God’s mercy on the gombeen man.

Someone talking to Felicity. Good God. Wow.

She was kneeling on one knee and crouched over her tight legs, Felicity 
tugging at her outstretched finger. She wagged her head. Hello, little 
girl, hello. Wearing a green skirt, matched on the grass and her lisle 
stockings, slim slender ankles. Her gleaming round bottom poked up her 
heels.

“Hello.”

She didn’t turn around. Prodding the baby belly. Fading magic moment. 
That bun of black hair.

“Hello.”

Looking over her shoulder, direct dark eyes. Mellow voice.

“Hello. Admiring your child. What’s her name?”

“Felicity.”

“Really. Hello, Felicity, aren’t you a pretty little girl? Aren’t you 
now?”

What lips across what white teeth. The shoulders of her suit, arms 
through small circles. I’d like to get my hands on you.

“You work in the laundry, don’t you?”

“Yes. And you live in the house across the street.”

“Yes.”

“I suppose you’ve seen me looking in your windows.”

“What do you do in that room?”

“That’s my office.”

“I see you drink a lot of tea.”

“Coffee.”

“Pleasant.”

“She’s got such lovely hair. Haven’t you, haven’t you, little girl? I 
must go. Bye now, Felicity, bye bye.”

Waving long fingers. A little smile and she walks away on the asphalt 
path. Chevrons dividing across her calves and wider over her thighs. She 
waves again. She smiles once more. Please come back and play with me. Your 
sensible clothing is sexy.

Throw this damn law in the sea. I can’t learn a thing. Children are good 
advertising. Shows them the end product, the thing you do it for. I think 
she has hair on her legs. That’s what I like, slight suggestion of the 
male. I’m in love with that girl. The way she walks, a twist of the hips. 
The neck tells everything, slight gangle. Certainly I’m not homosexual or 
an elf s child. I want to know where she lives and what she does at night. 
I must know. O I think things are beginning to straighten out. If I get 
that toilet fixed. Anything. Block it up, run it into the street, just 
anything. But there is so little that Egbert and I have in common, 
especially money. How does one make this approach about impaired function 
of the drain. I feel I am moving to a different level of experience. Get my
dark suit out of pawn and take Marion to the Dolphin for a grilled steak 
and Beaujolais. She needs a little recreation. Poor girl. I’m such a hard 
bastard to live with. And I’ll come to the park tomorrow.

There was a sheep’s head simmering in the big black pot. Marion washing 
her bottom in a pan on the floor. Fine thing for sixpence. The baby quietly
to bed upstairs, the afternoon over, the evening begun. They are coming 
into their houses all over Dublin city with their arms light with a few 
sausages, old butter and little bags of tea.

“Sebastian, give me my talcum powder on the window sill.”

“Certainly.”

“How was the park?”

“Very nice.”

“That’s such an odor.”

“I tell you, it’s the finest thing in the world. I need it for my brains.
Sheep’s head gives brain food.”

Sebastian picked up a movie magazine and sank in the easy chair, waiting 
for the sheep. Red brash brightness of these faces. I was once approached 
by a talent scout in summer stock. He said, how would you like to come to 
Hollywood. I told him they’d have to feed me brandy day and night. He said 
he was serious and wanted me to think the offer over. I told him my 
allowance from home was as much as that. But kid, you just wait till after 
your first picture. This man’s name was Bill Kelly. Call me Bender Kelly. 
He said his mother and father were born in Ireland and someday he thought 
he would take a trip over there looking for talent, and maybe find some 
real talent. Mr. Kelly said they got a lot of girls from Ireland. But, you 
see, these Irish girls don’t get far in Hollywood. Got to drop the drawers 
at the strategic moment. You see, you got to realize there’s compromise 
wherever you go in this world, get screwed or sacked. Some hold out but not
for long. But a guy with your stuff could go places. Where’d you pick up 
acting? I beg your pardon, Mr. Kelly, I was born an actor. Well, that’s 
what they all say. Mr. Kelly had a few more drinks and said Hollywood 
killed you like these Aztec guys used to get one of these girls and dress 
her all up, big star, then put her up there on the altar and tear her heart
out. But Mr. Kelly, how sordid. It’s sordid all right, that’s why you’ve 
got to be tough. But I’m just a frond, I just know I couldn’t bear it. 
Well, Mr. Sebastian Beef. Sebastian Balfe Dangerfield. Jesus. Well, anyway,
I’d like to get married and have some kids. I’ve knocked up some high 
school girls. Maybe that’s not so good but isn’t that the way life is, all 
squeeze and tease? I’ve handled some big stars in my time. Big. Really big.
And Mr. Kelly got drunk and vomited all over the bar. It is well to 
remember there’s a village called Hollywood in the Wicklow mountains.

Marion humming in the kitchen. Not often that happened. “Make some toast,
baby.”

“Slice the bread.”

“I’m studying.”

“I see that silly movie magazine.”

“Marion, do you like men with hairy chests?”

“Yes.”

“Biceps?”

“A bit.”

“How about the shoulders?”

“So that he can wear a suit.”

“Would you say now, that I’m your man?”

“Don’t like men with pots.”

“I beg your pardon. Pot? Not a bit-just look. Will you look in here a 
minute. See. Nothing there at all. You might even say I was wasted.”

“Come and deal with this wretched head.”

“Delighted. O I tell you, it’s Coming along a jolly treat. What ho and 
bang on and wizard whip. Sound the horn you buggers.”

“Cut the bread.”

“Of course, darling.”

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I mean it.”

“You don’t mean it.”

“All right, I don’t mean it. Why don’t we buy a radio? I think we need a 
radio.”

“With what?”

“Hire purchase. A system for people like us.”

“Yes, and that could pay our milk bill.”

“We can have milk too. Few shillings a week.”

“Why don’t you take a part time job then?”

“Must study.”

“Of course. Yes of course, you must study.”

“O now, now, now, give me a little kiss. Come on, on the lips, one.”

“Get away from me.”

“Not cricket.”

“Bring in the chair, please.”

“Then, let’s go to the cinema.”

“Have you forgotten? We have a child you know.”

“Shit.”

“Stop it, stop it. Stop using that ugly word to me.”

“Shit.”

“If you say that word once more I’ll leave this house. You may use that 
sort of language with your working class friends but I shan’t stand for 
it.”

“Leave.”

“Every meal is like this, every meal.”

“Meals? What meals?”

“My God, what did I marry.”

“You certainly didn’t have to marry me.”

“Well, I wish I hadn’t now. Father was right. You’re a wastrel. Done 
nothing but drink with your wretched friends, all useless people. Will they
help you to get on?”

“British rubbish. Get on where? Where to?”

“Make something of yourself. You think it’s so easy, don’t you. I don’t 
even think you’ll get your degree. Cheat on your exams. Don’t think 
everything you do escapes attention. Don’t look shocked, and I know how you
go and butter up your professors. How long do you expect to get away with 
it?”

“Absurd.”

“You’ve insulted every friend I have. People who could help you. Do you 
think they’ll help a rotter, an absolute rotter?”

“Rotter? Rotter? Me, a rotter?”

“And a liar.”

“Liar?”

“You needn’t smirk. My friends could help us. Lord Gawk could have 
introduced you to a firm in London.”

“What’s stopping him?”

“You. Your insulting manner. You’ve ruined me socially.”

“Not at all. Why blame me if your pukka friends ignore you?”

“Blame you? My God, how can you say that I can’t blame you, when you 
called Lady Gawk a whore, ruined her whole party and shamed me. Blame you?”

“The woman is stupid. Moral decadent.”

“It’s a lie. You sit there and you haven’t had a bath for a month, your 
feet smell and your fingernails are filthy.”

“Quite.”

“And I have had to suffer the humiliation of having my family involved. 
What do you think? Daddy was so right.”

“Daddy was so right. Right. God’s teeth, let me for Christ’s sake eat my 
dinner. Daddy, daddy. Sterile bastard, that daddy of yours is merely a 
leech on the Admiralty’s bottom and a pompous lot of shit.”

Marion ran from the room, she tripped up the narrow stairs. He heard her 
slamming the bedroom door and the creak of the bed springs as she fell. 
Silence and then her choked sobs. He reached for the salt, shook it over 
the plate. Nothing came out. He raised his arm. The salt cellar crashed 
through the window and smashed to little pieces on the gray concrete wall 
outside. He kicked his chair over, picked up his jacket. He went behind the
clock where he knew Marion had been saving change for weeks. He took it all
and let it slip, clinking, into his pocket.

A very red face. Guilt. Grinding the teeth. Soul trying to get out of the
mouth, swallowing it back into the body. Shut out the sobs.

He ordered a bottle of stout and a Gold Label, telling the boy to bring 
him another stout and Gold Label. Boy didn’t understand. Sebastian stamping
his foot, shouting.

“Do as I say.”

Boy, short sleeved, mumbling.

“I don’t think you should talk to me that way, sir.”

“Sorry, I’m upset. Bring me some cigarettes too.”

What a sorry sad day. I want company. A morass of black coats, coughing 
and spitting. Get out of here.

He went across the street. Had a nickelodeon there. He played “That Old 
Black Magic,” and “Jim Never Brings Me Any Pretty Flowers.” Like Chicago. A
man in Chicago accused me of having a Harvard accent. What are you, from 
Evanston? Don’t talk to guys like me. The bruised and dumb, the snotty and 
sniffling. Her stinking hairy tits. I’m not blaming her for hair around her
nipples. That’s all right. I just don’t like the British, a sterile 
genital-less race. Only their animals are interesting. Thank God they have 
dogs. She wants her life sitting on her fanny in India, whipping the 
natives. Wants Bond Street. Afternoon tea at Claridges. Lady Gawk tickling 
her twat with a Chinese fan. I’ll break something over that woman’s face. 
The way I lose my dignity is dreadful. Worrying about silly 
misunderstandings. She can leave. I’ll tell her to get out. Stay out.

The end of the song. Outside, standing in front of the cinema waiting for
the roaring tram. It’s so noisy, coming down the hill out of the night, mad
teetering vehicle. Seems to work like a coffee grinder. But I love the 
color and the seats, all green and warm, orange, pink and passionate. Like 
to run up the spiral stairs to the top and see the school-children sitting 
on the outside platform. I like it because I can see into all the gardens 
and some of the evening windows. I was impressed by trams when I first set 
foot in this country. From the top deck you can see into some personal 
windows. Women wearing slips only. I often saw a great deal of chromium 
plate in the bedrooms and electric fires glaring from the walls. Also the 
beds were covered with satin eiderdowns, big, thick and puce.

He got off at College Street. Swarms of people. A girl pipers’ band was 
rounding the front of Trinity College, all green and tassels and drumming. 
La, de da deda la de. Followed by gurriers. This English amusement park. 
Must get into a public house. Where? I owe money in every one. That’s one 
thing about me anyway, I can run up credit in a public house and that’s 
saying a whole lot. Go up the Grafton Street, cheer me up with its wealth. 
But where are the rich. Just poor miserable bastards like me, have nowhere 
to go. Invited nowhere. Why doesn’t someone invite me. Come on, invite me. 
You’re all afraid.

At Duke Street. Just about to cross. Foot half down from the curb. Hold 
on.

On the opposite side, looking in the shoe shop. I mustn’t panic. No 
bungle. Get to her before she starts walking again. She’s staying. Stay 
still. Rebuffed. I’ll not be rebuffed. Whoa. She sees me. She’s confused. 
Optimum moment. Show slight surprise. I am surprised. Don’t have to show 
it. Be natural. Brave and noble. And a gentleman, of course. A quick 
greeting.

“Good evening.”

“Hello.”

“Are you window shopping?”

“Yes, it passes the time.”

Mate in one move.

“Come and have a drink with me.”

“Well.”

“Come along.”

“Well, there’s nothing stopping me. All right.”

“Where do you live?”

“South Circular Road.”

“You’re not Irish.”

“What makes you say that? My voice?”

“No, your teeth. All the Irish’s teeth are rotting. You have good teeth.”

“Ha, ha.”

They walked to the bottom of Grafton Street.

“We’ll go in that pub. Nice soft seats upstairs.”

“All right.”

They wait on the curb. Two beetle American cars go by. A breeze. Cool 
sky. Taking her hand an instant, warm knuckles of her long fingers. Just 
guiding you safely across. She went up the stairs before him, curious 
climber. White petticoat. Slight pigeon toe. The voices around the corner 
and in the door. Slight hush as they enter, and sit. She crosses her legs 
and smoothes her skirt over her nice knee. “My name is Christine.”

“Mine-”

“I know yours.”

“How?”

“One of the girls in the laundry. She has a friend who works in the 
grocers where your wife shops.”

“Fantastic.”

“I agree.”

“Must know what I eat too.”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Sheep’s head.”

“O aye.”

What a good-looking girl you are. White. Your body must be very white. 
Let me eat the lotus. I came out tonight feeling badly. How weak are our 
hearts. Because now I can jump with joy. The world obeys a law. Large and 
brown black. Eyes.

“Do you like working in the laundry?”

“I hate it.”

“Why?”

“O the heat and steam and noise.”

“And what’s it like where you live?”

“O I don’t know. Don’t know how I can describe it. There are trees down 
the street anyway. That’s always something. Just one of those terraced 
houses on South Circular Road. I live in the basement. It’s quite nice 
though, compared to what I might have to live in.”

“Alone?”

“Alone. I can’t bear sharing.”

“What would you like?”

“Stout, please.”

“How long have you been working in the laundry?”

“A few months.”

“Money?”

“Not much. Four pounds ten.”

“Now, Christine, I think you are a most pleasant girl.”

“What do you study?”

“Law. This is most pleasant. I was in despair. Wretched. Beat. A walk up 
Grafton Street sometimes kills it. But everyone looked beat like me.”

“Wrong time. Just people looking for somewhere to go.”

“You?”

“Just looking. I often just look. I like to feel there is something in 
the shops I want. I get off the bus at the top of Stephen’s Green and walk 
through the park. I like that best and watch the ducks from the bridge and 
go down Grafton Street. Sometimes I have a coffee in one of those ice-cream
parlors. Then I go home. That’s all there is to my life.”

“No culture?”

“Cinema, and sometimes I go sit in the back of the Gate for a shilling.”

Sitting there and then lighting up cigarettes. I don’t usually approve of
smoking. I find now that things seem good. That suddenly out of the 
darkness the light. That’s Christian. The light showing the way. When I’ve 
thought of it, I’ve stepped into Clarendon Street Church, to pray and 
sometimes to see if it was warmer and after sitting awhile, to relax a bit 
from the tension. I have awful tensions and in that Catholic gloom and the 
Erse that is in it, I grew slightly sad and pitiful, considering the after 
and before and I often got the feeling there that I was really going to 
haul down some quids. I don’t know why quids get rid of gloom. But they get
rid of it. O Christine. What are you like underneath?

They had one more round of stout and she turned and smiled and said that 
she must be going home. And may I take you? That’s all right. I insist. 
It’s really not necessary. For the joy that’s in it then. O.K.

They set off along Suffolk Street, into the Wicklow Street and up the 
Great George’s. And over there Thomas Moore was born. Come in and see it, a
nice public house indeed. But I must go home and wash my hair. But just a 
quick one.

In they went. The embarrassed figures looking at them and bird 
whispering. The man showed them to a booth, but Mr. Dangerfield said that 
they were just in for a fast one.

O surely, sir and it’s a grand evening. ‘Tis that.

And passing the Bleeding Horse he tried to steer her in there. But she 
said she could go on alone just around the corner. But I must come.

The house she lived in was one at the end of a long row. Went through an 
iron gate, just a speck of garden with a bush and bars over her window. And
her door just at the bottom of three steps with a drain to ran the water 
off that would surely be going under the door. Only that I must wash my 
hair I’d ask you in. That’s quite all right. And thank you for walking me 
home. Not at all, and may I see you again? Yes.

She went down the steps. Paused, turned, smiled. Key. Green door. Few 
seconds. A light goes on. Shadow moves across the window. Hers. What sweet 
stuff, sweeter than all the roses. Come down God and settle in my heart on 
this triangular Friday.

CHAPTER EIGHT

July. Be over in another week. See awnings up in Grafton Street with such
a bunch of healthy people going underneath. Everything looks good with the 
sun out. Even my affairs.

But mornings in the bed with the sheet well up over the eyes, when you 
hear them downstairs when Marion’s out to shop, knocking hard on the door. 
And it can’t stand it. And they never stop the damn knocking and some try 
to push it in. O the fear of them coming up and naked, my dignity wilts and
it’s a poor enough weapon defending debts. And they yell up the stairs, not
wanting someone to be home, embarrassed to have penetrated so far into the 
house.

Marion not standing up to it very well. Worry. Couldn’t control herself 
any longer, shaking and crying, tired of it all. Mousy blonde hair, hanging
over her head like sauerkraut. Silence got her. If she breaks a blood 
vessel, the doctors and expense will be something terrible.

And slide from the bed and press warm feet into cold golfing shoes. Pull 
the blankets around me and crouch and shuffle to the cracked basin. Step on
the tube of toothpaste, catch one more speck and vigorously brush the 
teeth. The pain of morning. Hulk over the gas, wordless and hungering. No 
coffee but piss-tinted tea. Nothing to do but sing:

Come Holy Ghost

And fill my

Faithful belly.

And riding in this tram to the bottom of Dawson Street my heart thumps to
see Chris in Jury’s lounge tonight. By compressing the lips, erase guilt. 
Take a look in the window of this fashionable men’s shop. I think a bowler 
hat with my next check. Simply must. Keep the dignity. Dignity in debt, a 
personal motto. In fact a coat of arms. Bowler hat crossed by a walking 
stick.

In the front gate of Trinity. At least this is a bit professional with 
all these notices tacked up here. Must admit to an overwhelming fear when I
think of exams. I hear these students say they haven’t done a scrap of work
when their eyes are bloodshot. But me. I just see a massive vista of my 
total ignorance. The weeks left before the little white paper. A man like 
me has to get through. Can’t afford failure. Must have my offices of law 
where I come in at ten o’clock and hang my hat. And when they come in to 
see me I smile with reassurance. A great thing, that, in the law.

Sebastian Dangerfield crossing the cobble stones. Looking up at O’Keefe’s
rainstained windows. His little dusty dungeon. Up the steps of the reading 
room. A strange building indeed. These people standing on the steps smoking
cigarettes. They call that a break from work. Inside they have the names of
the glorious dead in gold and red wreaths on the white marble. And then 
down these steps through the swing door and the faces come up from their 
books. Get back you damn thugs. Because you frighten the life out of me. 
Especially the few of you I see from my class dug right into the bindings. 
As for me, I think I’ll read a bit in the encyclopedia. Loosen up the 
brain. Up there around the balcony are eligible young things watching the 
door, hoping for a husband. Not a spark of joy anywhere except from a few 
lechers I know personally. Otherwise a rogues’ gallery of Calvinists.

An evening sky so very blue. Light wind, south by south east. I’m just a 
little weather station, really. Nice openness of Dame Street this time of 
day. And sprinkles of people rounding the round corners. And in this little
cul-de-sac at the back of the bank with all the lovely green leaves 
brightening up the granite. There is nothing more pleasant than this on the
summer evening.

In the side door to Jury’s. There she is, all dark hair, all white skin 
and dark lips and mouth, heart and sound. Sitting sedately. And near by, a 
sly-eyed business man, licking his mouth for her. I know them. I know them 
all right. In this nook of utter respectability. But this a nice lounge 
with palm fronds and wicker chairs. Flexing her legs, recrossing. Pale 
nails, long, tender fingers and moisture on her eyes. What do you have 
underneath, my dear Chris. Tell me.

And they sat drinking coffee for she said how much better than spirits 
and perhaps a ham sandwich too. And all about exams. All about this place. 
And the Erse.

They walked home. Holding her happy hand. And he paused at the top step, 
leaving. But she said do come in. Green carpet on the floor, faded and 
beat. Square wash basin in the corner and a red screen. The fireplace 
neatly covered with a copy of the Evening Mail. A boarded-up door out to 
the back garden. She said in heavy rain, water came in on the floor. And 
another door into the hall. Out there I take my baths and late at night for
leisure. I will scrub your back. That would be nice. I’m a great man for 
the risky conversation. A battered wardrobe, half open and a green coat, 
and three pairs of shoes. On the window sill next to the front door, a gas 
ring, and a few pans hanging on the wall.

I am lost in love with this room. Because it’s an oasis of hiding with no
door knocks for me. And the building looks sound. Want to have something 
solid to put the back to. When your back goes to the wall it is sensible to
see that the wall is well founded and not given to collapse.

Sebastian lying on her bed while she told him. All about her year at 
London University. I didn’t like it there and after a year I found 
Psychology drab and empty but I had to give it up anyway because my money 
was gone. There was money in Ireland left to my father and that’s why I’m 
here. My father was Irish and my mother a Russian. Strange combination, 
isn’t it, both killed in the beginning of the war and so I got to England. 
But I needn’t tell you that I got less than half the money left to my 
father. Well, obviously I had to find work. So. See. The result? The 
laundry. I hate it and I hate Ireland. I’m lonely and bored. Thirty five 
shillings for this. Horrid little room, really.

My dear Chris, don’t worry now. I’m here. I think it’s a fine room, safe,
nest of love. And you won’t be lonely again. I tell you there are good 
things and pints of the best and pineapples too and fields and guts and 
lust, soil and bull. Sebastian, do you really think that way? I do. But I’m
a woman and I can’t. I hate these Irishmen. Seedy bodies, their drunken 
smirks. I hate them. To listen to their snide remarks and their tight 
sneaky little nasty jokes. I hate this country.

My dear Chris, don’t worry now.

She got up with her lovely legs, and poured the milk into the pot. For 
Ovaltine and biscuits.

At one a.m. just before he left he said he liked her so much. Gentle 
girl. And my dear Chris, I have my problems too. I think I am being choked 
to death by paper. Bills before breakfast and I do so want to have my 
breakfast first. And Sebastian, how did you ever get into such a mess. 
Miscalculation, my dear Chris and misunderstanding.

He kissed her hand as he left. And walked through the night by the canal,
counting the locks and bulging waterfalls.

The story was, Marion, I missed the last tram. Just going down Nassau 
Street at a ferocious clip. Couldn’t possibly get it. I’m in poor condition
for running so I went back to Whitington’s rooms in college. Smart bloke 
that, great help with the law of contract. You’re a liar, I know when 
you’re lying.

Marion, what is there left for me to say then?

On other evenings, Chris and he went for long walks and one Friday on her
payday they went to the Grafton Cinema Cafe where on the top floor they 
dined mid shaded lamps and open medieval windows. It was so comfortable and
full of rest and peace and better than home. Chris so insisted on paying. 
But I did not want to make a bad impression by appearing to be unconcerned.
And after, we walked down along the quays and across the canal locks to 
Ringsend, the emptying mouth of Dublin. All black.

He had taken the tram home at eleven. Chris left him at the stop. Marion 
in the scabrous seat. Looking up from a copy of Woman’s Home Companion that
a barber had given him. There was a sign of gladness in her. But padded 
conversation out of my mouth. And she asked him would he like some warm 
milk with sugar in it. All right. They talked about America and mansions.

When they were going upstairs he noticed flowers on the box beside the 
bed. Marion undressing before the little mirror. Brushing her hair. His 
name in her plaintive voice.

“Sebastian?”

“What?”

“Sebastian.”

Pausing, looking at the dresser, wrinkling the cloth with the brush.

“Sebastian, what do you think is happening to us?”

A shock ran through his body, rigid for a second and he drew his knees up
in the bed. Slow rising sheet.

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Just happening. We don’t talk to each other. I hardly see 
you.”

“See me? Of course you do.”

“You know what I mean.”

“What?”

“Be with me, sort of. I feel cut off.”

“It’s only till my exam.”

“I know, but you come home so late.”

Marion poking the cloth in little hills. His lungs light. “You may have 
to study but there’s no response when I do see you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Response-it’s as if you didn’t love me.”

“Absurd.”

“Don’t mock me, please, Sebastian, I’ve got feelings just as you have. I 
can’t help being English. Nor can I help feeling desperate left alone here 
and then at night too. I don’t want to fight or argue any more. What’s 
going to become of us and Felicity? Won’t your father help us?”

“I can’t ask him till we’re really desperate.”

“But he’s rich.”

“I can’t.”

“But you must. I won’t mind if every once in a while you go out and even 
if you drink. But I’d rather you studied at home. You have every evening 
after six. You used to. And if we could only be a little happier when we’re
together. That’s all I’m asking. Just that.”

“There’s great strain.”

“But who has to bear it all. I stay in this dreary house day after day, 
seeing nothing but these damp horrid walls. If we could only get out into 
the country for a few days, see some green fields and feel free instead of 
hiding behind the kitchen door in mortal fear of that frightful Mr. Skully.
He called last night.”

“What did you tell him.”

“To see you.”

“O.”

“How can I put him off? I think he was drinking too. Even had the nerve 
to say the front knocker could be polished. He has an excuse to walk in 
here any time he wants. It’s such a hideous feeling. I don’t like his eyes.
He has no character. I even wrote to Father. But you know how hard things 
are for them now.”

“Quite.”

“They really are. I know you don’t understand. They would help us if they
were able.”

He rolled over on his side and pushed his head into the pillow. Marion 
turned off the light. Her hand pulling back the sheet. A groan of rusty 
springs. Darkness like the sea come for him. A bed of pain. Asking the dark
tide to take me away. And I went out with the sea and knelt praying in the 
deep.

Suddenly he was awake. In sweat and fear. Marion clinging to him sobbing.
Hear the thunder of her heart and wailing. I’m smitten with remorse and 
calculating in my heart. Dublin looming a Swiss Cheese of streets and 
running through them screaming in tears. Children shrinking in the 
doorways. Gutters running pig’s blood. Cold and winter.

In the morning all silence between them. Sebastian heating soup jelly, 
dipping bread in it and drinking a cup of tea. How I hate the fear of it. 
Hate my own hatred. Get out of all this with escape and murder. Poor 
Marion. I have never felt so sad or pained. Because I feel it all seems so 
useless and impossible. I want to own something. I want to get us out of 
this. Get out of this goddamn country which I hate with all my blood and 
which has ruined me. Crush Skully’s head with a poker. A green lesus around
my neck and this damn leaking ceiling and this foul linoleum and Marion and
her wretched shoes and her stockings and panties and her tits and goddamn 
skinny back and orange boxes. And the black smell of grease and germ and 
spermy towels. All the rot behind the walls. Two years in Ireland, shrunken
teat on the chest of the cold Atlantic. Land of crut. And the drunk falling
screaming into the ditches at night, blowing shrill whistles across the 
fields and brown buggered bogs. Out there they watch between the nettles, 
counting the blades of grass, waiting for each other to die, with the eyes 
of cows and the brains of snakes. Monsters growling from their chains and 
wailing in the dark pits at night. And me. I think I am their father. 
Roaming the laneways, giving comfort, telling them to lead better lives, 
and not to let the children see the bull serving the cow. I anoint their 
silver streams, sing laments from the round towers. I bring seed from Iowa 
and reblood their pastures. I am. I know I am Custodian of the Book of 
Kells. Ringer of the Great Bell, Lord King of Tara, “Prince of the West and
Heir to the Arran Islands.” I tell you, you silly bunch of bastards, that 
I’m the father who sweetens the hay and lays the moist earth and potash to 
the roots and story teller of all the mouths. I’m out of the Viking ships. 
I am the fertilizer of royalty everywhere. And Tinker King who dances the 
goat dance on the Sugar Loaf and fox-trots in the streets of Chirciveen. 
Sebastian, the eternal tourist, Dangerfield.

For two days he sat in the little room. Out twice to buy a tin of 
spaghetti and pig’s trotters. On the third day, remorse hardening with 
idleness. Reading letters of those with problems in the back of a women’s 
magazine and a few proverbs from the Bible, for the Christianity that was 
in it. And suddenly the sound of mail. On the hallway floor a letter from 
O’Keefe.

* * *

Dear Phony, I’m up to my teeth. I’m a hungry son of a bitch, enough to 
eat dog. I bought a tin of peas and I ration myself twelve after every 
meal. This place is the dullest I’ve ever been. I put an ad in the local 
paper to give English instruction to girls that wanted to take posts in 
England with families. Two showed up. One as ugly as an old man’s sin and 
knew what I was after and didn’t mind at all but as hard up as I am I 
couldn’t get myself to seduce her, even for academic purposes. I am 
destined to love beautiful women and to inspire in them a desire to lay for
someone else. But things are more complicated than that. The other girl 
complained to the head master and I was scared I was going to get the 
kaput. But the head master is a good skin and he laughed and sympathized 
but told me to lay off because it wasn’t so hot for the school. So much for
my heterosexual life from which I have officially retired.

My homosexual personality is complete. I have been reading Andre Gide in 
French, the Marquis de Sade and Casanova. It’s just like they say it is, 
being in love with a boy. I’m afraid of getting caught or that he might 
report me. He comes to my room at night and teases me by turning off my 
light and then wrestling with me in the dark. Jesus Christ, I think it will
drive me crazy. I’m sure he must know, these French kids know everything, 
but he’s teasing me just like Constance used to do in my rooms at Harvard. 
If I were in America the class would have reported me long ago. They notice
I aways ask him questions and that I never yell at him when he comes up to 
my desk but treat him like a bowl of cream. Being in love with a boy is an 
experience everyone should have but it’s breaking my balls, but I must say 
that for me it is more exciting than chasing women who never gave me a 
tumble. Everyone does that. I’m dying for the want of a smell of the ould 
sod. Eire is in my blood, veins and jowls. I’m thinking of joining the Jews
to fight the Arabs or the Arabs to fight the Jews. What the hell. I’m sick 
of it all. I’m raising a beard among other things. No more women-I’ve 
discovered I’m impotent, ejacuiatio praecox.

Now what about the money? You’ve let me down badly. You’ve got to realize
that I’m up against it. I’m depending on you. Nothing else except that I 
hope to get up to Paris soon. I’m saving a hundred francs from my pay every
week and I’m going to lose my cherry once and for all to a pro. My best to 
Marion.

God bless you,

Kenneth O’KEEFE,

Duke of Serutan.

* * *

Will I ever see time of largess. Say with a bit of butler. With O’Keefe 
at the front door blasting his way in with a pukka accent. Kenneth must 
have money troubles but he’ll be all right. Nice little job. Quite a 
pleasant life that. He doesn’t know that he has it good now. But I do think
that Kenneth needs a menopause.

This is the month of August. Football season, a sunny New England 
afternoon. An indifferent summer air blowing sweetly softly across the 
grass. There is that word enthusiasm. And watch these people running out of
locker rooms full of pep and zip and of course, enthusiasm. To see a ball 
spiral lazily down the field, plunging into the brute arms of a gentle 
idiot who charges through this so strange indifferent summertime. I could 
get down on my knees in this wretched little room and weep for things like 
that. I don’t play football, however, but it wrings my heart for that dry 
wistful air. O the aching pangs of it. And the wholesome girls. Like bread,
good enough to eat. Eat me. And brandy, rugs and cars. What have I now? The
G.I. Bill. Of Rights too. And when you get as old as I am now I can only 
feel I need preferential treatment. Preference of the veteran. I had a 
dream that these veterans were looking for me. They were arriving in 
Battery Park. Thousands of them off the Staten Island ferry. More out of 
the subway from Brooklyn. Beating great drums with leather-thonged fists, 
holding aloft torches of liberty. Going to get me. And a dreadful feeling 
it is. Get me for lechery and cheating. For not being at the front. I tell 
you, you oafs, I was behind the book. The man behind the book. They had a 
statue of the Blessed Virgin. But I beg of you, I’m just an ordinary guy. 
Say, bub, you’re a moral leper, and degenerate. We’re the Catholic war 
veterans and we’re going to purify lousy bastards like you by hanging. But 
I tell you I’m rich. You’re not rich bub. They were marching through Wall 
Street, coming up through the city to get me. Sleeping in my booze-stained 
room with someone’s crying sister. Finding my room, picking out my brown 
fireproof door from a million others. I was in the Washington Heights for 
the anonymity that was in it. They were at 125th Street, a rumble of drums.
Please, protection. None. Me an example. A mile away with placards, “Wipe 
out Degenerates.” But I tell you, I’m not degenerating. My God, they have 
dogs too. This sister of somebody, sobbing. Gentlemen, I put it to you that
I am a Protestant and above this nonsense. Look, bub, we know what you are.
But, gentlemen, I’m an Irish Catholic. Bub, we’re going to hang you for 
sure for saying that. Mercy. Pounding feet up the stairs. I must say it was
all most distasteful. The door was down. A football player plunging into 
the room. Bub, I’m from Fordham and we make short work of perverts like 
you. What are you Bub, crazy or something? Needless to say, I winced in 
terror and they pushed a flag pole out the window and dragged me from my 
corner, punching me in the ribs and twisting my balls and hanged me. I woke
up with the bed sheet in shreds. Marion thought I had a touch of distemper,
or papaphobia.

In this little room. I can only smile. A tram rumbling by. And twiddle my
thumbs. And take some of these newspapers and just squash them up and wee, 
into the grate. Little match. My room is orange. Must see me Chris 
tomorrow, maybe at the night time. I can only think of standing in the Glen
of the Downs smelling the garlic or on the banks of the Barrow, a summer 
evening out on the lark sprinkled air, and last songs and salmon leaping. 
Fingers of the night touching me. Honeysuckle sorrow. Humming. I must weep.

CHAPTER NINE

Eight o’clock. The streets were wet, puddles of water on the granite 
blocks. Western clouds swarming soundlessly catching up the turf smell from
the steaming chimney pots on this chill Saturday night. Bird feet moving 
his soul through this Danish city. The hoarse voices of newsboys 
punctuating the corners of streets behind. Up here in White Friar Street I 
can hear them saying rosaries. And in the hospital window, the light goes 
on and a nurse pulls down the shade. Hospital morgue where they were 
looking upon dead strangers with love and the white beauty of those dead 
young. Candles flickering in the carriage lamps in the alleyways of the 
funeral furnishers. He felt a hand on his arm, staying him, an ould one 
asking for a copper to spare, put wild joy in the heart and gently saying 
to her, that it wasn’t since the mother. And she laughed at the English 
gentleman, fangs in the mist. Bought her a drink in the pub. Had small ones
and she was proud of the company of this Protestant gentleman, telling him 
that her old man had spilled boiling water on his foot and that he had been
laid up this year since. He filled her with lies and left the whole pub in 
tears when he sang “O Danny Boy.”

This city of all these changeling streets, old windows and bleeding 
hearts, and boiling black pots of tea. Her warm little room, and neat 
possessions, patchwork quilt and people moving in the hall. And the soft 
bits of rain. Going in the houses with loaves of bread and butter with 
maybe a touch of cheese and the chattering chilled children awake 
everywhere.

The yellow light was in slits around the window. Tripping down the 
concrete steps. He knocked D in morse code on the green door. A smile of 
welcome.

“Come in. I had a strange intuition you would come tonight.”

“Bright. A new light?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. And frying.”

“Would you like to have some bacon with me? It’s the best I can do. And 
I’ll also give you a nice piece of fried bread. Would you like that?”

“I think fried bread is the most delicious thing in the world. My dear 
Chris, may I sit here?”

“Yes. I stayed in Thursday night thinking you might call and take me to 
see Christ Church.”

“Marion a bit upset. A little confusion.”

“What was the trouble?”

“General misunderstanding. Absence of dignity in our lives. I think that 
damn house is going to fall down. Do you know, that one day I think the 
whole thing will just go prostrate into the street with me under it. Damn 
place trembles when I’m brushing my teeth. I think the trams have 
undermined the foundations, if there are any.”

“And what upsets your wife?”

“Money. And I certainly don’t blame her for that. O me. I like you Chris.
I think you’re very nice. What sort of men have you known.”

“Harmless mostly. And mother-bound ones. Even little dark men who follow 
one around London. When you want to walk in the park it seems that none of 
them will believe you that you want to be alone and that you don’t want to 
talk or be taken somewhere but just left alone. And a medical student and 
various students. Lots of students.”

“In Ireland?”

“None that I’ve wanted to know.”

“Me?”

“Silly. I wanted to know you. I knew I was going to meet you somehow. 
Well, I’m almost responsible for it. Aren’t I? I must admit I was 
dreadfully curious. So when I saw you on the bench with your baby. Brazen 
of me.”

“It’s a bold one you are.”

“I’m glad.”

“Good.”

“And your bacon.”

Chris in her long fingers. A white plate of browned bacon. I like your 
arm and sweater. My God, how are you underneath? Nipples soft pattern and 
green swell of breast. Quiet room in the city. Lovely dark girl. Out there 
is the largest brewery in the world beating up the foaming pints over on 
the Watling Street and Stephen’s Lane and the lovely blue trucks bringing 
it around the city so that at any time, any place, I’m never more than 
twenty paces from a pint. I am certain that stout is good joy, reblooder of
the veins, brain feeder, and a great faggot for when one is walking in the 
wet. These people wear chains around their heads. These Celts. But I have 
sneaked into the churches, saw them at the altar, music in their voices, 
gold in their hearts and there was the sound of frequent pennies down the 
brass chute to build them bigger, better and more. My dear Chris, my very 
precious Chris, how can I take out my heart and put it in your hand.

Poking the fried bread with her fork, breaking it. Putting it in her 
mouth and looking at him. His child had his hair and eyes. His child a 
lovely child. Nice not to be alone. And Saturday and Sunday to stay in bed.

Mr. Dangerfield took the crust of his bread and wiped up the grease. Into
his mouth with it.

“Very good. I’ll say this, Chris, it’s a fine country for the bacon.”

“Yes.”

“And now, may I suggest something?”

“Yes.”

“Shall we have some refreshment?”

“Yes.”

“I know of a very fine house.”

“I’m going to get out my nylons. Precious. Get out of these drab things.”

“Sensible.”

“Drab. But as drabness goes, the least drab.”

She unfolds the diaphanous things. Facing me. O but fully fashioned.

“My dear Chris, you do have a lovely pair of legs. Strong. You hide 
them.”

“My dear Sebastian, I do thank you. I’m not hiding them. Does that make 
men follow one?”

“It’s the hair that does that.”

“Not the legs?”

“The hair and the eyes.”

“So you’re the man out of that tattered little house.”

“It’s me.”

“Do you mind if I say something?”

“Not at all.”

“You look like a bank clerk or perhaps someone who works in a coal 
office. Except for that funny tie.”

“I stole that from an American friend.”

“I must say you’re the most curious American I’ve ever met. I don’t like 
them as a rule.”

“They’re a fine, fleshy race.”

“And you live in that house with brown torn shades. You know, the walls 
and roof are in a terrible state.”

“My landlord doesn’t see it that way.”

“None do. I’m ready. I’m glad you asked me to go and have a drink.”

Chris suggested a bottle of gin. Mr. Dangerfield up importantly to deal 
with the transaction.

“Let’s not stay here. It depresses me. Look how drunk they get and I 
always feel that one of them is going to lurch over here and start to talk 
to us. Let’s go for a walk. I like that so much better.”

“I like you, Chris.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Yes.”

“You know, I don’t know quite where I stand with you.” And on the 
Saturday night street with the old women going in to look for them ones 
wasting the money and have a quick malt hidden in their hands and the 
frolic of high-skirted girls pecking the pavements on their way in this 
fantastic poverty. They walked along the canal. The moon came out and 
shadows leaping on the water. Tightly she held his hand. Thinking 
happiness. The windows low down beneath the grates. People collected in the
cellars around red specks of fire, gray heads on gray chests. Most of 
Dublin dead. A fresh wet air from the West. Turning down Clanbrassil 
Street. That canal goes across Ireland to the Atlantic. The Jewish shops. 
She pulled his arm against her breast. A few freckles on her upper lip.

“I wonder if it’s possible, Sebastian.”

“What?”

“If we are possible.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“I think so.”

The West’s taken the rain out of the sky. They walked slowly. His feet in
nervous restraint. Her soft voice speaking, pushing at the night.

“What about your wife?”

“Marion?”

“Yes.”

“What about her?”

“Well, she’s your wife. And you have a child.”

“That’s so.”

“You’re not helping me, you know.”

“I can’t, I don’t know myself.”

“Do you care for them, for Marion?”

“I’m fond of Marion, at times extremely fond of both her and the child, 
but I’ve made them both unhappy.”

“What about us?”

“Us?”

“Yes.”

“I think we’re good for one another.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“For how long are we good for one another?”

“That’s impossible to tell. I feel very strongly about you.” She stopped 
and toned to him.

“I like you. It’s so much harder for a woman if love means anything and 
it does to all women and I want it to mean something to me.”

“I like you too, very much.”

“Let’s go back to the room.”

Gentle tugging of her hand.

They returned through three narrow streets. Feet hesitant on the steps. 
Lock turning. Into the little room and its new bright light. Chris pulled 
the curtains closed. Sebastian pouring gin, his back to the fire place. She
stood on the green carpet, unbuttoning her jacket. Watching her, the long 
darkhaired girl. Drinking my gin with a shaking hand. She stood silently in
the center of the room, facing him. He sat down. Crossing her narrow wrists
upon the hem of her sweater she drew the wool garment over her head and 
pulled it from her arms. Folding it gently on the bed. Hands reversed 
behind her back, her hair, her hint. I know how you are underneath. Walking
over to his chair, stooped over his head. You’ve pushed your breast against
my face. And the solid tip on my mouth and between my teeth. Up in your 
eyes you’re crying and tears collecting on your chin. She pushes his head 
back over the chair and touches his eyes with her fingers. Softly telling 
him.

“I’ll light two candles. And they’re Italian and scented. I knew this was
going to happen. Till tonight I was going to the zoo. Thinking about it all
week and you. Can I watch you?”

“Yes.”

Warmed in candle light. Her dark eyes big.

“Now turn around. I thought you were thinner. A businessman’s paunch. You
don’t exercise.”

“My hands refuse to labor.”

“Help me put the mattress on the floor. On the papers. You look so funny.
Both of us. How strange a man is. I feel absent and naked there.”

“Sweet suffering Christ.”

“What’s happened?”

“I’ve stubbed my toe. Cut it.”

“I’ll fix it. We’ll bathe it.”

Water running in the pan, swilling on the sides and she puts his feet in.

“Better?”

“Much.”

“Now we’ll dry them and put some talc on. Nice? It’s so funny and 
curious, men and women and everything, it must have something to do with 
the meaning of positive and negative. Aren’t the veins blue. I read 
somewhere that it’s the smoothest part of the body, there’s no part of a 
woman so smooth.”

Her fingers rubbing up through the hair of his leg. Dumping the pan. 
Waiting secret and shy, loosening her skirt.

“My nylons now. I’m embarrassed now. Horrid garter belts.”

She held each breast in each hand, squeezing the blood veins full, and 
the dark lip flesh a long cylinder and eyes syrup of cool white and warm 
gray. Moving against him. Telling him it was her expression and tears of 
soundless happiness and I want to dance for you. She stood and pressed her 
breasts together and then her hands above her head and swung her chest and 
flesh. And touch his skin again with her. Slide her body into his and said 
she was ready and she somehow knew, I’ll tell you, that each day she stood 
waiting for the tram so cold, intolerable, alone, hungry for love for 
weeks, damp body and Sebastian and tonight all the laundry steam has come 
out of my heart, I’m ready and juices in my groin. Dear Chris you’re full 
of soft love spilling on your dark lips. Outside and down that road by St. 
Patrick’s Cathedral I hear the Gregorian chant. It’s not far away. She 
furrowed her tongue and blew a warm moist air into his ear. I feel that the
warm air you blow into my ear is like the still sultry summer air that was 
in the afternoon of a Westchester day in America, in Pondfield Road and I 
lay on my back listening to music coming in the window from a back garden. 
I was young and lonely. Are you cold Sebastian, I like it slower, we fit so
well, keep you from coming out so much like a disappearing sun, so much my 
female pumping body milking gold. See the olive trees and rivers, a 
thousand O Sebastian a thousand, I feel and feed and push and heart and 
pump. Because, dear Chris your neck lies in my arm. Hear the bells of 
Christ. O Sebastian now, good gracious God, now O now, tighten me taste me 
O good gracious God I love it. Her head hanging back, words moving her chin
in his nook of shoulder, have you come, I can’t care but you’re so funny, 
could I have a cigarette. Sweat drying on their skins, and blowing smoke to
watch it winding on the ceiling.

“Funny man.”

“Me?”

“Yes. And what do you feel now?”

“The good things.”

“As?”

“Joy. Relief.”

“Some men feel disgusted.”

“Pity.”

“Yes. And I feel better. I need it. What’s she like?”

“Marion?”

“Yes.”

“An enigma, not getting what she expects.”

“And what does she expect?”

“She wants it both ways. Dignity and me. She’s got me. One way, you know.
But she’s not to blame.”

“What’s she like when you’re-”

“Making love?”

“Yes.”

“Likes it. Not as creative as you. She has great latent sexuality.”

“And don’t you make use of it?”

“It comes out. Worry doesn’t help.”

“I wonder if there is any such thing as a perfect sex life among married 
people.”

“Waxes and wanes.”

“Yes. It’s such a complicated thing. Always frightened me. You feel funny
there. Does it tickle. Gets me thinking and it’s so smooth. Must be an 
instinct to kiss smooth things. When I was fifteen I thought my nipples 
were like the skin on lips and I kissed them and when my mother knocked on 
the bathroom door I was terrified that she would ask me what happened to 
them. I got a thing about it. Parents’ sex is so different. At seventeen I 
got an awful shock seeing my mother and father making love.”

“For God’s sake, tell me what happened.”

“I had the flu and I was going to the bathroom and I saw them from the 
stairs. I was just beginning to learn then and I never knew a woman could 
sit on a man. I told this to my girl friend and she wouldn’t speak to me 
for a month afterwards.”

“I tell you Chris, there’s no end to it. You are an intelligent girl.”

“And you must be intelligent to tell me.”

“Exactly. I like it here. Little comforts, little joys.”

“You don’t want much.”

“I don’t. And you?”

“Married, I guess. Most women want to.”

“Then what?”

“Children. I’m not looking for a picket fence around the house and a 
loving husband struggling away in the local bank. I want a certain 
contentment. What are you laughing at?”

“Just thinking of myself.”

Turning on her shoulder, facing him.

“Tell me, did you know I was going to sleep with you?”

“Never thought of it.”

“Did you want to?”

“Instantly, the first time I saw you.”

“I knew we were. How do you feel now that we have?”

“I don’t know. I feel I know you.”

“Hold my hand.”

“You’ll be able to breast-feed your children. Let me see under your arm.”

“I refuse to shave them for anyone.”

“Smell of Russia.”

“How dare you.”

“Rich. And your navel.”

“England?”

“No but interesting. If I have to work for a living I’m going to tell 
people’s fortunes by their navels.”

“A woman doesn’t want you to see more than her own. Funny that before 
tonight I was prepared to accept coming back to this dreary room. Turn on 
the radio and listen to some silly people. Cooking myself dreary meals. It 
makes all the difference to have someone to cook for. How curious and 
sudden it all is. One expects it to happen. It happens. Now I know what you
look like without clothes. I won’t be able to look at you from the laundry.
I’ll be mentally undressing you. It’s ridiculous when you consider a man’s 
genitals and the way he dresses. They ought to wear kilts or cod pieces.”

“I’d have mine tailored in Savile Row.”

“Priests would have to wear black ones. Let me bite you. I want to bite 
you. O you’ve got something in your navel. Fluff.”

“Ekke.”

“My navel’s sexless and flat and doesn’t collect. And these are funny 
little things to kiss. Do you like it?”

“More. I tell you, more’s the more.”

“And in your navel too.”

“For God’s sake, yes.”

“And there? It’s got a funny smell. It’s tiny.”

It’s such a long pleasant night. I hope I can remember this when I am 
suffering. Her gentle fingers. Sweet substance of girl, alone and damp and 
loving me and moving over me, over me and over, covered safe with her heart
and each other’s thighs, my head gone away, tickling teasing, curling hairs
and hood of smells and flesh and salt taste like swimming. I live in such a
house of cracked concrete. I ride to town on a crazy trolley to Trinity 
with the rest of them and now bury my head in the round white pincers of a 
stranger’s thighs. Her hands are going down my legs. Tear the cartilage 
islands from my knees and I’ll wobble forever after in the streets. Her 
dark head bouncing on the yellow candle air. This threnody in my scarlet 
skull. The laundry girls are standing on pots of steaming clothes, pounding
them with thick Celtic ankles and doing a strip tease. I see them all out 
there and we laugh, he ho ha, the pulse of it and the country girls, naked 
for the first time in their lives, falling into the tubs and suds, 
slipping, flapping, slapping their obese bodies. It’s holiday. The bestial 
bedlam. And he, me, raised his holy hand and told them to shut up for a 
minute so as to arrange them in ranks and give each a green garter of 
shamrocks to wear on the left thigh so as not to be criticized by the 
Bishops for nudity. Out now, the kip of ye. Into the streets, Dublin’s fair
city where the nude are so pretty. You look like the oblate and your rumps 
too. Strike up the band. He led them through the streets. At the Butt 
Bridge they stopped and the nice gentleman led them through the line, “I 
Left my Heart In An English Garden.” The word spread quickly through the 
city that there was a touch of the nakedness on the roads. Pubs emptied. 
And the million farmers’ sons and others too, on bicycles to see these fine
shapes of girls who were of stout build.

Chris’s willowy fingers dug into his thighs and hers closed over his ears
and he stopped hearing the soup sound of her mouth and felt the brief pain 
of her teeth nipping the drawn foreskin and the throb of his groin pumping 
the teeming fluid into her throat, stopping her gentle voice and dripping 
from her chords that sung the music of her lonely heart. Her hair lay 
athwart in clean strands on his body and for the next silent minute he was 
the sanest man on earth, bled of his seed, rid of his mind.

CHAPTER TEN

With two tomes under the arm walking out the back gate of Trinity 
College. Bright warm evening to catch the train. These business people are 
bent for their summer gardens and maybe a swim by Booterstown. On these 
evenings Dublin is such an empty city. But not around the parks or pubs. It
would be a good idea to pop onto the Peace Street and buy a bit of meat. 
I’m looking forward to a nice dinner and bottle of stout and then I’ll go 
out and walk along the strand and see some fine builds. For such a puritan 
country as this, there is a great deal to be seen in the way of flesh if 
one is aware and watching when some of them are changing on the beach.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening.”

“And how can I help you, sir?”

“To be quite honest with you, I think I would like a nice piece of calf’s
liver.”

“Now, sir, I think I can see you with a lovely bit, fresh and steaming. 
Now I’ll only be a minute.”

“Bang on. Wizard.”

“Now here we are, sir. It’s a fine bit. On a bit of a holiday, sir? Nice 
to have a bit of fresh meat.”

“Yes, a holiday.”

“Ah England’s a great country, now isn’t it sir?”

“Fine little country you have here.”

“Ah it’s got its points. Good and bad. And hasn’t everything now. And 
here we are, sir, enjoy your holiday. It’s a nice evening, now.”

“A great evening.”

“I see you’re a man of learning and good-sized books they are too.”

“They’re that. Bye bye, now.”

“Grand evening. Good luck, sir.”

Wow, what conversation. Doctor of Platitudes. Holiday, my painful arse. 
But a nice bit of liver.

Into the gloom of Westland Row Station. He bought the papers, rolled them
and beat his thigh up the stairs. Sitting on the iron bench, could see the 
people pouring in the gate. Where are the slim ankles on you women. None of
you. All drays. Well what’s in the paper. Dreariness. The Adventures of 
Felix the Cat. Put it away. I must to the lavatory. So big in here. 
Dribbling water. Good God, the train.

Rumbling, pounding, black dirty toy. Whistling by with the whole gang of 
these evening faces peeking and pouting out the windows. Must find a first 
class compartment. Jesus jammed, the whole damn train. O me, try the third.
Pulling himself up. Pushing his meat onto the rack, squeezing around, 
sitting down.

Across from him the people who lived in the semi-detached houses of 
Glenageary and Sandycove, all buried in the paper reading madly. Why don’t 
some of you look out the window at the nice sights. See the canal and 
gardens and flowers. It’s free, you know. No use getting meself upset by 
the crut. I say there, you, you little pinched bastard, what are you 
staring at. That little man staring at me. Go away, please.

“Chug, chug, chug.

Choo, choo, choo.

Woo, woo, woo.”

We’re away. Mustn’t mind these damn people. Getting me upset. Mustn’t get
upset. Still staring at me. If he keeps it up I swear by Christ I’ll lash 
his head right through that window. Expect rudeness like this in the third 
class.

The girl sitting across from him gave a startled gasp. What is this. Must
be I’ve gotten in a train going to Grangegorman. What’s the matter with 
her. That pinched bastard must be up to something, feeling her thigh. 
Lecher. Perhaps it’s my place to take measures against this sneak. O but 
mind my own business. Things bad enough as they are already. Well look at 
them all. Whole seat is writhing, wriggling. What are they looking at. This
is the end. I look forward to a nice evening of my liver and a walk and 
what’s that girl pressing the book up to her face for. Is she blind. Get a 
pair of glasses you silly bitch. Maybe that bastard is embarrassing her, 
she’s blushing. The damn sexual privation in this city. That’s it. Root of 
it all. Distraction. I need distraction. Read the In Memoriams.

* * *

Donoghue-(Second Anniversary)-In sad and loving memory of our dear 
father, Alex (Rexy) Donoghue, taken away July 25, 1946, late of Fitzwilliam
Square (Butcher’s porter in the Dublin abattoir on whose soul, sweet Jesus,
have mercy.

Masses offered. R.I.P.

Gone forever, the smiling face,

The kindly, cheerful heart

Loved so dearly through the years

Whose memory shall never depart.

* * *

Coming upon his ears like goblets of hot lead.

“I say, I say there. There are women present.”

Absolute silence in the compartment as the little train clicked past the 
Grand Canal and the slovenly back gardens of Ringsend. Sebastian glued to 
the print, paper pressed up to his eyes. Again, like an obscenity uttered 
in church.

“Sir. I say. There are ladies present in the carriage.”

Who would be the first to jump on him. Must let someone else make the 
first move, I’ll grab his legs when trouble starts. O this so worries me. I
hate this kind of thing. Why in the name of the suffering Jesus did I have 
to get into this damn car. Will I ever be delivered. No doubt about it, 
this man was a sexual maniac. Start using obscene language any second. 
There’s just so much I can take. It’s like that old woman saying her rosary
and after every decade screaming out a mouthful of utter, horrible 
foulness. And I can’t bear foulness. Look at them, all behaving as if 
nothing had happened. Better keep my eyes up, he may try to level me with a
surprise blow. That man in the corner with the red nose. He’s laughing, 
holding his stomach. For hell, deliver me. Never again ride third class.

“I say there. Must I repeat. There are ladies present.” Sebastian leveled
his face at him, lips shearing the words from his mouth.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Well, I say, haven’t you forgotten something?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I repeat, there are ladies present. You ought to inspect yourself.”

“Are you addressing me?”

“Yes.”

This conversation is too much. Should have ignored the fool. This is most
embarrassing. I ought to take a clout at that bastard in the corner who 
seems to be enjoying it so much. He’ll enjoy it if I break his jaw for him.
Why don’t they lock these people up in Ireland. The whole city full them. 
If I’m attacked, by God, I’ll sue the corporation for selling this madman a
ticket. Those two girls are very upset. This damn train an express all the 
way to the Rock. My God. Sit and bear it. Control. Absolute and complete 
control at all costs.

“Sir, this is abominable behavior. I must caution you. Frightfully 
serious matter, this. Shocking on a public conveyance. Part of you, sir, is
showing.”

“I beg your pardon, but would you please mind your own business or I’ll 
break your jaw.”

“It is my business to discourage this sort of thing when there are ladies
present. Shameful. There are other people in the car you know.”

No hope. Don’t let him suck me into conversation like that. Must employ 
me brain. We’re coming into the Booterstown. Get out in a minute. Showing? 
Yes. My fingers are out. Holy Catholic Ireland, have to wear gloves. Don’t 
want to be indecent with uncovered fingers. And my face too. This is the 
last time positively that I appear without wearing a mask. There’s a 
breaking point. But I’ll not break not for any of them and certainly not 
for this insane lout.

Avoiding the red, pinched, insistent, maniacal face. Look out the window.
There’s the park and where I first saw my dear Chris to speak to me. O 
deliverance. That laughing monster in the corner, I’ll drag him out of the 
car and belt him from one end of the station to the other. What’s he doing.
Pointing into his lap. Me? Lap? Good Christ. It’s out. Every inch of it.

Leaping for the door. Get out. Fast. Behind him, a voice.

“Haven’t you forgotten something else?”

Wheeling, wrenching the blood-stained parcel from the rack.

Behind him.

“You can’t remember your meat at all today.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Turning the glass around and around, swill, swallow, more. At his elbow 
the parcel of trusty liver, brown and blood. Over the tops of the houses 
across the street, the sun going down. It’s late and Marion will be fit to 
be tied. I’ve tried to reason over this. It’s not a matter of courage or 
grief or what, but I find it impossible to come to grips with that dreadful
embarrassing situation. If only I’d buttoned my fly. If only that.

“My very good man, would you fill me up again.”

“And certainly, Mr. Dangerfield.”

Can I not be spared this misery. I thought I was over things like that. 
Well thank God I didn’t walk through the Rock with it out. I need people to
talk to. I have nobody to talk to. Go back is the only thing for it. Buy a 
head on the way.

He pushed through the broken, green door and wearily flung himself into 
the tattered chair. Marion in the kitchen, staring dumbly at her. Up on the
wall behind her is the gas meter. I would like to point out that the meter 
is green, the penny slot is made of brass, and this meter measures my gas 
for me to cook my pitiful grub. I just can’t stand any more.

Marion quavered at the door.

“I can’t go on, Sebastian.”

Sebastian looking up with interest.

“I really mean it. It’s too much. You’ve been drinking.”

“My dear Marion. I really mean it. It’s too much. You’ve been drinking.”

“I’m going to leave you.”

“You’re going to leave me.”

“I mean that.”

“O you mean it.”

“Yes.”

“Marion. I’m upset. Now do you know what upset means? It means that I’m 
capable of doing anything. I’ll kill you here and now unless I’m given some
peace. I want peace. Now, Marion, you know what I want. Peace, God damn 
it.”

“Don’t shout at me. I’m not afraid of you.”

“You’re afraid of me, Marion. It’s better that way. You’ll keep away from
my hands.”

“You don’t frighten me in the least. O you’re so wretched.”

“My dear Marion, you’re upset. O you’re really upset. Blinking your eyes.
Now you lie down and I’ll get you a little prussic acid to soothe your 
nerves.”

“You’ll regret every bit of this. How dare you say a thing like that? 
Staying out all night drinking, guttering. You’ve come to this house the 
last time drunk. lust how far can you go? How low? Tell me, how low?”

“There was a man from Calcutta, who lived a life in the gutter.”

“My child’s name is ruined. How much you care for her. You were studying 
weren’t you? You even had the gall to take the money I had saved behind the
clock and you sit there with that horrid grin on your face telling me 
you’re going to kill me. Well, try it. That’s all I can say, try it. And 
there is one more thing I would like you to know. I’ve written to your 
father and I’ve told him everything. Every blessed thing you’ve done.”

In the greasy chair, Sebastian, silent, still, his hands tightening on 
the arms. Looking at her and looking at her, a face blank with fear.

Sebastian speaking quietly, slowly.

“You’ve made a big mistake, Marion. A very big mistake.”

“Don’t.”

“A big mistake, Marion. You’re forcing decisions.”

“Don’t for God’s sake go on like this. I can’t bear it.”

“You had absolutely no right. Do you understand me? No right, I say.”

“Stop it.”

“What did you tell him?”

Marion, hands to face, weeping.

“I repeat, what did you tell him? Answer me.”

“You’re horrid. Horrid and hideous.”

“What did you tell him, God damn it?”

“Everything.”

“What?”

“I said everything.”

“What, God damn it, did you tell him?”

“The truth. That we’ve been starving. That the baby has rickets. And 
because you’re drinking every penny we get. And this house too and that you
slapped and punched me when I was pregnant, threw me out of bed and pushed 
me down the stairs. That we’re in debt, owe hundreds of pounds, the whole 
loathsome truth.”

“You shouldn’t have done that, Marion. Do you hear me?”

Marion, her voice pumping out in pauses.

“How can you say that. What do you want me to do? Go on like this 
forever? Until there is no hope. Live on your dreams of becoming a great 
barrister when you never work and cheat on your exams. And you never intend
to work. I know you don’t, and spend your times in the slums. Out all 
night. I hate this house. I hate it all, Ireland, everything in it. Leave 
me to cope with this wretched hole.”

“Shut your damn mouth.”

“I won’t.”

“Shut it.”

“I won’t.”

He slowly reached out and took the shade off the lamp. He placed it on 
his little table.

“Are you going to shut up?”

“No.”

He took the lamp by the neck and smashed it to pieces on the wall.

“Now shut up.”

Marion quiet, wild eyed and tearful, watching the man in the rickety 
chair who held the end of the smashed lamp in his loose pink fingers. 
Sinister man. Staring at her and she couldn’t get her feet to bring her out
of the room, listening to his voice tearing at her.

“You’re rotten. Bloody British blood. Damn stupidity. Hear me? Cry. Cry. 
You’ve done the one thing for which I would kill any man. You’re a scheming
slut. Did you hear what I said? I said you were a scheming slut.”

“Don’t say that to me, please.”

“That letter cost you a great deal of money. Do you hear me? Money. If 
you ever write to my father again I’ll strangle you.”

“O for God’s sake stop it.”

“I’m driven mad. Jesus to come home to this. This on top of every damn 
thing. I want to tear this house down. Everything in it. I’ll smash every 
God damn thing in it. You won’t have a house then. You’ll be in the gutter.
You belong in the gutter. Your God damn vulgar father and your smutty 
mother and that sniveling sneak of a titled uncle. Do you hear what they 
are? Human garbage and rubbish, not fit to be alive.”

“Please, I beg of you to stop it.”

“Get out.”

“Please, Sebastian.”

“Get out God damn it. Do as I say. Get out or I’ll strangle you here and 
now.”

“What’s made you like this?”

“You’ve made me like this. That’s what made me the way I am now. You.”

“I haven’t. You can’t blame me. I’m sorry I wrote your father. I’m sorry 
for it.”

“Get out.”

“Can’t you see I’m sorry. Can’t you see anything?”

“I can’t see a goddamn thing. I’m mad and I’m blind. I’m mad.”

“Please stop it. I beg of you, Sebastian to stop it.” Marion walked half 
across the room towards the man wagging his body in the chair, showing his 
teeth, shaking his fists around his head.

“Stay away. Get away from me. Jesus, what ever made me come to this God 
damn country? I’m finished. I’m finished. Finished. Not a hope. A God damn 
snake can’t live here. Nothing can live here. Every Christ botched thing on
top of me. Every side. Every minute. What are you trying to do to me? 
Finish me forever? Do I actually have to suffer this now? Do I? Will you 
shut up about work, study, work. I’m not going to work. Never. That letter 
cost you thousands. Damn you.”

“Can’t you see, even for a second, that I’m sorry for it? I didn’t mean 
to do it. Can’t you see I’ve been driven to it?”

“Twenty thousand pounds. Jesus.”

“You’ve left me here day after day in this sordidness. No gas, no hot 
water, and the toilet and the roof’s leaking. I’m the one to be angry and 
get upset. But have I?”

“Mother of Christ, all right. I don’t want to hear it. Just stop that 
right now. I don’t want to hear it. You’ve disinherited me.”

“It won’t be for years and years.”

“Shut up, I know when it will be.”

“It will. You’ll wait for years.”

“So what. You’re alive. You’re not dead. You’re not sick. Can’t you wait 
a year?”

“I’m not well either. We may be dead by then. And Felicity. She’s yours 
too. Think of her.”

“I just don’t want any more of this. Take it all away. Take it away. I’m 
so damn fed up that I swear to Christ I’ll just demolish this whole house. 
Poke the windows out. I’ll beat it to the ground. Out of my way. Where’s my
damn head. Where is it?”

“It’s on the floor there.”

“I want no more. Just nothing. Nothing. O Jesus. Honestly, I need 
distraction. I can’t do with this any longer. Just forget it and leave me 
in peace for tonight because if I don’t get peace-that’s all.”

“The pot’s under the table.”

“Thanks.”

“There are two onions and a carrot if you want to put them in.”

“Thanks.”

“I put five pence in the gas.”

“O.K.”

“I’ll help if you like.”

“It’s O.K… Is there any of my garlic left?”

“I saw a clove in the table drawer.”

Marion standing holding her hands. Intense, despaired. She moves around 
and goes to the chair, puts her hands on the arms and looks out the window 
with the sky darkening with clouds and rain drops hitting the panes. Sound 
of him juggling pots in the kitchen. Knife striking the table top and the 
head drowning in the water. I see so many old vegetables, wrinkled and dry 
at the bottom of so many drawers. A little peace. Just a little. I would 
like very much to have a few days in the country, watching the cows sucking
up the grass.

“I’m going out a minute, Marion. Anything you want? Don’t cry. For 
heaven’s sake, don’t cry. What are you crying for? Please. I’ll be back in 
a minute, now don’t cry. You don’t want anything?”

“No.”

God rest ye merry gentlemen. It’s just a matter of time. Raining again. 
And cold now. One more pint. I’d like to have something to soothe my 
nerves. I ought to be a chemist-nervebalm, new product of Dangerfield, 
largest dispensing chemists in the world. Big signs all over Ireland. 
Nervebalm. Undignified. Keep the dignity and to hell with the money.

He moved swiftly down the street. And stands at the bar drinking down a 
foaming pint of porter. Orders another and goes with it to sit by the fire.
Crossing his legs, studying the hole in a heel. Sole of the feet warming 
deliciously and the brown gargle as they say was putting the mind afloat. 
Poor Marion. Not such a bad person. But what fantastic notion put that into
her head. Was there any love left. I think that the best thing I can do 
under the circumstances is to just lie low until it blows over. O the 
weapons by which we the tender hearted, live. The father will be upon me.

But now I’ll get back to that sheep’s head. Eyes. I love the eyes. I’ll 
give a clear soup to Marion. She ought to darn my socks and clean my 
shirts. Things could be different. Must control myself hereafter. Might 
break a blood vessel in my brain and die wiggling. Everybody wants it both 
ways. Money and love. Get it one way, and I’m just completely screwed. Two 
ounces of butter. Pushing in the door of a tiny shop.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening.”

“Fine evening. Looks as if it will hold.”

“Yes.”

“Blow over. Best you can expect.”

“Best you can expect.”

“Could you give me two ounces of butter?”

“Two ounces did you say, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t know. We sell butter usually by the weight-half pound or a
pound.”

“Do you sell quarter pounds?”

“Well, I think so.”

“Could you give me half a quarter pound?”

“Yes.”

“Half a quarter pound then.”

Sebastian watching him. O you sly gombeen man. The backs of these stores,
must sordid places in the world. In there with his big-busted wife, two 
barrels banging. You stupid, intolerable oaf.

Man handing him the little package, carefully tied, with a loop for his 
finger.

Out into the air. A contrast. Bit of turf smell. Things not so bad. Wait 
and see what happens. Have to take what comes. Good with the bad. Lot in 
these old sayings. How one can tell lies in times of stress. My God, it’s 
absolutely awful. Be made for the world. But the world was made for me. 
Here long before I arrived and they spent years getting it ready. Something
got mixed up about my assets.

He shoved the green door in with his toe and kicked it closed with his 
heel. Marion sitting in the chair. I won’t ask her to get out of it this 
evening. Suffer a little discomfort for the sake of peace. Have her 
terrified and keep her that way. Makes her very quiet. O I smell it. O me. 
Am I a cook. Wee. Make O’Keefe swoon with envy. Must write him. Have a 
flair for cooking. I have, I have. Now a nice bowl of clear for Marion. Put
a little of the butter to be floating majestically around in it, bit of 
richness. Be calm, use Nervebalm.

“Marion.”

She looks up, hesitant. Reaches out her two hands and clasps the white 
bowl. The glass has been cleaned up, pieces of my anger.

“Thank you.”

“Here’s bread and a bit of butter.”

“Thanks.”

“Taste it.”

“Good. Thanks.”

“Enough salt? Don’t cry anymore now. It’s all right. It’s just that this 
evening I came home on the train with my penis out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Forgot to button my fly.”

“And did people see you?”

“Yes.”

“O no.”

“O yes. Must exasperating thing that ever happened in my life. It was out
from Dublin to the Rock.”

“You poor darling. I’m sorry for everything.”

Life’s much better that way. Patch things up. Renewed sense of security. 
If we could get out of this house. Skully has us by the balls. The lease is
a noose. O’Keefe was right, never pay rent. Cramped between these damp 
walls. The child gets me right in the ear. Must find a bigger house. Just 
get the hell out of here. Explain to the father. But it’s impossible to 
undo the damage with a new set of lies.

Filling the bowl. Spooning out the eyes, sliding them into the mouth. Wag
them around. Sit down and rest. This is very nice.

“Where are you going, Sebastian?”

“Just thought of something. Need a little fire for cheer.” Out in the 
hall a second. Back and has it in the center of the floor a raised foot 
goes crash, splintered and cracked. One genuine antique, Louis the cat 
torts.

“O Sebastian, you mustn’t.”

“O I think so, for the fire that’s in it. My Dear Egbert, you see, we 
were at the cinema, having left our dear child with an aunt and a rogue or 
rogues. Front door’s broken. His responsibility. A little matter of theft 
in this great Catholic country.”

“He won’t believe it.”

“He has no alternative. If he accuses me of anything, I’ll have him know 
I’m being slandered. Student of the law you know. Must have him understand 
that I know the law.” Sebastian stood on the couch, lifts his foot again 
over the chair, crashing through the center.

“Now that’s a case of engineering. Puts a general weakness in the 
structure.”

He turned the chair upside down and broke the legs off one by one.

“A little paper in the grate, Marion. I’ll be back in a second.”

He walked out of the house, a small bag with him. Marion put the pieces 
of chair on the fire. Sebastian back, opening his little bag proudly, 
bearing forth seven lumps of coal.

“Sebastian, what in the name of God have you done? Where did you get that
coal?”

“Now, now, never question these good things.”

“But it’s really stealing.”

“Theft is only in the heart.”

“O dear.”

“Marion, Land of hope and glory, mother of the free.”

“You’re nice like this.”

Sitting in the little room, doors shut and window too.

Glow, coal and merits of marriage. Full of sheep’s eyes.

Juice of the skull. I take up my pen.

* * *

My dear Kenneth, There is a word for it all; funt. Now if you say this 
word upon rising in the morning and before each meal, you will see things 
change. To get the best out of it one must place one’s incisors on the lips
and exhale till there is a hissing noise and then the word. It is also good
for fertility. And I may add that I am a great believer in fertility. 
Things here are a little desperate. There are items like rent. You see, a 
man gives you a key and you go into this house and start to carry on your 
life and at the end of the week you give this man three slips of paper with
redeemable in London written on them and the man lets you stay where you 
are. If you don’t give this man these little pieces of paper you find that 
he is outside the window watching you scratch your balls and as you may 
well realize, to have impersonal eyes upon you while dealing with 
testicular itch is a most awkward state of affairs. So I look to you, Holy 
Duke, to allow me to stay on payment of ten desperate papers redeemable in 
London. By the way, London is a very fine city, largest in the world. There
is something in the back of my head which makes me think I will be there 
one of these days.

About this boy. A most shocking state of affairs. It is not, my dear 
Kenneth, that I am prude. Far from it. But really, do you think it wise to 
give up the joys of the heterosexual world without first considering all 
its possibilities. Grant you, there is no question but that it can be 
trying and even devastating to endure the celibacy but once you have 
achieved success, presto, little O’Keefes, just like you. But if you have 
despaired, if you have the heteroghost, then there is nothing for it but to
give yourself with abandon. But with this boy. Let him get to know you 
better. Show your interest in others. Unfortunately, it is difficult for me
to advise you in these matters and I can only depend upon knowledge, which 
at best, is merely general. But it will take time, Kenneth, time, for all 
these things we want so much. We must be prepared to wait for them. But 
they will come, on one bright and sunny morning. About ejaculatio praecox; 
this will right itself in time with practice. I assume that your present 
method of fulfillment is by hand. I therefore suggest to you that you take 
things easier. It is a matter of degrees, degrees of misery, perhaps, but 
do you know that I find the tougher things get, I become more immune, must 
be the development of a natural defense, you know the sort of business, to 
every action an equal and opposite reaction. I should suppose that these 
things are so.

I haven’t seen anyone since you left, indeed for several months, because 
I must keep off the main streets but my courage is developing and I feel 
that I may see a day or two of the good life with some of these people I 
have not seen for some time. Dublin is a curious city. It is a city which 
is full of the good things but somehow one is too busy thinking about 
things like bread and tea, peace and a place to sleep where the rain 
dripping in does not give one the dream of the Titanic. I spend a lot of my
time walking along the canal and having coffee, when I can afford, in 
Jury’s. When you come back to the ould sod I will be very happy to take you
there. One sits under palm trees, with legs crossed and one talks and comes
to all sorts of conclusions some of which are valuable, others merely 
interesting. But we expect all these things. They are still taking them out
to the Grange every morning. I find it most stimulating but much more so 
since I have bought myself a second hand bicycle and have painted it black 
and put a little black flag on the handle bars and I take up the rear of 
all funerals going to the Grange. I have found that some people laugh at me
for doing this and think that perhaps this man is a little mad but I say o 
aye and go on about my little tortured business. I have discovered one of 
the great ailments of Ireland, 67% of the population have never been 
completely naked in their lives. Now don’t you, as a man of broad classical
experience, find this a little strange and perhaps even a bit unhygienic. I
think it is certainly both of these things. I am bound to say that this 
must cause a great deal of the passive agony one sees in the streets. There
are other things wrong with this country but I must leave them wait for 
they are just developing in my mind. But you must try not to take your 
problem too seriously. You see, sex is something that we have to make new 
and better babas. If you can make a baba then you are all right. I feel 
that it is a selfish world that wants this cheap thrill that one comes by 
in making a baba. Forget it.

Tonight I am nestled up in my little drawing room. I have had a hard day 
of it. Some say that it will always be this hard for me but they are mostly
bastards. I committed an act of indecency on the train out to the Rock, 
about which I will tell you when you are back in the ould sod. There are 
some other things too, also left to tell you when you come. I take it you 
are a little desperate and would like to get back to the ould country. Why 
not come back? You should be able to find something to do here without much
trouble, especially speaking French. I’ll be very happy to put you up here 
and feed you with what we have and in closing my dear Kenneth I hope you 
will find use for this, below, in one of your operas. Perhaps a little 
chorus after each act.

Down in Dingle

Where the men are single

Pigwidgeon in the closet

Banshee in the bed

An antichrist is suffering

While the Gombeen man’s dead.

Down in Dingle.

Your friend,

S. D.

* * *

CHAPTER TWELVE

Raining outside. Cold morning. Felicity in her pram in the kitchen, 
wiggling a toothbrush in a jam jar. Marion standing against the mantelpiece
in front of the black empty grate. Wearing slippers, wrapped in a blanket, 
her shanks showing. Just finished reading the letter, folding it carefully 
and slipping it back into its envelope.

I could tell there was trouble. I came down the stairs with my usual 
innocence and pain right smack into her silence which is the sign that she 
has a weapon. She stood there as if she were watching the groom saddle her 
horse. There was a smear of lipstick at the corner of her mouth, gave her a
twisted smile. I thought for a second she was an Inca. She was quite polite
when I asked her who the letter was from. She said simply, from your 
father.

“I’ll get my glasses.”

“I’m afraid the letter is addressed to me.”

“What do you mean, you’re afraid?”

“Just that. You’re not going to read it.”

“Now just a minute, that letter is from my father and I intend to know 
what’s in it.”

“And I intend you shan’t.”

“Don’t get snotty.”

“I’ll be as snotty as I want. I no longer have to tolerate your 
nastiness.”

“What’s this mumbo jumbo. Don’t act as if you have a secret file on me.”

“I assure you it’s not mumbo jumbo. I’m leaving this house.”

“Now look, Marion, I don’t feel well. I’m not up to farting about at this
godforsaken hour of the morning. Now just what the hell do you mean you’re 
leaving this house?”

“Leaving this house.”

“There’s a lease.”

“I know there’s a lease.”

“For three years.”

“I know it’s for three years.”

Marion’s eyebrows raised. She kept reaching over her shoulder, pulling 
the blanket up. Sebastian stood in the doorway wearing a pair of purple 
pajamas, bright red slippers and a gray turtle necked sweater, its yarn 
unraveling, the string suspended behind him and disappearing up the stairs.

“Ah for Jesus sake, now let’s not get started. I only want to know what 
you’re talking about. You know, just for the sake of making things clear, 
I’ll never get this damned exam if I have to face more misunderstanding. 
Now what is it? Has my father made you an offer of money or something?”

“You’re not reading the letter.”

“All right. I’m not reading the letter. Now tell me, what the hell is 
this all about?”

“Your father is on my side.”

“Look Marion, all right. Now we know that you have everything your way. I
know the drivel in that letter. Probably sent you a check.”

“As a matter of fact, he did.”

“Told you that I’ve always been a bastard.”

“Quite.”

“Expelled from schools.”

“Yes.”

“All right. What are you going to do?”

“Move from here, instantly.”

“Where?”

“I’m going to see an agent this morning.”

“What about the lease?”

“That’s your doing.”

“You stupid bitch.”

“Go right ahead. Say anything you want. It matters nothing to me. By the 
way, you’ve left half my sweater on the stairs.”

“Now, Marion, let’s understand each other. I don’t feel that this 
fighting is going to get us anywhere.”

“It’s certainly not going to get you anywhere.”

“Now look, how much is the check.”

“That’s my business.”

“I’ve got to get my typewriter out of the pawn. I must have it for my 
notes.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.”

Marion’s mocking head back, disdainfully shutting eyes. The blue vein, 
handsome and large on the blonde throat. Pink slip and her shanks shifting 
the slippers, grinding the coal dust on the floor.

“Supposing I admit to a few indiscretions.”

“Indiscretions? That really is amusing you know.”

“Now that we have a chance to start over again.”

“We do, do we? O we. It’s we now.”

“I’m thinking about the lease.”

“You signed it.”

Sebastian turned and went quietly up the stairs. Tip toe, tip toe. 
Dragging the wool string behind. Into the bedroom. Dropping the purples, 
pulling on the trousers. Tied a knot in the sweater. Put his sockless feet 
into shoes. A jacket for the respect that was in it. And my dear pair of 
golfing shoes. Pity, but must to the pawn. Ten and six for sure. Now my 
dear Marion, I’ll give you a little something to think about.

In the toilet, Sebastian forced a board up from the floor. He hammered a 
nail through the lead pipe with the heel of his golfing shoe. He went 
quietly down the stairs. Marion saw him pass out the hall. The door 
squeaked shut.

I’ll say one thing. She’s not going to pull this stuff much longer. This 
is final. If she wants it this way, this way it shall be.

In this bitterness and hazy hatred. No cozy road to the swelled udders. 
This is at the midnight of everything. Because when I was living in America
I had a lot of good things. I never had to think about hot water. I went to
my club where it was running rampant. Stand under a shower and let it beat 
the head. Soothed me. Ease and comfort and quiet is all I want. And on this
damn tram I’m riding into the face of debt and other things as well. I’m a 
college student standing on the chapel steps with the white paper which 
says I know the law of Contract and can be paid starvation wages for a 
year. My certificate that I won’t steal from the open till but I’m a 
gentleman and I’ll close the till after rifling it.

Four o’clock on this oblong Tuesday. Sebastian pushing through the door 
of a secret public house, moved cautiously to an empty space at the bar. 
Bartender suspiciously approaching him.

“I want a triple Irish, Gold Label. Quickly please.”

“Sir, I’m afraid I can’t serve you.”

“You what?”

“Can’t serve you, sir, rules of the house, you’ve had enough to drink.”

“I’ve had enough to drink? What on earth do you mean?”

“I think, sir, you’ve had sufficient unto your needs now.

I think you’ve had enough now.”

“This is contemptible.”

“Peacefully sir, now. Keep the peace. When you’re sober sir, now, be very
glad to serve you. Little sleep. You’ll be fine.”

“Frightful outrage. Are you sure you’re not drunk yourself?”

“Now sir, a place and time for everything.”

“Well for Jesus sake.”

Sebastian turned from the bar pushed out through the door and along the 
street. In dazed condition. Along the pavement by shop windows with pens 
and pencils and stone steps to Georgian doors and black spokes of fences 
and by a tea shop with gray women clustered at the tables. So I’m drunk. 
Strangled Christ. Drunk. Nothing to do but suffer this insult as I have 
suffered so many others. It will die away in a few years, no worry about 
that. I’m going on a tram ride. Dalkey. That nice little town out there on 
the rocks with pretty castles and everything. A place where I will move 
when the quids are upon me. I hate this country. I think I hate this 
country more than anything else I know. Drunk. That son of a bitch, take 
him up by the ears from behind that bar and beat him against the ceiling. 
But must forget the whole thing. I’m at the bottom of the pile. Admit that 
I’m in such a state that I can barely think. But I won’t be insulted. 
Incredible outrage.

He passed in front of the Kildare Street Club, crossed over the street 
and waited for the tram, leaning against the railings of Trinity College.

Isn’t that a beautiful place. In spite of all rejections and refusals. 
But I remember a pitiful time in there, too. During the first week in the 
dining hall. Autumn’s October and I was so very chilly that year because 
the weather was bad. But it was nice to get in there because there is a 
thick pipe that goes all around the walls and it is filled with hot water. 
And it’s such a big room, with enormous portraits high up on the wall which
kept me well in the center in case one fell on my head, But it is such a 
very pleasant experience to go into this dining hall on a Dublin cold day 
and say, how do, to the lovely woman at the door taking gowns and move 
along in the academic line with a tin tray. On magic days with half crown, 
it is so delicious to take a Chelsea bun and a little white dish. Further 
along the line on the top tables there are nice little balls of butter. All
balls are bells. Then there is the woman with the white hair who serves out
the potatoes. How are you now? And on these days with that ever ready half 
crown I’d get a rabbit pie from the delightful lady with the red hair who 
got younger every day and then say, ever so quietly, because these were 
magic words-and some sprouts too, please. Not the last. No. Further along 
the line. Trays covered with trifle. Had to get there early to get the 
trifle because it was so good that it was gone fast. Next table, a jug of 
sugar because I was going to get some cream to put on a banana, all slices 
and mixed in the cup and then at last to the cash desk. My tragic two and 
six. And this day I was so very hungry. I went through the line gathering 
all the food, arranging it with care. And my head was hard and thick from 
thinking and tired eyes. My tray skidded from my fingers and fell on the 
floor. My orange jelly mixed with broken glass on this day when I bought a 
glass of milk to have with my Chelsea bun. They told me I was clumsy and 
asked why did I do it. And at times in my heart there is a music that plays
for me. Tuneless threnody. They called me names. I was so afraid of them. 
And they could never look inside me and see a whole world of tenderness or 
leave me alone because I was so sad and suffering. Why did you do it. And 
hearts. And why was love so round.

Tram swaying down the flat street. Squealing and stopping. Sitting all 
the way and dreaming. Even passing 1 Mohammed. Perhaps I was a bastard to 
lay foul the pipes again. Make her know she needs me. And I need that 
money. Out in Dalkey I’ll be all alone. No fear of meeting anyone.

He arrived in the main street. Twisted with people. Into a public house. 
Two lovely, laughing girls behind the bar.

“Good day, sir.”

“Double Gold Label, please.”

She reached under the bar. Always hiding the stuff. Damn girl with her 
gold, cheap bracelets, earrings, damn pair of gold tits, squirting out 
money.

“And twenty Woodbines.”

Under the bar again. Out with them smiling and wagging her eyes. Rows of 
bottles of wine and minerals and port and sherry there for years. As 
decorations for drinking stout. A lot of rich people live out here in 
Dalkey. Big houses on the sea. I like it. And take a walk along the Vico 
Road and see across Killiney Bay to Bray. A change of scene is good for a 
change of mind. And the mortification of being treated like a drunkard is 
dreadful for me as stark and stone sober as I am.

“I wonder could I have a pint of porter, please.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Lot of work pumping that out. I like this pretty girl. I have a passion 
for her. I know I have passion. Through that window the yellow sun is 
coming in. Those men down there are talking about me. I don’t get along 
with men.

“And another small one.”

“Gold Label?”

“Please.”

I was a curious little boy. Sent to the proper places. And went to most 
improper ones. Secret and sinful and I even worked once. I think it is 
quite a common thing, start at the bottom. He, ha, haw, eke. But when you 
have so many problems it’s not easy to be distracted into the past. I was a
spoiled child I should suppose. Quickly given to lies. And gross falsehoods
to teachers, mostly out of fear I guess. But What would I have done without
the odd lie these days. I remember a teacher telling me I pouted and was 
ugly. Which wasn’t true. I was an extremely handsome, curious child. 
Teachers are insensitive to true beauty.

“What’s your name?”

“Gertrude.”

“May I call you Gertrude?”

“Yes.”

“Gertrude, will you give me another Gold Label and a pint of porter?”

“Yes.”

I went to a proper preparatory school, preparing for college. I never 
felt that these schools were good enough for me. I was aloof. Never seeking
friends. But my silence was noticed by the teachers and they thought that I
was a shifty article and once I heard them telling very rich boys to stay 
away from me because I wasn’t a good influence. Then I got older and 
bolder. A wanton girl who had pock marks on her face and stubs of hair all 
up her legs when I thought girls’ legs were always nice and smooth, took me
into the city from the suburbs where I lived and we drank in bars. When she
felt all pally and possessive and sensing my reserve and fright she said 
that I ought not to wear a striped tie with a striped shirt and I kept 
saying to myself, hiding the hurt, that I just put on the shirt quickly and
the tie in a rush. And when we went home together on the subway train she 
slept with her head on my shoulder. I felt embarrassed because she looked 
old and tough. A girl who ran away, was expelled from schools and smoked 
when she was twelve. And me, I was always somehow getting to know these 
girls, not out of sex or sin, but because their souls were fetched up out 
of them by dismal sodas and dances and they would see me with my big, 
shrewdless eyes and come and invite me to sneak a cigarette or drink.

“Gertrude, you’re very good behind the bar. I want a really big lash of 
Gold Label.”

Gertrude smiled at Kathleen.

I was nineteen and older and in a sailor suit and back in Virginia and 
Norfolk. On leave I would go to the libraries because in behind the stacks 
I could escape. Sunny days meant nothing to me. And I made a trip to 
Baltimore. Into a strange boarding house on a dry cold New Year’s Eve. The 
wind blowing. My room had no windows. Just an open transom. All the time I 
was in that part of America I felt the closeness of the Great Dismal Swamp 
and broken boards and peeling signs and road houses isolated with greed and
silence, drink and snakes. I walked about the city, lost and trying to get 
it. Put it in one spot and look at it and stand there with all Baltimore 
around me where I could pick it up in my hand and take it away. But move on
and up and down and around each street and find it blank and unimportant 
without the rest. I went into a bar, crowded and dark, tripping over 
people’s legs. Voices, sighs and laughs and lies and lips and teeth and 
whites of eyes. Secrets of shaved armpits and the thin, small hair on 
women’s upper lips showing through tan powders. All these breasts slung in 
rayon cradles. I pushed through elbows to the bar and sat on a red and 
chromium stool. Sitting beside me, a girl in a black, ungainly dress. Down 
on her leg I saw net stockings. Curious girl with large brown eyes in her 
round face of rough skin and thin lips. Here in Baltimore. Sitting, 
searching at a bar. There was a dreadful fight. And the abuse. Cheapskate, 
tough and wise. And bastard. There are babes present, buddy. I’d like to 
see you do it, who’s pushing who, come outside, say, watch your language, 
no cheap son of a bitch, hit him for Christ’s sake, hit him. In the middle 
of all this tiresome behavior she turned to me and said hello, smiled 
slightly, weakly and said you look so much more peaceful. I asked her to 
have a drink and she said yes, but she didn’t need a dozen drinks to have a
good time, or drink all evening because I’m here because I wanted to do 
something different, and really, you don’t mind me picking you up. Her 
black hair combed straight down around her head and I listened to her 
talking in her rich, pleasant and kindly voice. I just walked in here alone
and now I’m talking to a sailor-yes, I’d like to share a bottle of 
champagne with you, I would like it-I’ve never had it before-is it nice? 
And why did you come in here? I hope you’ll forgive my conduct, but I’m 
just curious. She was a girl who was soft and clean. And she said am I 
being presumptuous and forward. I don’t intend to be-I’m just a little 
groggy, I bought myself three whiskies. I’ve been promising myself to just 
someday walk into a bar by myself and sit up and drink with other people, 
but it took New Year’s Eve to make me do it-no one is being themselves on 
New Year’s are they? Or don’t you care? I told her she was very likeable. 
And saw her eyes light. Is that why you’re buying a bottle of champagne, 
because I’m likeable? I hope you are. I feel rather good-giggly and silly 
and you’re quiet and reserved, aren’t you? And I’m just sitting here 
talking to you, an utter stranger and just going on and on-well I’ll tell 
you about me. I’m at college and I don’t really like it because I don’t 
have any time to enjoy it because I have to work and I don’t get dated, 
never been to a nightclub-I’m curious, naturally, but it’s contrary to 
everything I believe, I mean the frivolous, sophisticated life of society 
people. I don’t hold that sort of thing important-and I’ll tell you the 
truth-that really I came in here because I didn’t have a date on this night
of nights and I told myself that anyway I would buy myself a drink and if 
anyone talked to me I would talk to them but I talked to you first because 
you looked as if I could talk to you and you would be nice and you’re alone
too, aren’t you? And I’m not a brave girl so much as a frustrated one. I’ve
just walked into a bar, and I was frightened to death that the barman would
tell me that women without escorts couldn’t come in. Now that I’m here it 
all seemed so very simple and easy and I’m glad I did. And I’m beginning to
see that that is the way to do a lot of things in life-just to go ahead and
do them. I saw you coming in and I just thought to myself that you looked 
rather nice and then you were next to me and I just felt like talking to 
you-so I did-and now where are we? She told me she had only one request to 
make-that she didn’t want me to know her name because she might regret 
everything, and not to spend so much money on her, a stranger, that they 
would probably never see each other again, anyway. She was warm. I pressed 
my nose through her straight black hair and my lips behind her ear, 
whispering I liked her and please stay with me. She put her face in front 
of mine and said distinctly, if that means you want to go to bed with me or
if you want me to come to bed with you, I’ll be blunt, I will. Whole 
hearted. Blunt. And I’m not trying to be whorish. But I suppose I am. Am I?
Or what. What do you expect of a girl like me? And I don’t suppose after 
that remark you would believe I don’t have any idea of how to go to bed 
with a man. But where and how and when? There’s a whole lot to it, isn’t 
there?

Sebastian stood up, taking his glass to this bar in Dalkey, waiting 
behind the figures.

“A double Gold Label.”

Returning to his seat. Sitting slowly and putting out his legs, crossing 
his knees, shaking his foot and placing his glass within the circle 
movement of his arm. The public house was filling with the seven o’clock 
after work after dinner faces.

I brought her to a room in a large, prominent hotel in Baltimore and we 
passed by the mobbed streets and a girl dancing on top of a taxi, sailors 
and soldiers clutching at her ankles. Pulling at her clothes until they 
were ripping them from her body. Hands taking her apart. In the room she 
said she was a little frightened. We had more champagne. On one twin bed I 
sat down, excited. I talked to her. Twister that I was. Heart of hoax. 
Bluffing my way into her hands. Carrying her down beside me. Heard her in 
my ear. I’m frightened. I’m scared. Don’t force me to do anything, will 
you? But I think you’re kind. And I’m just a little blase, and not caring, 
but I worry very much what’s going to happen to me, really. But after a 
while you get to hate everyone and everybody and you get very bitter inside
because you haven’t money and clothes and wealthy boyfriends asking you out
to smart places and even though you know that really all of it is false, it
somehow manages to seep in and you find yourself resenting the fact that 
all you have is a good brain and you’re smarter than they are but would 
like to wear false breasts because your own are flat but you feel it’s such
a horrid lie and yet they do it and get away with it and then in the end 
you’re faced with the blunt truth that they will get married and you won’t 
and that they are going to hate their marriages but then they will have tea
parties and cocktails and bridge while their husbands are sleeping with 
other men. She was a girl gone away. And I put my finger in her sad, tight,
little hole, feeling lost and crying and wandering in rain and trees, a 
world too big, and lost and her dark head was so dark and her eyes shut.

He brought his glass back to the bar, and walked out. Get on the tram. On
to the tram because we are all going to East Geenga. I’m a man for getting 
off at the end of the line. I’ve had more than I can bear. Take me on the 
ship, away. To Florida. I drove my big car right through The Everglades. A 
little wet and soggy. I used to walk around Fort Lauderdale drunk and 
diving in the canals at night killing alligators. And drive along Miami 
Beach steering with my toes. What do you want me to do. Stay on this dreary
stage of church-bound hopelessness? This country is foreign to me. I want 
to go back to Baltimore. I’ve never had a chance to see everything, or ride
the trains, or see all the little towns. Pick up girls in amusement parks. 
Or smell them with the peanuts in Suffolk, Virginia. I want to go back.

Quick feet up the street. Seeing nothing on either side. No houses or 
stairs or iron spokes of fences. Half running, tripping, pounding, pulling 
the air aside.

Slow down. Nonchalant, and careful too, while going in, possessed with 
reserve and other things as well and we will see about this.

The bar was filled with old men. Spitting secrets in each other’s ears. 
Smoke coming over the top of all the snugs. Faces turning as Dangerfield 
comes in. The sound of corks ripped pop. Ends of bottles bang on the bar. 
Seaweedy foam rising in the wet glasses. Rudeness must be dealt with. 
Swiftly. Put them down, I say, not up, down and don’t spare the clubs.

Sebastian stepped to the bar, stood dignified and quiet. Bartender 
removing bottles. Comes along up to him. His eyes meeting the red ones and 
he nods his head to this tall customer.

“Yes?”

“A double Gold Label.”

Bartender turns a few steps and back with the bottle, tense and pouring.

“Water?”

“Soda.”

Bartender goes, gets the soda bottle. Squirt, squirt. A blast coming out 
of it. Whoops. The whiskey shot Up the sides of the glass, splashing on the
bar.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Yes.”

“It’s a new bottle.”

“Quite.”

Bartender puts away the bottle and comes back for the money. Stands 
embarrassed in front of Dangerfield. Licking his lips, ready to speak, but 
waits, says nothing. Dangerfield looking at him. The old men sensing 
disaster, turning on their stools to watch. “Two shillings.”

“I was in this public house this afternoon about four o’clock. Do you 
remember?”

“I do.”

“And you refused to serve me.”

“Yes.”

“On the grounds that I was drunk. Is that correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“Do you think I am drunk now?”

“That’s not for me to decide.”

“You decided that this afternoon. I repeat. Do you think I am drunk now?”

“I want no trouble.”

“Half my whiskey is on the bar.”

“No trouble now.”

“Would you mind bringing me the bottle to replace the amount splashed in 
my face.”

Bartender in his white shirt and sleeves rolled up brings back the 
bottle. Sebastian taking out the cork and filling his glass to the brim.

“You can’t do that. We don’t have much of that.”

“I repeat. Do you think I’m drunk now.”

“Now peacefully, no trouble, no trouble, we don’t want any trouble here. 
No, I don’t think you’re drunk. Not drunk. Little excited. No.”

“I’m a sensitive person. I hate abuse. Let them all here.”

“Quietly now, peace.”

“Shut up while I’m talking.”

All the figures spinning about on their stools and flat feet. “No trouble
now, no trouble.”

“Shut up. Am I drunk? Am I drunk?”

“No.”

“Why you Celtic lout. I am. I’m drunk. Hear me, I’m drunk and I’m going 
to level this kip, level it to the ground, and anyone who doesn’t want his 
neck broken get out.”

The whiskey bottle whistled past the bartender’s head, splattering in a 
mass of glass and gin. Dangerfield drank off the whiskey in a gulp and a 
man up behind him with a stout bottle which he broke on Dangerfield’s head,
stout dripping over his ears and down his face, reflectively licking it 
from around his mouth. The man in horror ran from the building. The 
bartender went down the trap door in the floor. Sebastian over the bar 
standing on it. Selecting a bottle of brandy for further reference. Three 
brave figures at the door peering in upon the chaos and saying stop him, as
this Danger made for the door and one man’s hand reached out to grab him 
and it was quickly twisted till the fingers broke with his squeal of agony 
and the other two lay back to attack from behind and he jumped phoof on 
Dangerfield’s shoulders and was flipped neatly on his arse five paces down 
the street. The rest had gone to doorways or posing that they were just out
walking their dogs.

Dangerfield was running like a madman down the middle of the road with 
the cry get the guards pushing him faster. Into a laneway, bottle stuffed 
under his arm. More yells as they caught sight as he went round and down 
another street. Must for the love of God get hidden. Up these steps and got
to get through this door somehow and out of sight quick.

Heart pounding, leaning on the wall for breath. A bicycle against the 
wall. Dark and racy for sure. Hope. Wait till they are by the house. Feet. 
I hear the heavy heels of a peeler. Pray for me. If they get me I’ll be 
disgraced. Must avoid capture for the sake of the undesirable publicity it 
will produce. Or they may take clubs to me. Suffering shit.

The door opens slowly. Light shining in through the dark. Dangerfield 
moves cautiously behind the door as it widens against him. A small head 
peers in, hesitates. I must be upon him for the sake of safety. Sebastian 
drove his shoulder against the door pulling the figure in by the neck.

“If you so much as breathe I’ll belt you to death.”

“No. Jesus, Mary and Joseph I won’t make a peep.”

“Shut up. Give me that hat. And the coat.”

“O none of that, I’m a man of God. You don’t know where to stop.”

“I’ll stop you living if you don’t shut up and give me that coat.”

“Yes sir. Anything you want sir, anything, but don’t harm an old man, 
sir. I’m a cripple from birth, sir and I’ll help ye get away. All I can.”

“Get up the stairs.”

“What are ye going to do with me at all. I’ve got a Friday to go out of 
the nine first Fridays.”

“You won’t have a minute to go if you don’t get up the stairs. Up to the 
top and stay there. If you utter a sound I’ll come back and disembowel 
you.”

The little blue-eyed man stepped backwards up the stairs, stopping at the
first landing and ran tripping up the rest. Sebastian getting into the 
coat. Shoulders get in, sleeves at the elbows. He bends over to pick up the
brandy. The coat parts down the back. Peers out the door. No one in sight. 
Take all care, proceed with caution. How did I ever get into this frightful
mess. How fantastically undesirable.

Down the three granite steps. Which way? From around the corner, a blue 
uniform and helmet. God’s unmerciful teeth. The Guard stops, looks, starts 
forward up the street. Dangerfield setting his vehicle firmly in the 
gutter, straddling it, pushes off pumping fearfully followed by the voice 
of the little man out of the top window of the building.

“That’s him all right. He’s got me coat and hat. That’s him.”

The bikes moves off speedily up the narrow road and around the corner 
into a screaming of horns and the bottle slides, bangs his knee and breaks 
with a wet pop on the street. Policeman in the middle of the road directing
traffic. Putting his hand up to stop. Couldn’t know it was me. Can’t take 
the chance, onward you crazy Christian soldier, peddling off to doom.

“Hey you, stop there. Stop there you. You hear me, stop. Hey.”

Helter skelter for St. Stephen’s Green. Bike wiggling on the cobbles, 
skidding on the tram tracks. Dangerfield bent double over the handlebars. 
Licking his lips. Eyes wet with the wind, blinking and blind. They’ll have 
the patrol car, if they have one, after me or maybe motor bikes or the 
whole force on roller skates. Traffic lights ahead. Whoa. Red for stop.

The bike making a wide arc in front of the oncoming traffic. More horns 
and screech of brakes. And on down the street aswarm with children until 
one small boy dodging right and left in front of the wiggling machine found
himself beneath the panting Dangerfield.

“Are you hurt?”

“No I’m not.”

“Are you sure?”

“No I’m not hurt.”

“I’m very sorry, little boy. Must rush. Here, you can have this damn bike
as a present, before I get killed on it.”

The child left standing in the middle of the street, staring after the 
man who took off his hat and flung it behind the railings and bundled up 
his coat which followed it, opening, fluttering down.

Through this Cuffe Street. Up Aungier. Flat out. I’ll keep up the pace. 
Get down this alley here and get through all these backyards. Walking 
between the white walls and piss smells. Don’t want to be trapped either.

Dangerfield walked swiftly through the labyrinth of lanes into a little 
square with a lamp standard and more children. Stepped into a doorway and 
waited. No one behind. A little girl dragging a boy by the hair in the 
gutter. Kid screaming and kicking his legs. Bare feet swollen and cut. 
Another boy comes out of the house with a bundle of newspapers yelling for 
her to leave him alone and he gives her a punch on the arm and she kicks 
him in the knee and he grabs her and throws her down. She claws and 
scratches at his eyes and he bends her arms back and she spits in his face.

Sebastian leaves his doorway and walks slowly out the lane. Navigating 
widely and back and around and coming out along these terraced, red brick 
houses each with a polished knocker and curtains and little precious things
at the first floor windows. Straight out this road I can see the Dublin 
Mountains with evening sun on them and I wish I were away out there with a 
massive wall built all round me. Into the tree lined street. Crossing over 
smartly. Slamming the little gate. Down the steps. Rap, rap. Wait. Silence,
rap, rap. My God, my dear Chris, don’t leave me out here for them to get 
me.

“Hello.”

Voice behind him.

“Jesus.”

“What’s happened to you?”

Chris carrying packages, her face wreathed with concern as she came down 
the steps behind him.

“Let me in.”

“Hold these. There’s blood all down the back of your neck.”

“A little misunderstanding.”

“O dear. Have you been in a fight?”

“Little upset.”

“Now tell me. Just what did happen?”

“All right. I’ll go.”

“Now don’t be such a fool. Come in, sit down. Of course, you won’t go. 
But you can’t expect me to be all complacent when you just suddenly appear 
all covered in blood. How did this happen?”

“It happened.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. Hold still. I’ll have to boil a kettle and wash it.
You’ve had too much to drink. Does it hurt?”

“No.”

Chris in her drawer. Picking out the bottles. Iodine. Water in the 
kettle.

“Chris, I want you to tell me how I can get away from evil in this world.
How to put down the sinners and raise the doers of good. I’ve been through 
a frightful evening. Indeed, my suffering has been acute and more. More 
than sin or evil or anything. I have arrived at the conclusion that these 
people on this island are bogus.”

“You had a fight, didn’t you?”

“Most ungentlemanly incident I think I’ve ever experienced.”

“In a bar?”

“In a bar. The rudeness on this island is overwhelming.”

“Well? How? Why?”

“I went into this public house for a quiet drink. Stone cold sober. Man 
seizes me by the arm and twists it-says get out-you’re drunk. I said, I beg
your pardon but I’m stone. Naturally I left under the maltreatment that was
in it. Now I’m not an evil person, nor do I ever encourage any type of 
trouble. However I returned to this bar later, ordered another drink and 
they attacked me brutally. Disgraceful behavior. All on me like a pack of 
wolves. Trying to put me down and jump on me. It was only by employing the 
most elusive tactics that I succeeded in escaping with my very life. I have
no doubts but that they are searching the city to visit me with more 
abuse.”

“Now really.”

“Come sit by me, Chris.”

“No.”

“Sit by me. I’m most upset.”

“I’ll do your head.”

“Can I stay here tonight.”

“Yes. I think you ought to have a bath.”

“I’ve got to get out of this damn country. Honest to Christ.”

“Any pennies?”

“None.”

“You’ll have to have a threepenny bath.”

Helping him to take off his clothes. Out into this damp bathroom with the
bathtub up on lion’s paws and the cold sticky floor. In blub, gurgle slub 
dub glub. Foamy white face, no one to recognize me. Forever to walk 
backwards in the streets. The yellow light and green cracked ceiling. All 
last year you were in here in the tub while I was haunted and sad on Howth.

“Come away with me, Chris.”

“You’ve had too much to drink. Say that when you’re less confused.”

“What? I say, confused.”

“Turn around and let me dry your back.”

“I want you to.”

“I just can’t suddenly decide something like that.”

“You want to?”

“Where? And your wife and child?”

“We’ll all manage.”

“And your degree?”

“Have to wait till I can regain my senses. I am in an awkward position.”

“You are.”

“You’re giving me the evil treatment. Now I don’t deserve that.”

“Pull the light. I’ll make you some chocolate.”

No way out except the big way. I have put myself into a most unfortunate 
position. I hope to God that they don’t catch me and put me in prison. They
saw me ride madly through all the streets of Dublin. Please don’t put me in
Mountjoy prison, unless I’m given charge of the library. To be married to 
you, my dear Chris. But what has confounded me is blood. I was such a 
believer in blood, establishing the dynasty of Dangerfield, honorable kings
of kingdoms and I have gotten as far as 1 Mohammed where the shit falls 
from the ceiling in a most sickening way and the bread is a week old and 
the tea like iron filings. I desire to be away in a more civilized country.
What’s to happen to me when I am old. And bent and busted.

Chris bringing two white cups to the table. She is all undressed wearing 
a robe. My head feels better. And she fills the hot water bottle. I can 
only say roll up the carpet of the earth and put it away till next summer, 
things will be better then. We two in the bed together. I think this is the
only peace I have had for years. My dear Chris, to put my hand on your bare
arse is such a pleasure. And to touch and feel you’re near, for both us are
protection. All together in here. And we are, aren’t we? Let us pray. To 
St. Jude for the impossible or is it allowed to pray for an orgasm?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I can’t bear to get out into the chill air with my legs all stiff and 
head hard with some of the things that have been on my mind all night.

Sound of Chris dressing. She put a tray beside his bed before leaving. Of
toast and one piece dipped in dripping, a slice of bacon and cup of coffee.
She kissed him on the head, tucked him in, whispered his breakfast was 
there and was gone.

Spending the afternoon reading and worrying. A look, now and again, out 
the window to see what was to be seen. Police or informers. But just casual
persons. Mostly bent and carrying. But it would terrify the life out of me 
were I to see the squad cars out there. My only hope is to lie low and 
maybe grow a moustache.

The bed is pleasant. With my head resting. If I had the things which are 
in this room. Lust brought us together. But a horrid word. I think love. 
But what puts us apart in the bed at night. I turn over on my shoulder away
from her and her back and go to bye byes trying to be alone. I can’t even 
remember what I do with Marion. Being the sort of person I am, I make life 
pleasant for everybody. I’m not hard to live with. No bad breath or secret 
vulgarities. My dear Chris, I hear your feet.

“Hello, Chris.”

“You’re an awful liar.”

“What?”

“Here in the paper.”

Chris hands him the paper. Center and fat and black with the size of 
print and reading:

* * *

MAN AMUCK IN PUBLIC HOUSE

Chase through streets

What was reported by a witness to police as a most savage attack took 
place in Kelly’s Garden Paradise, licensed premises, yesterday evening.

A man described as “foreign looking” with an English accent was reported 
to have entered above premises in a threatening mood and to have set upon 
the occupants in a wild way.

Witness to the attack told police that he was having a quiet drink with 
friends when there was shouting and commotion. He turned to see a man 
throwing a bottle of whiskey at the head of the bartender who ducked and 
went down through a trap door in the floor. The man then vaulted over the 
bar and smashed everything in sight. He turned upon occupants who had no 
alternative but to escape to the street.

The accused then ran away and was followed by witness who alerted Guards.
He found the man hiding in a hallway but was threatened with violence and 
told to give up his hat and coat. Culprit then escaped on a bicycle. 
Several Guards and citizens gave chase to the top of Stephen’s Green but 
all trace was lost in Cuife Street where it is thought he may still be in 
hiding.

Guard Ball, who returned to the scene of attack for evidence, stated that
the general condition of the premises gave every indication of being that 
of a battlefield.

Witness, whose four fingers were broken in the attack, was treated at St.
Patrick Dunn’s Hospital and allowed to go home. The search for the culprit,
described by police as being tall, of light complexion, wearing tan 
trousers and sports coat, is being continued as it is thought that he may 
be insane. His eyes were given as very wild.

* * *

“Libel.”

“Sound as if you were attacked.”

“I was, and set upon viciously.”

Chris silent, bending over the gas ring. Dangerfield sits strained and 
pitiful on the edge of the bed. The Evening Mail hangs open between his 
knees, eyes tearfully seeing that big print. O there was a man amuck.

Sebastian stands and walks to Chris’s side. He puts his hand on her rump,
taking up flesh in his fingers. Her head turns away from his mouth and 
pushes down a hand from her breast.

“If that’s the way you want to be, Chris.”

“It is.”

“All right.”

He goes to the door, opens it quickly, closes it quietly, steps into the 
drizzle and street, bleak and black.

Dear Blessed Oliver, martyred, quartered and generally chopped up, I’ll 
tell you one thing, see me right out to the Rock without a horde hounding 
me and I’ll publish thanksgiving in the Evening Mail.

On the empty evening bus coming down the curving hill into the Rock. Neon
lights. Little line of figures waiting at the cinema. A delightful little 
place.

Stepping off the bus, walking swiftly to the green door of 1 Mohammed. 
Knocking. Nothing. A few knuckles on window. No sound, no light inside. He 
went back to the door. Pushed it and pulled. Locked and stuck. He withdrew 
a pace and lunged. The door fell down. Gingerly into the hall, he picked it
up and pushed it back in place. He yelled. Nothing. Up the stairs, the 
bedroom empty. Nobody home.

And the weather was so dreary and dark. All night now. The only thing the
rain does is to keep down the dust and me. Now Marion, you blue blood from 
Geek, wife and washer, slave to all me dirty little wants, where and what 
have you done and gone.

He came downstairs into a barren sitting room and kitchen. A white paper 
on the stove held down under a tin of beans.

As you can see, I have moved.

11 Golden Vale Park

The Geary

Co. Dublin.

I don’t know what to do except this sounds like a house with running 
water and I could do with a bath. Perhaps it’s nice. Get the hell out of 
here before Skully sticks his thick skull in for rent or some other 
repulsive request. The Geary. A rather posh area I gather. Golden Vale 
Park. O lovely. Say that again. Golden Vale Park.

There was one last house in the road of houses squat, semi and detached 
with concrete blocks dividing off front gardens of tiny lawns and flower 
beds. Passing number seven and nine, houses of caution and saving and iron 
gates to stop dogs’ befoulment. People who lived here owned cars. My God 
has she only taken a room and maybe nowhere for me.

He paused in front of the little green gate to examine the latch which 
was quite tricky. In the garden were choice rhododendrons and the odd 
laurel. At the side a garage attached to the house. What in heaven’s name 
have you done this for or why and you didn’t tell me. I won’t have it. The 
rain running off the leaves and bing in puddles. I’ll just walk up this 
concrete path and make believe I’ve come to the wrong house. Looks like a 
garden in the back, a path around the side. This calls for indignation. I 
won’t have it, I say, I just will not stand for this.

Could hear the bell ringing inside. And the steps coming. Can’t see a 
thing through this frosted glass.

Door comes ajar.

“Let me in for God’s sake, Marion.”

Door slams.

“I say, Marion, are you alone? Really, this is ridiculous behavior. You 
can’t do this.”

Circling the house with great care looking for flaws. The lavatory window
open. Sebastian scrabbled up the wall, knees knocking out the stuccoed 
stones and he fell, head first into the washbasin. Marion was in the door.

“Why don’t you leave me alone. You desperate bastard.”

“Don’t call me a bastard when I’m breaking my damn neck trying to get in 
this house. For Christ’s sake help me on to the floor. Why didn’t you let 
me in the door?”

“Because I don’t want you in the house. This is my house and I can call 
the police and have you thrown out.”

“For the love of God, Marion, have you no mercy? Look at me, I’m soaked 
to the skin.”

‘And you weren’t home last night.”

“Delayed.”

“What happened to your head.”

“A frightfully decent chap asked me to play squash and I busted my head 
on the wall. A damn good player, but I just managed to beat him.”

“O get out why don’t you.”

“Just for playing squash? I say, let’s play the game. A most influential 
chap. His father owns-”

“Get out. I spent all day packing and moving and I’m not going to listen 
to you lie.”

“Forgive me. It’s such a nice house. Just let me look around. Are you 
here alone. All this?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“My business.”

“But Skully.”

“You can still live there.”

“O Jesus. Come on. Look, just five minutes’ peace. It’s got a hall. This 
is very nice, Marion. Can I see in here?”

Sebastian moving around the house followed by Marion, teeth clenched and 
silent. A sitting room with these divan beds, one of them along the wall 
and a definitely pre-war radio. Three chairs to sit in and a carpet and 
some pictures of horses and hounds racing across the wall.

“Wow.”

“I’m not going to let you ruin this for me.”

“Not at all. I’ll leave. Just let me have a quick bath. I’ll die with a 
case of death.”

“Die, but this is my house.”

Sebastian bent with inquiry looked in the rooms. A morning room with a 
desk and table and fire. A pleasant wooden statue with a cross on the belly
on the mantelpiece. A window overlooking the back garden with rows of good 
things. Must get in here at all costs.

“Where do you sleep?”

“In there.”

Marion pointed to the door.

“Let me stay, Marion. Please. I promise to abide by anything you say but 
I’ve just got to get a little security-”

“Ha. Ha.”

“That’s true. Just because I’m big and strong. Just look at this muscle. 
But it doesn’t mean that I can’t be stricken by the insecurity that’s in 
it. Please.”

“If there is even the suspicion of drink I’m having you put out.”

“You’re wonderful, Marion. This is frightfully good of you-”

“That’s enough of that.”

“Anything you say, Marion.”

“And be quiet, Felicity is asleep next to the bathroom.”

“Mum’s the word.”

Great splashing in the suds. And after a pot of tea. Marion with arms 
folded, hiding her breasts from his beast’s eyes and watching the 
disappearance of a loaf of bread and package of margarine. He put his arm 
around her shoulders, a hand over her wrist. Naked in a blanket, he pointed
to the garden, a gray weird wave of leaves.

“Marion, there’s food out there for sure.”

On the land.

A plant.

On the plant A leaf.

This man Ate The leaf.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

By the use of delusive enticements, Sebastian dug in at 11, Golden Vale 
Park. Several nights after ten thirty, he went by circuitous routes to 1, 
Mohammed Road to quietly pilfer divers articles. These were carried in gray
bags for parceling stout. One large mirror was traded for a bowler hat at 
his broker, a ruse to avoid recognition. And arrangements made with the 
Evening Mail for publication of thanksgiving to Blessed Oliver.

The landladies called to tea. An elderly Protestant couple, sisters, of a
class living on investments. They hoped that Sebastian and Marion would 
keep up the garden, because they had several rare Himalayan plants given by
a cousin, a member of the Royal Horticultural Society. And they would leave
their Wedgwood, finding them such a delightful couple, Mr. Dangerfield a 
student at Trinity, well, it really made them feel secure right from the 
start. And we were so upset about renting at first, the sort of people one 
might get these days, Dublin isn’t as it used to be of course, people 
making money with shops and these people running the country.

Sebastian with votive eyes, their loyalist words, tender drops of balm. I
am deeply delighted to be dealing with these people of Protestant stock. 
Their spinster eyes glistening with honesty. Yes, the front gate, clumsy 
boors moving their things had broken it, careless bounders indeed, have a 
reliable man deal with it forthwith, it’s been such a pleasure to have you 
both. Do come again. And I’m having a load of manure laid on the garden. 
Bye, bye.

This house was in a dead end. It was both secret and trapped. Can’t have 
everything. And I prefer to have the coal bin out of doors. Doesn’t do to 
hang suits over the coal. I can breathe again, grow flowers and eat for 
nothing. Almost.

Marion said they ought to let the sitting room and it would pay half the 
rent. She wasn’t going to slip back into poverty again and be hounded day 
in and out by lecherous moneymongers. Sebastian volunteered putting in the 
ad, on condition that they rent to a Catholic.

“I won’t have a Catholic living in my house. They can’t be trusted. Nor 
do they bathe.”

“Marion. That’s absolutely preposterous. Let’s have a little democracy 
here, I say.”

“I hate Catholics.”

“Must forgive a little spiritual scruffiness.”

Marion gave in. Sebastian sat down at the desk in the morning room and on
a clean piece of paper composed:

* * *

Bed-sittingroom. The Geary. Quiet and select. Conveniences. Business girl
preferred, N.D., R.C., T.T.

* * *

Simplicity. Non-dancer weeds out the fancy and flippant. T.T. is always 
good for the respectability. However, have it understood that this is a 
house of freedom.

Saturday evening both notices appeared. Under Thanksgiving:

* * *

Grateful thanks to Blessed Oliver for deliverance. Publication Promised.

* * *

Monday afternoon, Sebastian collected the answers. They were good gas. 
Three with enclosed photographs, one rather risque. But I shall not 
tolerate indecency. God forgive the Catholics.

It was a matter of selecting a good name. There was a Miss Frost. Lilly 
Frost. A straightforward inquiry. Send a letter and ask her to come see the
room.

Miss Frost arrived wearing a tweed coat and hat. A botanist for a seed 
company. Of medium build and suggestion of the middle thirties. Sebastian 
offered that if Miss Frost were interested, the back garden was available 
for her work. The curtains of the morning room were parted and Miss Frost 
said the ground looked to be in good heart.

Can see her out there after work with the spade. Wouldn’t mind seeing a 
few bits of the food coming free. They say that gardening is good for you.

Miss Frost agreed to take the room and said she would like to move in 
immediately as she would be glad to be out of the place where she was. Miss
Frost seemed an interesting person. Showing the first signs of age, slight 
belly under the chin, nervous smile, mouth thin and bit drawn, living out 
the last years of fertility. And respectability.

After she had gone, Sebastian sat in a chair he called his own with an 
adjustable back. Could lie supine and watch the ceiling. After awhile it 
moved. Time to take stock. Look at things in retrospect. Come a long way. 
From Rock to Geary, from low to the middle, from coal in the closet to coal
in the bin, from the tap outside to the tap inside, from cold to the hot. 
Away from the broken doors and walls to carpets and Wedgwood. My broker 
will be surprised. I only miss the trams, lovely trolley that took me by 
stiff track to Dublin and back. No doubt Mr. Skully will be a little upset 
to find us gone due perhaps to the lease and maybe the odd pound 
outstanding. O dear, it’s a selfish world. But I’d say Skully will have his
hands full to find me now. It’s so pleasant here. And I think I’m going to 
enjoy having little talks with Miss Frost about the garden.

On Wednesday evening Miss Frost arrived in a taxi with her things. 
Sebastian came smiling to the door. The room was ready. A lamp engineered 
by the bed for reading. It was grand. Furniture dusted and polished with 
lavender wax. A runner fixed on the curtain. It was a fine room. Plenty of 
shrubbery outside the window keeping out the light. My favorite room. 
Darkness gives a sense of security but nothing’s too good for the boarder.

Me and Marion have twin beds. Better that way. Don’t want lust and fecund
congress. I went into chemists for those things when I first came to 
Ireland. I said, may I have a dozen. The man said to me, how dare you ask 
for such a thing and he hid behind the counter till I left. Naturally I 
thought he was mad. I went further up the street. Man with a great grin, 
how do and what not, I let me teeth out for second. I noticed his were a 
little black. I put it to him pleasantly, asking for the American tips if 
possible. I saw his face go down, slouch of the jaw, hands twitch and a 
bottle break on the floor. The woman waiting behind me indignantly swept 
out of the shop. The man in a hoarse whisper said he didn’t deal in things 
like that. Also to please go away because the priests would put him out of 
business. I thought the gentleman must have something against the American 
tips which I prefer. I entered another shop and bought a bar of Imperial 
Leather for the class standing that was in it.

Quietly I put it to him for a half dozen with English tips. I heard this 
man utter a low prayer, sweet mother of Jesus, save us from the licentious.
He then blessed himself and opened the door for me to leave. I left 
thinking Ireland a most peculiar country.

I took to studying again and found having that splendid beverage made 
from the cacao bean, most pleasant with Miss Frost. Marion said she had to 
get her sleep, so Miss Frost and I would sit for an hour talking of an 
evening.

“Miss Frost, forgive me my question, but I’m intensely interested in 
Irish boarding houses. You did stay in one?”

“I did, Mr. Dangerfield. It doesn’t bear repeating, but one gets used to 
them.”

“Now, how is that Miss Frost?”

“Well, Mr. Dangerfield, some of them are nice enough people but it was 
hard to get a proper night’s rest with the goings on.”

“Now what sort of goings on, Miss Frost?”

“It would be embarrassing to tell you, Mr. Dangerfield.”

Miss Frost with her slight, shy smile and pale lids dropping over her 
eyes. I think her lashes were gray. She had worked in England as a land 
girl. Saved money. Wanted to go into business for herself. She said she was
go-ahead.

Miss Frost would sit across from him at the kitchen table. At first they 
had their drink in the morning room but as they got to know each other a 
little better, the air relaxed and they sat around the kitchen table. One 
evening she said she hoped Mrs. Dangerfield would not object to her talking
with her husband alone, the way they were.

There were a few weeks like this. Weeks with a sunny security. Until one 
morning. Alone in the house. Chilly and clouds stuffing the sky, squeezing 
out the rain. There came a suspicious knock on the front door. Action 
stations. Sebastian quickly to Miss Frost’s room for a hasty look out on 
the steps. My God, I am indeed a cooked geek. Surveying sullenly, hands 
angelically twisted, the rain dripping from his black hat, stood the 
malcontent, ingrate, Egbert Skully. Suck in my breath so as not to make a 
sound. Use the tip toe. I hope desperately that the front bloody door is 
locked. Take a chance and get to the back fast.

Sebastian turned the key in the kitchen door. He pulled the curtains of 
the morning room. There was another knock at the front door, then steps 
down and steps coming round the side of the house. Sebastian went to the 
front doom. Locked. Returning to Miss Frost’s room, drawing the curtains 
tightly across with an inch to see out from and wait A rapping on the back 
door. That nosey bastard. I have been tracked down. I have been found out. 
Travel only at night, under heavy disguise with trinkets and trash and 
crippled and otherwise incapacitated. The pity.

Sebastian gave a squeal.

“Eeeeeee.”

Skully rapping on the window just on the other side of those curtains and
they were vibrating with the awful concussion of it. I’m a fool. I pulled 
the curtains. Skully has noticed it. You dirty little bastard. Thank the 
Jesus the doors are locked. Must be calm. Fear a state and condition of the
mind, maybe. In theory I’m here but really I’m gone. Use the mental 
telepathy, as good as anything in a situation like this. Mr. Skully. Mr. 
Egbert Everad Skully. Listen to me. Mr. Dangerfield, Mr. Sebastian Balfe 
Dangerfield, has gone to Greece. I tell you he’s in Athens playing a drum. 
He left a month ago on the Holyhead boat because he didn’t want that 
tiresome trip to the Liverpool. He’s not behind this green curtain with the
red flowers as you think he is, terrified and ready to cough up a few quid 
to get rid of you. Go away from this house and forget him. What’s fifty 
quid anyway. It’s nothing. You’re well rid of this bastard, Dangerfield. 
Mr. Skully, can’t you hear me? I tell you, I’m in Greece.

More raps on the window. Telepathy having no effect. This Irish animal 
can’t have any brain to receive the message. How long can this pig keep it 
up. Boor. Philistine most odious. Right now I would like to become a 
particular Percival Buttermere O.B.E. and come to the door complete with 
walking stick and pajamas, look out, see Skully, step back and with a great
deal of British nasality, I say my good man, are you mad? What, just what 
are you trying to do. Would you mind awfully not rapping on my windows and 
getting off my front porch. Are you the coal man? Then go around to the 
back, my cook will deal with you, if you’re not, would you mind frightfully
removing yourself, you’re most suspicious looking.

Suddenly Skully turned. He fiddled with the front gate. Closing it 
carefully behind. Giving it that unopened look.

Jittery, Sebastian went for a rest in the supine chair. Please, God, 
don’t let Skully meet Marion or my goose will be cooked beyond recognition.
I’m a man sitting here discovered. Only thing for it is to get a few quid 
to him. Mail them from East Jake. That black beast will be here, morning, 
noon, night and the hereafter and times between. O tis a world filled with 
woe and misunderstanding. Get the rent from Miss Frost and send off a few 
bob. Must now take precautions and everything organized for the siege.

And the fear. It’s coming up from my toes and makes me feel empty and 
sick. I feel I’m standing before a blackness. Have to jump it and I won’t 
make the other side. Blessed Oliver I put it to you again, get me through 
these exams. You may think me only a conceited Prod but there is more to me
than that. And they judge me. Just with a paper with those little 
questions. And I can just see myself coming to the notice board. O dreadful
day. Looking at the paper with the names neatly on it. Naturally I start 
with the first honors and then second and the last names of the third 
honors. No Sebastian Dangerfield. And the small note of damnation at the 
bottom of the white paper. One candidate unsuccessful. What do I know about
law. Can’t park in the middle of the street or make too much noise or 
present a state of undress to the public. And I know no man would ravish a 
maiden within age, neither by her own consent, nor without her consent, nor
a wife or maiden of full age, nor other woman, against her will on penalty 
of fine and imprisonment, either at the suit of a party or of the King.

O there are a few things I know all right. And make up the odd case, 
never check up. Geek versus Gook. Why do you hound me so, Skully.

Marion arrived in through the garage with an armful of groceries.

“Sebastian?”

“What?”

“I thought you were going to do these dishes?”

“Couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Skully.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was groping around the house all morning.”

“O no.”

“O yes. I told you.”

“I knew it wouldn’t last.”

“Nothing, my good Marion, lasts.”

“O dear.”

“Quite.”

“Will our lives ever be free.”

“Cheer up, the worst’s over.”

“O shut up-we’re back where we started.”

“Not at all. At the end, Marion.”

“And you tell me how we’re going to explain all this hiding and not 
answering the door and things, to Miss Frost?”

“You’re forgetting Miss Frost is Catholic. How do you think they survive 
in Ireland?”

“And when he’s snooping about?”

“I’ll send him a money order from the North of Dublin. Enclose a note 
telling him I’m staying there with friends.”

“He won’t be fooled.”

“But must try. Any and every ruse. We must warn Miss Frost.”

“Don’t for heaven’s sake.”

“We’ve got to.”

“Why?”

“Suppose Skully comes around some evening, pulling at doors and rapping 
on the windows. We can’t sit here and do nothing. I’ll just explain to Miss
Frost that I met one of those people who go on outings from Grangegorman, 
mad as a hatter, bought him a drink and he’s been after me ever since. 
She’ll understand. This city’s full of them.”

“What a dreadful business it all is.”

“Now Marion, cheer up. Have heart. Everything is going to be all right. 
Just leave it to me.”

“I’ve made that mistake before. Why did we have to sign that lease. We’ll
have to pay the rent till it’s up.”

“A custom of the country. Just relax. Change our schedule of living. Tell
Miss Frost about this crazy man-Catholics have great respect for the 
insane-and tell her we have to have the front of the house blacked out.”

“O God, we can’t suggest such a thing.”

“We’ve got to. Now if we do that I’ll build a mobile barricade at the 
side of the house so Skully can’t get to the back and then we can have the 
light on. Now I’ll even deal with Miss Frost. There is a measure of rapport
there.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

Marion went into the kitchen. Strained and pained. Hear her putting away 
the groceries, a good sound. I will not be beaten nor put down. Few more 
weeks of holding out and be out of it all. Be in a position to give Skully 
his blood money. I will campaign in such a manner as to totally bring about
an unconditional collapse of Egbert, the blood man. And the rest of them in
the Rock could wait for theirs too. Peace is gone. No more of the sunny 
sessions with me Irish Times of a morning, looking over the mad growth in 
my little garden. But O aye, take the sun while ye may and when we pull the
damp curtains over the soul of day, rest secure for we will see the light 
of day another time.

Over bread, tea, pot of blackcurrant jam rife with vitamin C, sausages 
and a bit of margarine, Sebastian faced the gray face of Miss Frost. A bit 
of lip paint on and pencil around the eyes. She moved for the bread with 
reserve. I pushed the margarine over because I cannot tolerate bad table 
manners although I’m a great one for toleration generally.

“Miss Frost. I have a rather weird thing to tell you. Ridiculous really. 
I hope it won’t upset you. But there’s been a man about here. Harmless sort
but mad as a hatter. Foolish of me, but just by accident one night I loaned
this man a cigarette in a public house not realizing the implications. I 
found him a rather interesting sort. However, I was taken aback by his 
eyes. It turned out that he had an afternoon off from the Grangegorman. 
From there the whole situation developed in a most fantastic way. This man 
has got it into his head that he was a former landlord of mine and that I 
owe him money.”

“Isn’t that the limit, though, Mr. Dangerfield?”

“It is rather. And now he’s been at the house. Well, I’ve had no 
alternative but to ignore him. Lock the doors and things and pull the 
curtains. But I thought it wise just to tell you. Nothing serious. But I 
wouldn’t want you to have someone tapping on your window. Perfectly 
harmless type. Wouldn’t be let out otherwise. So just ignore him.”

“Couldn’t you tell the police, Mr. Dangerfield?”

“O I’d rather not, Miss Frost. Unfair to subject this poor unfortunate to
abuse and he’d be kept in after that. I think it best to ignore him and I’m
sure he’ll stop. If you happen to be outside and he starts on about this 
rent and money just tell him I’m not home and to go away.”

“Yes, I’ll do that. Thanks for telling me. I imagine I would be a bit 
frightened by a strange man, Mr. Dangerfield.”

“Quite.”

“I’ll do these dishes, Mr. Dangerfield. Now you stay there and finish 
your tea.”

“O no, Miss Frost.”

“Only take me a minute, Mr. Dangerfield.”

“Very good of you, Miss Frost.”

Sebastian licked his mouth. Miss Frost running the tap. Sebastian pulls 
up the table cloth. A quick wipe of the lips. Marion reading in the 
bedroom. Nice evening. Think I’ll just slip in there and tell Marion the 
good news.

“I say. Marion.”

“O what.”

“Everything’s all right. I told you Miss Frost would understand.”

“All right.”

“Move over.”

“Get in your own bed.”

“It’s cold. Don’t you want a bit of arse?”

“Go talk to Miss Frost, foul mouth.”

“Like to get you right here.”

“Take your hands away.”

“Weeeeeee.”

“You’re revolting.”

“This is the way to live. The light. Bing. Let there be electricity. Let 
there be gas for continuous hot water and cooking. Let there be a hot 
bedlam for those needing it. We’ve come a long way, Marion. A long way.”

“And you had nothing to do with it.”

“Bend over.”

“Get away.”

From Miss Frost’s room there came the sound of music. And the laurels 
rubbing outside. The air smelling of green, fresh in from the branches. 
When I was little, a colored maid pinched my penis. Her name was Matilda, 
and I watched her through the key hole, powdering her pudenda. She did a 
lot of things to me. Worried about my physiology. Little colored boys have 
bigger ones. O they feed you up for the teeth and the weight and clean out 
the ears and other things and cut the fingernails and brash the hair but 
there’s no organ orgy. I think Marion thinks mine too small.

But I know

It’s bigger

Than most.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

These days I can sneak away to the bathroom and perform my toilet with 
dignity.

Miss Frost has to go by my door. Marion leaves it open in the fuss to 
feed the kid. I lie looking out at Miss Frost passing in various stages of 
titillating undress. In her red kimono, gray shanks, shapely with the type 
of thin ankle I prefer. Indeed, Miss Frost is well put together. And this 
morning she saw me. I smiled as one does. Her neck went scarlet. It’s all 
right to blush in the face but watch out for those given to the neck blush.

I went in to get my breakfast. Dear daughter shut your lousy yap. Close 
it. Or I’ll jam it. And it won’t be the blackcurrant either.

“Daaaa, da.”

“What is it?”

“Ahhh, da pooh-pooh.”

“Will you let da-da eat his breakfast. Da-da’s hungry. Now shut your 
hole.”

“Stop it. She has a perfect right to make noise.”

“Well lock her in the garage-I can’t understand why they don’t have 
chains for children. I’m going to Trinity.”

“Go ahead, I’m not stopping you.”

“Thought you might like to know.”

“Well I don’t.”

“Now, now. I’m coming right back. I think perhaps we ought to pay off a 
pound on the electricity bill. Marion, are you listening?”

“I heard you.”

“Good idea to clear up part of this little matter.”

Marion pouring milk into a pan.

“I say, Marion, are you ill? Now for the teeth of Jesus-”

“Stop using that language in front of the child. And Miss Frost too. And 
I’m sick of it. Go if you’re .going.”

“Now, Marion, let’s be reasonable. This bill must be paid sooner or later
or they’ll be out here to cut it off. What will the Miss Smiths think? I 
say-”

“O for God’s sake, stop whining. Since when have you been concerned with 
what people will think?”

“I’ve always been that way.”

“What rot.”

Sebastian got up from the table and walked into the kitchen and put his 
arm across Marion’s shoulders.

“Take your hands off me, please.”

“Marion.”

“I thought you were going to Trinity. Well go.”

“I don’t want to waste the trip in.”

“O you are a liar.”

“Little severe, Marion.”

“And you come back drunk.”

“I beg your pardon. I’ll give you a shot in the mouth.”

“Why don’t you fight a man. I’m not giving you one penny.”

“I have a proposition-”

“I don’t intend to change my mind.”

“All right, Marion. If you wish it that way. Be Protestant and miserable.
If you’ll excuse me. I’ll go.”

Out of the kitchen stony faced. He took a bag from the morning room and 
went into Miss Frost’s room. Two decanters. Into the bag. And bowler placed
neatly on his skull. Quickly out the front door, skipping down the steps 
and whoops. He stumbled headlong into a choice laurel, face in the rotting 
leaves. Decanters held high for safety. A few foul words of abuse. Tugging 
at the little green gate. Stuck. A lash with the boot. The gate slumped 
open. The lower hinge wagging by its spring.

He arrived in Dublin on the top of the tram. And slid through the 
fashionable throng of the Grafton Street. He walked under the three gold 
balls and to the counter. Plunked down the two decanters. A funereal man 
hunched whispering over them.

“Well, Mr. Dangerfield.”

“Heirlooms. Fine Waterford.”

“I see, Mr. Dangerfield. Not much of a market these days. Seems people 
don’t set much of a value.”

“Wine’s becoming very popular.”

“Ah yes, Mr. Dangerfield. Ha.”

“Americans are mad for them.”

“Ten shillings.”

“Make it a pound.”

“Fifteen and we won’t argue.”

Sebastian turned with his money. He bumped into a man coming in the door.
A man with a rotund skull and shoulders streamlined against the weather.

“Jesus Christ come home to roost. Sebastian.”

“How do you do, Percy.”

“I hose shit off the toilet seats in Iveagh House. Drink anything that’s 
going and hump when I can.”

“Jolly good show.”

“And I’m in to pawn five pounds of steak.”

“Eeeek, you’re not.”

“Here it is.

“Percy, incredible.”

“Will you have a drink. Wait for a second while I flog the meat, and I’ll
tell you the whole story.”

Sebastian waited under the three balls. Percy, grinning, came out and 
they set off down the street. Percy Clocklan, a short bull man. So strong 
he could collapse the walls of a room with a deep breath. But only did this
in people’s houses he didn’t like.

They sat in the corner of a tiny public house. Few hags beating gums in 
each other’s deaf ears. Saying the dirtiest imaginable things. Absolutely 
shocking. Percy Clocklan’s face was all grin and laughter.

“Sebastian, I’ve had everything. My father was a bank manager. My 
sister’s a member of the Purgatorial Society, my brother’s a company 
director and I reside in the Iveagh House over the Bride Street, a hostel 
for the poor and dying.”

“Better days coming.” “But let me tell you. Here I am, educated with the 
best of them at Clongowes. Nine years in the textile trade taking guff from
these awful eejits and not even a raise. I told the manager to stuff his 
kip up his hole. Jesus, I shouldn’t have done it. Now look at me. Every 
morning I have to take a hose and go around cleaning after these ould 
bastards who come in at night full of red biddy and do their business all 
over the floors. Last night I caught an old bugger pissing into the 
drinking fountain. But it’s only a shilling for a good feed and two and six
for a cubicle for a night. I’m a porter there. That’s the big cheese. And I
get my pay and into the red biddy lounge where I get laggards for eight 
pence.”

“What would you like out of life, Percy?”

“Know what I want? I’ll tell you. And you can listen to these bloody 
eejits who sit around talking bull shit for hours and they don’t get 
anywhere. I’ll tell you what I want and it’s all I want. I want a woman 
with awful big tits and arse. Biggest tits and arse in whoredom. Get up on 
her-o the tits, the tits. Whoever thought of them. God knows a good thing. 
Just tits, a big arse so’s I can come home of an evening and lash a sup of 
steak on the grill and fill me gut and then get up on her. I want some 
kids. Something to work for. Incentive is what I want. I sit around an oul’
bleedy pub wasting me time. I’m coming to forty and maybe I could have been
a big fella with cars and maids but I don’t give two tuppenny turds. It’s 
over now and no use shouting about. But if I had a woman with an awful big 
pair of tits you’d see me for the last time in a pub. Be as happy as sin. 
I’m married once but I’ll never make the same mistake again. Wanting to 
drink every night and terrified of having some kids.”

“Pregnancy first, Percy. Then the drink to recover from the insecurity 
that’s in it.”

“I know, I know. I was an awful eejit. But she wouldn’t hear of it. Said 
she was too young to be slaving after children. I know better now. She 
wouldn’t give up her job. Didn’t have any power over her. I don’t care now,
any old whore will do now and lots of biddy to forget about food and rent.”

“And where did you get that meat?”

“Sebastian, don’t breathe a word of this. Now I’m telling you, it’s 
confidential. I had this bird who worked in the butchers. She’d get me as 
much as eight pounds of the finest steak of an evening. I’d flog three or 
four pounds and have enough to see me crawling from biddy and lash the rest
raw into me gut. See me right for days. I’d give old Tony Malarkey a few 
pounds now and again for his kids. I was living with him for a while but 
he’s like an oul’ hen, clucking around and jealous when I’d come in of an 
evening laggards. Can’t stand to see anyone else enjoying themselves. I 
bloody well moved out. But my woman got caught.”

“Where did you get the meat today?”

“Wait till I tell you. They caught her stealing the bloody stuff and she 
was fired on the spot. And she wanted me to get up on her of an evening for
nothing, and I told her did she think I was a stud bull wasting me energy 
humping her ould carcass. Imagine that, expecting me to act the bloody bull
for nothing and her ould flat tits without a sup of meat behind them. 
There’s no decency in some of these people. You’re the only decent person I
know, Sebastian. You buy a man a drink when you have the money and you 
don’t do all this yelling about it. I should have been a priest and have 
Morgan’s van calling every week with lashings of drink and a housekeeper 
with boobs like pyramids. Then you’d hear some sermons. I’d lash some 
bloody decency into these people. But when I got no more meat from this 
ould whore, I looked up another bird in a butcher’s. Went in every day 
buying bones for a week and it wasn’t long before she was sneaking the meat
out to me.”

“You’re an awful man.”

“And I’ve got an ould maid in the Iveagh House who’s taken a shine to me.
She says a pair of decent balls in the hand is worth a cock in the bush.”

“You’d make a fine husband, Percy.”

“Don’t come the hound.”

“You would.”

“Look at me. Losing me hair. Sleeping next to a bunch of newsboys at 
night and the bunch of them saying hello to me on Grafton Street. Me from 
Clongowes Wood College.”

“Look at me, Percy.”

“Look at you. More money than the president with that G. I. Grant.”

“The expense, Percy, is dreadful. And must keep my dignity.”

“Ould whore’s dignity. Do you want to come to a party?”

“Not tonight.”

“Have you gone mad, Sebastian? It’s in Tony’s house, the Catacombs. Tony 
wants to see you. I hear O’Keefe’s gone to Paris and went queer as well.”

“True. He’s in a little town after anything that moves.”

“Jesus, come to the party.”

“Can’t.”

“Have a drink then.”

“Percy, I’ve been put down a great deal since I saw you last. A Mr. 
Skully, a former landlord, is after me for money. Then there are a few 
business houses.”

“You ought to go in for betting, Sebastian. That’s what your trouble is. 
A bet changes my whole day. Jesus, let’s go for some red biddy.”

Red biddy is sweet and thick, dried dead blood. All running through the 
streets. I can only imagine that I would like to be between thighs. I knew 
a girl who wore an orange sweater. I put my hands on her naked waist of 
slim belly. She was a milkmaid. I was a gentleman. We stood in an erotic 
embrace.

They were gone down the street through the kids and granite gutters 
talking about the money made in raising sheep.

“Sebastian, did you ever get up on one?”

“I say, really, Percy.”

In

Algeria

There is a town

Called

Tit.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sebastian sat hunched over his belly, transfused with joy. A night of a 
party. They were sitting in the Scotch House between two big barrels. 
Outside the Guinness boats boats going chug chug. Clocklan bellowing 
laughter.

I think I will see a great night of it. All manner of men invited. Sick 
and infirm, the bogus and bitchy. Those unclean and disgraced. Daily 
communicants and members in good standing of the Legion of Mary. The failed
and about to fail. Dublin is great for minor clerks and officials. Nine in 
the office till six o’clock at home. The wracked and choked bodies. The 
wife will not put her hand on it or have a painful pump. A party of the 
anguished and underling. Mr. Dangerfield, alias Danger, Bullion, Balfe, 
Boom and Beast, will tell you how to get out of it. But well to remember 
it’s hard but it’s fair. These little buggerings showed people you could 
take it. The pain as well as the pleasure.

And I think there ought to be a table in the middle of the floor for a 
demonstration of the animal. Penny notebooks for notes, please. Tell you 
anything you want to know. I might not look like much now, but in five 
years. Wow. And don’t forget that I’m at Trinity either. No end to where I 
am. To close the evening I’ll do a Spanish dance and catch olives in the 
mouth and a few other things as well. And songs of course, led by Mr. 
Dangerfield and the tea and cakes served by genuine North of Dublin whores 
for those of you who are repressed.

“Clocklan, I’m suffering from a woeful case of blackdog.”

“Get the bloody stout and never mind the blackdog. This is going to be a 
great party.”

“I ought to go home, Percy.”

“Go on out of that. Can’t miss this bash.”

They were walking up Grafton Street carrying gray parcels of stout. 
Dangerfield singing:

My heart is like

A squeezed grape

Only the pip

Is left.

Only the pip.

“I’ll be thrown out of the house.”

“Jesus, what kind of a house do you keep. Give your woman a good boot in 
the hole. Throw you out? Nonsense. This is Ireland.”

They pushed through an iron gate and down the black, steep steps. Tony 
Malarkey, host, grinning, a pleased bull smelling the hot rump of a cow in 
heat, counting the parcels of stout. Eyes on the corks. Through a scullery 
there was a huge kitchen. Drink was put on the table. Clocklan brought his 
to a corner of the room, hiding the bottles under some rags. Malarkey 
watching him.

“Where are going with that drink, Clocklan, you stingy ould whore?”

“Not wasting it on your ould guts.”

The air filled with the popping of corks. A smell of damp walls and 
cavities. A feeling of long corridors and hidden rooms, tunnels in the 
earth, black pits and wine cellars filled with mouldy mattresses. A bulb 
burning in the center of the kitchen. The floor, stained, red tiles. 
Whitewashed walls and scabby buttresses crossing the ceiling. And more 
people bursting in the door laden with bags of stout.

Sebastian putting bottles in his pockets. Arming. He crossed over the 
room. A short, stocky girl standing alone. Smoldering green eyes and long 
black hair. Perhaps her father is a casket maker. Or she is a servant.

Sebastian next to her. She raised an eyebrow. Wow, this is no servant or 
serf either. What green, animal eyes. He took the bottle, holding it 
between his knees, a quick spin of the corkscrew. Then straighten the body.
Bop. The brown foam dripped over the sides of his mouth. He smiled at the 
girl. “What’s your name?”

“That’s a funny question to be asking me right off.”

“What would you like me to ask you?”

“I don’t know. It’s just funny asking my name right away.”

“My name is Sebastian.”

“My name is Mary.”

“You look Italian, Mary.”

“Are you being fresh?”

“Boooobebo. Danggigigeegi. That’s African for, certainly not beautiful 
maiden.”

“You’re making fun of me. I don’t like it. You’re queer.”

“Have a bottle of stout, Mary. I want to tell you a few things. First a 
little bit about sin.”

“What do you know about sin?”

“I can forgive sin.”

“That’s a sin you’re saying. I won’t talk to you if you say things like 
that.”

Assuming the role of gentleman, Sebastian gave Mary a glass of stout. He 
brought her to where they could sit on a bench and talk. She said she 
minded the house. Her father had not been able to move his bowels for three
weeks and they had to call the doctor and the doctor couldn’t do anything 
for him and they thought he would die of the poison. She said he would just
lie in bed and wouldn’t go out to look for a day’s work. Been there for 
months and the smell was too much and she had to take care of the house and
her two small brothers.

Clocklan across the room, paying court to a smooth skinned blonde. The 
party distilling overtones of boredom and discontent. Suddenly a stout 
bottle whistled across the room, smashing an effeminate man’s head. There 
was a quavering word of admonition and a chorus of encouragement. A chair 
broke, a girl twisting and yelling that she would not be handled. Sebastian
retreating down his bench with Mary, giving her an account of what was 
going on. Something brewing across the room. Clocklan had turned from his 
blonde woman and was talking to a tiny man who someone said was a jeweler 
by trade and disposition. Suddenly, Clocklan raised his fist and drove it 
into the little man’s face. He fell on the floor, crawling desperately 
towards safety under a bench and away from the bellow of Clocklan, to 
receive a kick in the face from a girl who thought he was trying to look up
her dress.

A cellar of the damned for sure. I cannot tolerate economic cripples and 
I do not like those who were once rich. In it all to get away from it all. 
Perhaps I cannot bear to ever finish waiting. Those few left in the center 
of the room. The others beaten in battle had retreated to the corners of 
the room and did not have any opinions, standing glassy eyed and drunk.

Mary looking up out of her green eyes.

“O the things that are happening here.”

“An awful bunch, Mary.”

“Where are you from in England?”

“I’m not lime, Mary.”

“What are you then.”

“I’m American.”

“Are you. Really?”

“And you’re Irish.”

“Yes.”

“And do you like Ireland?”

“I like it. I wouldn’t live anywhere else.”

“Have you lived anywhere else?”

“No.”

“And do you like your father?”

“That’s a funny question. Why do you ask me these funny questions?”

“I like you. I want to know if you like your father.”

“No. I don’t like him.”

“Why?”

“Because he doesn’t like me.”

“Why doesn’t he like you?”

“I don’t know but he’s never liked me.”

“How do you know he doesn’t like you?”

“Because he punches and beats me.”

“Good God, Mary. I say, he beats you?”

“Yes, he beats me.”

“What for?”

“For nothing.”

“Must be for something.”

“No. If I come home late he asks me why I’m late and no matter what I say
he finds some excuse to start punching me and he gets me in the hall so I 
can’t get away and just punches me. He hates me.”

“He does?”

“Yes. And there’s no reason for it. As soon as I come in the house, he’s 
sitting listening to the wireless and I go to put my coat away and he calls
me into the sitting room and then asks me where I’ve been and accuses me of
seeing men in parks and going off with them. And I haven’t seen any men. 
Then he calls me a liar and awful names and then if I say I’m telling the 
truth, he comes after me.”

“What about your mother?”

“She’s dead.”

“And you take care of your father and brothers?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you leave? Go to England and get a job.”

“I don’t want to leave my little brothers. They are only small.”

“He can’t beat you up now.”

“He tries to sometimes but I’m stronger than he is now.”

I can look at Mary. What’s this thing? She’s easy to look at. Are you 
easy to feel, too? Sleeves of her sweater stuffed up around her elbows, 
slender smooth wrists and a fine set of shoulders. Wouldn’t want to come to
grips, ‘cept in mutual passion.

There was suddenly a crash at the door, the center boards giving way and 
a huge head came through singing.

Mary Maloney’s beautiful arse

Is a sweet apple of sin.

Give me Mary’s beautiful arse

And a full bottle of gin.

A man, his hair congealed by stout and human grease, a red chest blazing 
from his black coat, stumpy fists rotating around his rocky skull, plunged 
into the room of tortured souls with a flood of song.

Did your mother come from Jesus

With her hair as white as snow

And the greatest pair of titties

The world did ever know.

Mary tugged at Sebastian.

“Who’s that? It’s a shocking song he’s singing.”

“That’s the son of the rightful Lord Mayor of Dublin. And his uncle wrote
the national anthem.”

Mary appreciative, smiling.

This man swept across the red tiles wildly greeting people on all sides, 
telling the room.

“I loved the British prisons. And you lovely women. The fine builds of 
ye. I’d love to do you all and your young brothers.”

He saw Sebastian.

“For the love of our Holy Father, the Pope, may he get himself another 
gold typewriter. Give me your hand Sebastian before I beat you to death 
with bound copies of the Catholic Herald. How are you for Jesus’ sake?”

“Barney, I want you to meet Mary. Mary, this is Barney Berry.”

“Pleased to know you, Barney.”

“Why you lovely woman, Mary. How are you? I’d love to do you. Don’t let 
this whore touch or pluck your flower. How are you again, Mary?”

“I’m fine.”

Barney leaped away and up on the table and did a quick goat dance.

Mary turned to Sebastian.

“He’s good gas.”

“A fine build of a man, Mary.”

“Did his uncle write the song?”

“Mary, when I say something, it’s the truth. I speak nothing but the 
truth. And tell me, Mary, what are you going to do with yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

“In life.”

“You mean what am I going to be? I don’t know. I don’t know what I want 
to be. When I was little I wanted to be a dancer. I wouldn’t mind going to 
the art school. I like to draw.”

“What do you draw?”

“All sorts of things. I like to draw women.”

“Why not men?”

“I like women better. I like men too.”

“But women most?”

“Yes. No one has ever asked me these questions before. I’ve never met a 
nice man.”

“None?”

“I don’t mean you. I don’t know you. Perhaps you’re all right. Women are 
kind.”

“Do you like women’s bodies?”

“These are funny questions. Why do you want to know these things anyway?”

“Because you have a nice build.”

“How do you know?”

“By your teeth.”

“How?”

“Good teeth a good body. God’s teeth are great teeth. Mary you must come 
with me for a drink.”

“Everything is closed.”

“O there are places.”

The room thick with smoke. Bobbing skulls. Those beaten into silence, 
glued to the white peeling walls and the beaters, a great bunch. Barney 
singing, swaying on the tiles. Sweating. Clocklan had left the blonde to 
drag the little jeweler to the black rear of the catacombs for further 
discipline. Busting him in the head with the bottom of his fist. I tell 
you, the place is writhing, simply writhing. Malarkey shouting he was high 
bloody king and if they all didn’t cheer up he would break their faces. 
Clocklan’s woman got up on the table to dance. Wiggling wang, she called 
it. And Percy came back with a grand grin which he wiped when he saw his 
woman on the table and he said she was a disgusting tramp and didn’t she 
have any pride at all to be dancing like that in front of a whole bunch of 
people.

I think Mary’s father an uncouth, constipated boor. Things in the North 
of Dublin have nothing to recommend them. But I think Mary has great charm 
and sensibility. Take her with me into my personal garden of sunshine which
I do not call Eden for obvious reasons. Madam, may I touch your nipples 
with my eyes. I think these people here are mostly against each other. They
think nothing of living between dirty sheets and carrying on 
indiscriminately. With nary a thought of the consequences stored up with 
God. Malarkey grabbed Dangerfield by the arm.

“Sebastian, do you want to see the most amazing thing in your life?”

“I do.”

“Come back into the wine cellar.”

Sebastian and Mary following Tony.

“Now for the love of Jesus, don’t make a sound or old Clocklan will have 
a fit. Just take a look inside.”

At the end of the long black hall, they paused before a half-open window.
Leaning over the sill, peering into the black hole. In the center of the 
room, two figures on a narrow canvas camp bed, reeling on four twisted 
legs. Writhing. There was a great squeak. And then a squeal. The camp bed 
collapsing, bare bums slapping the stone. A naked Clocklan clinging 
desperately to the smooth nude. She said O my God what’s happened and 
groaned. Clocklan grunting, ignoring the laughs in the hall, glued to the 
bleating blonde.

“Have you ever seen anything like it in your life before, Sebastian?”

“Tony, I must say that Clocklan is full of spirit.”

“Ould dirty whore. He’d get up on his mother in her coffin.”

Mary had run back to the kitchen. A jammed place. Floor covered with 
broken bottles. A girl standing in the corner, drunk, pissing down her 
nylon leg. A nice pool. A voice declaring.

“Say what you want about me, but by God, don’t insult my King.”

“Hump your old King.”

“Who said that?”

“Hump your old King.”

“I say, I say there, out with it. Who said that?”

“The King is a shit.”

“Look here, I won’t stand for it.”

“Up Ireland.”

“God save the King.”

“Bollocks the King.”

“God save all here. And the others as well.”

O thread my way back into this Catholic blood. And there’s something 
about slaughter. Fists in the smoke and smell. What a tiresome scene. A 
decibel of this is enough. Moral decadence. And an agreeable lack of fibre.
But decency, not a bit of it anywhere. I must put a stop to it.

Dangerfield taking a chair, and stepping on to the table, wound his 
fingers around the electric light and yanked it from the ceiling. There was
a blue roar of flame. Layers of plaster crashing to the floor. Screams all 
over the black room. “Mary and Joseph we’re being murdered.”

“Get your filthy hands off me.”

“Who did that?”

“I’ve been robbed.”

“I’ve been goosed. Wow.”

Through the dark Sebastian led Mary and together they pounded up the iron
steps to the street. A horse cab was passing.

“I say, my good man.”

The cab stopped.

“Tell me where can the lady and I get a drink?”

“Certainly sir, certainly.”

They climbed into the mouldy interior. Sitting on a mass of tom 
upholstery and damp rugs.

“Isn’t this great, Mary?”

“What did you pull the light out of the ceiling for? You could have 
killed somebody.”

“I was appalled by the depravity and the general slump in morals. Does 
your father ever hit you in the chest, Mary?”

“He hits me everywhere. But I can defend myself.”

“I’m going to take you to The Head, Mary. Where we can drink with a 
better class of people.”

“I think I better go home.”

“Why?”

“I have to. You go to Trinity.”

“How do you know?”

“One of the girls told me. All these Trinity students are the same. The 
only nice ones are the black ones. They’re gentlemen. They don’t get 
personal or fresh.”

“Mary, I may not be black but I’m not bad.”

“You just laughed at those people in the back room without any clothes.”

“They were having congress.”

“Fancy names.”

Under the train trestle went the horse cab. Past the monument makers. And
a shop where I used to keep my rations. A milky, cold smell. I often bought
two eggs and one slice of bacon. Fram a bowl-breasted girl. She eyed me. 
And once I bought oatmeal and went out and got dreadfully drunk across the 
street. Invited the pensioners in for a pint. They all came in adjusting 
scarves, coughing graciously. They all told me stories. About men and their
daughters. I heard them before but once is never enough-got to have them 
more often. Later I spilled my bag of oatmeal all over.

Sebastian kissed Mary. She put her elbows over her breasts. But she’s 
opening her mouth. And she’s got a hard little back and thick thighs but I 
can’t get my hand to her bosom. Can’t squeeze it in under here. Not an 
inch. Say, Mary, how about you and me going where the olives grow? Or at 
least where it isn’t so goddamn damp. Boy, your lips are narrow.

Now that we are going along the quays, it reminds me of how much I would 
like to see a bit of largess. This grabbing Mary is a little embarrassing 
because she’s as hard as a rock and is almost trying to fight me. I get 
that impression. She had hold of my hand then and without question gave it 
a twist. I’ll twist it right back and take it off altogether.

“Mary, I’ve got something to show you.”

Sebastian took a match box out of his pocket. Pulled it open and showed 
Mary a replica of the Blessed Oliver Plunket.

“Are you a Catholic? Sure you’re not?”

“Mary, I’m everything. Especially a Catholic.”

“You can’t be Catholic and something else as well.”

“Mary, I’m a big wind from East Jesus, a geek from Gaul.”

“You’re just trying to kid me. And I have to go home. I live over the 
Capel Street Bridge.”

“Now, Mary, I want you to see this fine old inn. Finest of its type in 
Europe. And I’ll sing you a song.”

O the Winetavern Street is the silliest

Of the streets full of fury,

O the very, very best

For this moo from Missouri.

“Like it?”

“You’re a gas man.”

“When all the world is funt, Mary. That’s the time.”

“You’re crazy.”

Sebastian whipped his head out of the window and had a polite word with 
the driver.

“Mary, we are going into a nice warm room with a fire. And I’ll buy you a
few nice drinks and we can sit and talk. I’d like to talk with you about 
Papish things. We would never get along without the Pope. He keeps a little
dignity on this earth. If we had a few more like him there wouldn’t be all 
this lechery and deceit. Mary, there are a lot of bad people in this 
world.”

Mary rolled her head on his shoulder and whispered: “I want you to kiss 
me again.”

Sebastian bolted, eyebrows raised.

“I say, Mary, really!”

“Don’t embarrass me.”

I can see the Courts of Justice across the river. O the pleas of trespass
against the peace of the King in the kingdom of England, made with force 
and arms, ought not, by the law and custom of England, to be pleaded 
without the King’s writ. O these little things of law. I know them all. And
a river is a natural stream of water of greater volume than a creek or 
rivulet. And the Liffey is a river. And the dome of the four courts is like
a prostrate bub. But never mind. This Mary, her spatulate rump, twisting on
her tough, tight body. Sit on my knee, now while I learn off the laws of 
sewers. A lot of strange things happen to one, of an uncanny nature. 
Perhaps if I had a fish, dead and slime and if I kept Miss Frost’s window 
open and the curtains closed and wait for nosy Skully to stick his head in 
and give him a violent lash in the face. Splosh. Right in the eyes, too. 
Slish. Take that, cad.

There was a bump as the cab passed over the sidewalk making the turn into
Winetavern Street. The scruffy vehicle pulled up to a closed iron gate. 
Horse snorting nervously. Case of fleas. Sebastian stepped out gingerly and
the man asked him for a pound.

Two of them waiting in the silence. This was to be a case of slight 
misunderstanding. A time for measuring one’s words. Sebastian began 
quietly.

“I say, old boy, how would you like to spend Christmas in the ‘Joy,’ with
your teeth dropping out of your Catholic arse?”

“It’s a pound this time of night.”

The man looking through lethargic eyes full of shillings. Looking down 
into the wild, bloody eyes, all gray round the red globes.

“Perhaps you’d rather that I kick this rolling rat trap to pieces and 
give you a Celtic baptizing in the Liffey, you vulgar thug.”

“I’ll call the Guards.”

“What?”

“I’ll call the Guards.”

“What? God damn it.”

Sebastian’s hand shot out and caught the man by the coat until his face 
was plunging towards the street and his feet were caught in his seat.

“God damn it, another bit of insolence out of you and I’ll ram this horse
and casket up your hole. Do you understand me?”

“I’ll call the Guards.”

“You won’t be able to call your god damned mother when I’m finished with 
you. Lout. Hear me? Lout. A pound you bastard. Festering sneak. No decency 
in you. No love. Do you know what love is? Where’s your love, you bastard? 
Why I’ll throttle you to death if you don’t show some love. Show me some 
love or I’ll strangle you.”

A vague smile came to the man’s mouth. His eyes, two holes of terror. 
Little scene on the Winetavern Street. Mary came out, tugging at his 
fingers around the silent man’s throat.

“Leave him alone. What did he do to you? Why don’t you pay the man his 
money and leave him alone.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re a terrible person.”

“Shut up. We’re all going for a drink.”

A glimmer of hope in the man’s eyes, and guilt. Sebastian, still holding 
him by the throat.

“Will you come in for a drink?”

“All right, I’ll come in for a drink.”

“I want to go home.”

“It’s all over now, Mary. This gentleman will come and have a drink. 
You’ll come and have a drink too.”

“I want to go home. You’re an awful person.”

“Not at all. This gentleman knows he was taking advantage of me. I know 
how much it is to Winetavern Street.” Man’s evasive eyes.

Sebastian went to the iron gate and reached in and pressed a bell behind 
the wall. Waiting. Sebastian rattling the gate. A suspicious whisper came 
up out of the black alley.

“Who’s up there? Stop that racket. Go home to bed-there’s nothing down 
here.”

Sebastian put his face between the bars.

“Travelers from the West. Just ten minutes. We’re friends of the man with
the beard.”

“Go on with you. Get out of here. What do you think this is?”

“We’re sent by the man with the beard. Friend of the corpse.”

The voice came nearer.

“Let me look at you in the light and stop the noise. A man couldn’t be 
dead down here with the likes of you carrying on. Let me see the faces. 
Who’s the woman? No women allowed here. What do you think this is?”

“Now, now-she’s a Dawn Beauty.”

“Dawn Beauty, my virgin bub. I can’t have this sort of going on-you’ve 
been here before-what’s all this racket?-you ought to know better. Don’t 
make any noise coming in and get out fast.”

“O you’re a fine woman with a build of a woman of thirty.”

“Go on out of that. Where’s the man with the beard?”

“He’s in Maynooth. He said the price of drink was scandalous and for a 
few prayers he could get it for nothing.”

“Don’t be blasphemous now and watch those barrels. You’re a troublemaker 
you are-have my hands full with the lot of you.”

“Now, now, Madam-”

“Don’t call me madam-I know what you’re up to.” Group moving slowly. Down
the alley. Through a door.

Along the black hall. And into the yellow light of the medieval room. 
This is the pineal eye of the world.

“Where’s Catherine, the girl? Send her with two scalding malts and spot 
of gin for the lady and anything for yourself. And I wouldn’t be past a bit
of bed with you.”

“O go on out of that and no noise, mind.”

In this semi-circle of expectation. Twisted bulgin’ sofas. Not much 
British fellowship here in spite of the sportiness of the room, with hunts 
racing everywhere. Catherine is a beauty and so’s Mary around the nose and 
eyes. But this is a horsehair sofa. Say after me, Mary.

Sebastian

Thou art blessed,

And Sebastian,

Also the true song.

A tinder of night together

With being

A bargain basement

Of kisses.

Get astride me.

Touch, whoops, tender

Me,

Mr. big tree of love.

Catherine, the maid, pushed through the door with a tray of drinks. 
Regarding Sebastian with a sly, shy grin. Blue-eyed, and a bit of the 
Celtic bovinity around the ankles. The horse-cab man wiping his mouth with 
his sleeve and the lip of glass with his hand to purify it. Mary sitting 
still, smoothing out her skirt and watching Sebastian.

“Now, isn’t this nice, Mary?”

“It’s all right.”

“It’s a good bit of malt, sir.”

“Rather.”

“It’s been showery weather.”

“For sure.”

I don’t think I’m getting far with this conversation or with Mary. Play 
on her sympathy for being outside the church and grace. Might be the thread
needle hole to her own. I’ve got a cloacal grip on life. Lot of people have
said that. Nor am I going to let go. If there is illusion, live it with a 
flourish. I’ll get you, Mary. Just like Marion. In the good old days I had 
Marion wrapped around. My finger. Up to get the tea.

And toast. That was love. But I killed it. Things just don’t last. They 
change. And sometimes they multiply, like babas. The woman of the 
establishment came in.

“Now that was the last round. I have to get my sleep.”

“One for the road and for yourself. Weary travelers we are.”

“Do you want to have me arrested?”

“For fear we get killed on the highways.”

“Go on out of that. You’re a fine one. Once you get in here I can’t get 
you out. Just one more. Catherine, two whiskies and a gin, and get a move 
on. Can’t get an ounce of work out of them these days with all their fancy 
clothes and going out to dances. A while back I’d take the arse out of the 
likes of her and her men friends. They don’t want to work these days.”

“They don’t know their place.”

“Don’t I know it. Up from the country and you’d think they was from 
society. Take that out of them.”

“Catch them in the first-class.”

“The likes of them should walk-never mind riding in the first-class.”

“Discipline. More discipline.”

“Out with black men every night of the week. I’ll pound that out of 
them.”

“There’ll be a day of reckoning for all their laziness. That’s for sure.”

“And it won’t be too soon.”

“I’m a great believer in the fairness.”

“It’s all right.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me a moment, I must make wee wee.”

“That’s thirteen and six.”

“My driver will see to that.”

Sebastian felt his way through the hall and out a door under the sky. He 
pissed indiscriminately. He met Catherine coming back in the darkness. They
locked. And she put her hand between his legs. And dropped the tray with a 
clang. The hall suddenly alight.

“What’s going on? Now I won’t have any of this going on with my girls. 
Stop it. Catherine, take your arms from around that gentleman, you dirty 
little slut.”

“Now, now, everything’s all right. Catherine and I were lost in the 
hall.”

“I’ve had enough of your carrying on, Romeo. And get back into that 
kitchen you, the very nerve of you. Slut.” Sebastian gave madam a pinch in 
the bottom as he waltzed by and she slapped his hand. O good O. We’ll all 
go and sit under the shittah tree. Something that no one knows is that I 
pawned a mirror of a public toilet. One of those modern jobs, just screwed 
in. I had the end of a fork to take them out and went to my broker. Then I 
went to the Grafton Cinema to have a supper in the pseudy tudy interior. 
Sitting by the window from where I could see Dawson Lounge written up on a 
high wall. Happiness can be uncomfortable. And waiting for food it was 
great but I called on a few fears to temper the glow of conservative 
mellowness. The waitress, a lovely black build of a girl, full mouth and 
white teeth and healthy breasts full of opulent undulation as she came with
plates of stuff. O the hunger of it.

Madam stood at the door, huge bosom coming out the hall.

“Now that’s all, the lot of you out of here now, before the Guards come 
breaking down the door.”

“And let me thank you for a fine evening.”

“Just get out.”

“Am I becoming the hound?”

The lady of the house laughed. Ushered them through the long dark hall 
and out up the alley of barrels. And drunks lurking in doorways, reeling 
and pissing. Sebastian told the driver to let them off at the Metal Bridge 
and that there would be a day coming when he would repay him for his great 
kindness.

They went up the flat steps. Stopped, watching gulls and swans. Mary took
Sebastian’s arm.

“It’s a lovely view.”

“Quite.”

“All the seagulls.”

“Yes.”

“I like to do this sort of thing.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. It gives me a nice feeling.”

“True.”

“As if you were floating or something.”

“Yes, floating.”

“What’s the matter, don’t you like it?”

“Love it, Mary.”

“You just go on and on and then you get a queer notion and don’t say 
much.”

It was the meal at the Grafton Cinema that took my mind away. Because the
waitress was so kind. A plate full of fine, fat sausages, lashings of 
rashers and a mountain of golden chips. I heard the waitress saying down 
the hatch would they ever hurry up because this fine gentleman was 
starving. And the tea was so good that I’d giggle with the impossible joy 
of it all. And a gentle Grafton Street breeze, tempting me to stay alive 
forever. But I know when to be pushing up the mushrooms, flavorful and 
frequent. And just as I was laying knife to a sausage there was a scream. 
The pantry curtain flew open. The waitress scurrying out, a white plate 
breaking on her head, and chased by a steamy faced girl, her hair, 
congealed tresses scattered round her head. She was yelling that she would 
commit murder, that she couldn’t stand it any more in this hot hole. Crying
and telling them all to leave her alone. She went on breaking dishes. And 
selfishly, I worried for fear she would destroy my sweet. I did feel that 
my supper had been ruined with the indignity that was in it. But she calmed
down and they gave her five minutes off to be getting this rebellion out of
her head. Only for my meal, I was all tenderness for her working skin and 
the red blotches on her legs. But there must be discipline. However, I’m 
all for that moment of reverie at time of crackup.

Sebastian leaned on Mary’s blunt shoulder, kissing the corner of her 
mouth as she twisted away.

“Don’t do it where everybody can see us. Let’s go look in the window of 
the woolen shop.”

They crossed the bridge, holding hands. They looked at the pieces of 
cloth. Mary said she was saving to have a suit for Spring. She said her 
father would never let her buy any new clothes and accused her of wanting 
to wear them to dances.

She told Sebastian she had friends who colored photographs and some of 
the pictures weren’t very nice. Perhaps she would do that soon because her 
uncle might be able to take her brothers and then she would be free. The 
only thing she didn’t like about living in Phibsboro was that Mountjoy 
prison. Coming by one day she saw a man hanging between the bars and he had
a funny beard and he asked me to bring him some champagne and smoked 
salmon. I just ran away and it’s just the same with that Grangegorman, the 
lot of them running around in there without a brain in their heads.

They walked along the old tom houses of Dominick Street. Mary showed him 
a house where she lived before they moved up the Cabra Road. Saying it was 
an awful street with drink and them beating each other to death with 
bicycle chains. She was frightened out of her wits to go out at night. But 
in Cabra she walked in the Botanic Gardens and liked to read all the funny 
names in Latin on the plants, and along the Tolka, a nice river.

“I live here.”

They stood in front of a red brick house.

“When can I see you again, Mary?”

“I don’t know. Talk quiet and we can go in the hall. We live upstairs.”

“You’re a nice girl, Mary.”

“You tell them all that.”

“Let me kiss your hand.”

“All right, if you want.”

“Lovely green eyes, and black hair.”

“You think I’m too fat?”

“Not at all. Are you mad, Mary?”

“Well, I’m going on a diet.”

“Let me feel you. O not at all, just makes you ripe. This, just the way 
you want them.”

“O you really are bold.”

Her back against the wall, standing in front of her, arms cocked, holding
her by the elbows in her plum colored coat. He kissed her and she bent her 
head back.

“Do you like it, Mary?”

“I shouldn’t tell you that.”

“You can tell me.”

“But you don’t kiss like the rest of them.”

“Them?”

“Yes.”

“But, Mary, I’m a man of refinement.”

“But they don’t do that.”

“And they’re not refined.”

“It isn’t that.”

“I’ll give you another one.”

She put her arms around his back, tight and tied.

“It isn’t the way they do it.”

“Do you like it?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I want to take you away.”

A noise came through the ceiling. Mary stiffened, holding her head back, 
listening. She whispered.

“Give me your hand.”

She led him to the back of the hall and down two steps behind the stairs.
They waited and then she put her hand up into his hair and scratched. Good 
for dandruff. O the tenor of it in this hall. The safety of it. Mary, your 
mouth and tomato sauce.

“Sebastian is a funny name.”

“Venerable.”

“What?”

“That’s what it means. Deserving of honor and respect.”

“You’re funny.”

“Eeeee and eeeee and eak.”

“You’re a gas man.”

“And you’re a great build of girl.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“O you are. Right here. Lovely. And there, too. You’re just great all 
round.”

“It isn’t safe here.”

“Where?”

“We could go in the back. We must be quiet.”

Some light at the end of the passage. Passing a line of broken prams, 
great for transport to the pawn. Could pass by any landlord. Must have the 
wits these days. I’m starved for love. Not ordinary love but real love. The
love that’s like music or something. Mary’s a good strong girl for heavy 
work. Scrub floors and things. Get her and a house that’s a box for the 
soul. And I’m fed up with the cardboard type. If I got Mary as the maid, 
Chris as the boarder, Miss Frost as secretary and Marion to run the whole 
lot, we’d be a great bunch. Then take my proper place in society, suits 
overhauled and the rest. O there’ll be changes made. I won’t take any 
nonsense either, or concede carelessness. At least I have rules. And I know
society respects a man for his discipline.

She was holding his hand, leading him. At this early hour in the morning.
I must get home. And out of these dung smells. Mary pushed open the half 
broken door of a shed. “Mind the bicycles. In here.”

“What’s that?”

“Coal.”

“For the love of Jesus.”

“What’s the matter?”

“What’s this, Mary?”

“A mattress.”

The clatter of a falling broom. Mary whispering with fright: “Jesus, Mary
and Joseph.”

And Sebastian, to be helpful.

“Pray for us, Blessed Oliver.”

“It’ll be all right. Would you like a bottle of stout?”

“Mary, I’ll love you till your dying day. Where is it?” Mary reached 
behind boxes and turf.

“It’s the landlord’s. He hides it back here for when the pubs shut. His 
wife raises holy murder if he brings it in the house.”

“This is good of you, Mary.”

“Do you say a lot of things you don’t mean?”

“What?”

“What you said.”

“What did I say?”

“When I said I had the stout.”

“Come here and sit beside me while I open this bottle.” She came and sat 
on the mattress beside him, leaning against the wall, watching him with a 
flourish of wrist, pop the cork. We lay in the remnants of coal. And a pile
of turf. I happen to know that dogs and cats prefer coal and turf. And I 
don’t relish finding myself sitting in it.

“This is peace, Mary.”

“It’s quiet here.”

“I need this, Mary.”

“Why?”

“Lot of reasons. Little difficulties here and there. Misunderstanding 
mostly. A girl like you is a great comfort.”

“It’s not very clean or nice here.”

“Come closer.”

“I don’t know what to say to you.”

“I’m married.”

“I know you are.”

“I say, Good God, Jude, Joseph and a general variety of the blessed and 
saintly.”

“But I don’t care if you are. I don’t think I’ll ever get married.”

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

“Might marry an Irishman.”

“What’s the matter with an Irishman?”

“They come home drunk and beat your head off. Jump on your arse every 
Saturday night and prod you to death with it. Other nights too. Pigs. You 
don’t want that, Mary.”

“I might.”

“Far be it, then, for me to give you advice. Get me another bottle of 
stout.”

“You drink fast.”

“Got to with the lack of decency around us, Mary.”

“What do you do?”

“Read law.”

“Outside that?”

“Gardening. Collect stamps, horse brasses. I’m very interested in bird 
watching. I refuse to gamble. Absolutely refuse to bet on a horse.”

Mary’s eyes broody. Sebastian leaned over and pressed his lips to her 
ear. Mary came down on top of him. And I put my hands up under her sweater.
These two mountains up out of the sea.

“Mary, would you like to come to England with me?”

“Yes. I’ll go anywhere you want me to.”

“We’ll need a little money.”

“I have thirty pounds in the bank.”

“That’ll do nicely.”

“But I’m not sure I can get it out.”

“It’s in your name?”

“Yes.”

“Bob’s your rudd.”

Dangerfield grunting for she was no lightweight. But here was a girl good
and strong, not afraid of work, I don’t think. Willing to get her shoulder 
to the wheel. That’s the trouble with the world, not enough of these people
with shoulders to the wheel, letting others do the work. Kick some of the 
laziness out of them, out on Sundays, taking senseless rides in the 
country. It’s painful to see them looking for something to do on a day off.
I must roll Mary over on her back because lumps of coal are pressing 
through this mattress into my spine. Whee. Like turning turtle. Over you 
go. I don’t think I’m quite up to this exertion. Circus, clowning, her 
sweater pulled up. Wow what a wench and puffing heavily. Do my most 
penetrating thinking just slopping around with someone else’s body, 
penetrating to the root. How many more interesting things can be done with 
thirty pounds than keeping it in the bank. Her breasts are all over her 
chest. I haven’t met with nipples like these before. A breast feeder for 
sure.

There is a restaurant in Grafton Street called the Udder Shop served by 
hefty wenches from the country. Teat lunch a specialty. Stop this 
deprivation of the breast. Because in my own case I can’t get enough of 
them and even though I am a little tired tonight I’m enjoying playing with 
this strange pair.

“I’ve never felt this way before, Sebastian. Purple inside. Do everything
to me, ail the things. I want you to do everything.”

“Easy, Mary. You don’t want to have a baby, do you?”

“I don’t care. I want everything, all of it.”

“Ruin your life.”

“I want it anyhow.”

“Some other night when I’m prepared.”

“I don’t want you to use those things anyway. I want it the way it is. Go
ahead.”

“For Jesus sake, take it easy, Mary. Don’t break it off altogether. You 
don’t want to be a fool.”

“I’m not a fool, I know what I want.”

“Ruin both our lives. These babas want to eat, I can’t let you, Mary. Not
tonight.”

“Please do it to me. I want everything. I’ve never felt this way before.”

“You’ll get this way again.”

Mary ground her lips down on him. Locking her thighs on his knee, forcing
him over on his back and knocking over a bottle of stout. Jesus, Mary, I 
can’t get involved. Don’t do this to me. There’s enough misunderstanding in
my life already without a case of illegitimacy. She’s trying to force me to
submit. I absolutely refuse to be taken by force. The indignity. She’s 
quite mad. Also without any reserves. Stop at nothing.

“Someone’s sure to hear us, Mary.”

“Everyone’s in bed. I like it.”

“Mary!”

“I like it.”

“Mary, really.”

“You’re sweet.”

“Mary, we’ll get caught.”

“You’re so sweet.”

“Mary, stop.”

“I like the feel of it. I’ve never felt it before. Is it poison?”

“It’s great for sore throats.”

“Cod.”

“It is.”

“I’ve touched myself with it.”

“My back’s killing me, Mary. Move over.”

“There. Is that better?”

“Mary, my bottle of stout has leaked all over the floor.”

“I’ve kissed it.”

“My stout.”

“It’s not poison, sure?”

“Easy, Mary. That can hurt.”

“You’re sweet. I like you. I’ll go away with you if you want me to.”

“Be nice for a little trip. Can you save any money? Money’s important, 
Mary.”

“I only have this thirty pounds. I’m not able to save any.”

“With a little care. Eke is the operative word, Mary.”

“Kiss me, please.”

His hand desperately clutching a bottle of stout, he kissed Mary’s 
feverish mouth and she opened his shirt and kissed his chest. Rolling 
around with the flesh of it. My problems come with me wherever I go, even 
on detours. At least Mary and I would have enough to live on in London. A 
holiday for me. A job for her. Shake off a few of these Erse chains. So 
long as I keep out of Wales and jail. Because there I’d have cover. Eight 
million others. From this forlorn back cellar with Mary’s bare backside 
pumping all over me. A time to make decisions. Set up a trip wire for 
Skully with a sack of you know what waiting to flop on his head. And 
secrecy, more silently and at night. With experimental Mary. The vision of 
it is almost too much. A belly of joy. Anyway, you, Mary, take what you 
want from me so’s you won’t have to be asking for more. A sexual feast if 
need be, anything I can give you, because I’m getting out. Let me at them. 
With my new tongue. I’m going to be a reality.

“I love you, Sebastian.”

“Your nice little eyes, Mary.”

“I want to go away with you.”

“Need money for both of us.”

“I have four pounds saved for my suit too.”

“Better bring it.”

“When am I going to see you again?”

“Not for awhile, Mary.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve got to make plans.”

“But why can’t I see you?”

“My wife.”

“She doesn’t have to know.”

“Must take precautions, Mary.”

“But I want to stay with you.”

“All right but we must be careful and not rush things. I can go to London
first and then you can come. I’ll need a little money.”

“I’ll give you some.”

“I might need quite a bit.”

“I can give you half.”

“Won’t need that much but we’ll see.”

“I want to go with you.”

“I’ll write to you. Care of the post office.”

“All right. You will?”

“Trust me, Mary. Don’t want your father to know. We want to avoid 
anything unpleasant.”

“He’s a bastard.”

“Mustn’t say that, Mary. He’s a man who’s a little confused. A lot 
confused like him. But never be bitter. Just remember, it’s hard but it’s 
fair. The way things are meant to be. And I don’t want you to make a 
mistake, Mary. I’m going to give you a week or two to think it over and if,
at the end of that time, you still want to come, send me ten pounds. It 
might be difficult at first.”

“I don’t care, so long as you let me stay with you.”

“Mary, just see if there’s another bottle of stout before I do. A little 
sup to see me right on the long journey. See if there isn’t one or two I 
could be carrying. Makes me think better.”

“You’re very fond of stout.”

“Fond, Mary, is not the word. It’s in me blood and a few other things as 
well. I want you to write to me care of The Geary Post Office. But don’t 
use my name. I want you to use Percivil Buttermere. The spelling’s 
important. P-e-r-c-i-v-i-l B-u-t-t-e-r-m-e-r-e.”

“This is fun.”

“This, Mary, is a matter of playing who lives the longest.”

“You’re sweet. And will we have a room together and you’ll do all of it? 
Will we?”

“We will.”

“I don’t care if we die.”

“Don’t say that. Give God ideas. We must discourage that attitude. Just 
put these bottles in some paper.”

“Kiss me once more.”

“And don’t forget Percivil Buttermere. That’s very important. And I’ll 
tell you when to send the money. And not a word to anyone.”

“I won’t tell anyone. I don’t have anyone to tell anyway.”

“Got to go.”

“Once more with your tongue.”

There was yelling going on in Mary’s house and no screams from her. I got
out of the street fast. Passed by the cattle market. And men growling at 
the bullocks. Which is which. They were prodding moaning beef through the 
gates and they’ll shoot them in the head or put them on the ship. This 
night’s over. Means waiting for another.

A fresh, new morning. A few souls in the streets. He went into a public 
house where old men sat, hands around pints of cider, spitting narrowly in 
the sawdust. Conversation ceased as Dangerfield came in. Each took a turn 
to look around.

There was a man

Who made a boat

To sail away

And it sank.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

My eyes are glued together. Feet blistered. What have I done?

At least I’m not in jail. Lay a bit to get the latitude and longitude. 
I’ll never do this again. Seems I had something to do with cattle. And with
drink. And with several parties. And pints of cider. Claws the brain apart.
I don’t like this when I don’t even know what month it is. Who’s been 
meddling with the dresser and pulling out the drawers? And I’ve only got a 
sheet and coat over me. Marion? Just a mattress on her springs.

He sat up. Rubbed the flakes out of the eyes. The door bell ringing. 
Close the watertight compartments. Latch the hatches. Seal up, we’re going 
down you mad bastards. The back door.

Sebastian crawled naked through the morning room into the kitchen. Turned
the key and scrabbling back to the morning room, waiting under the table. 
Through the mirror on the opposite wall he saw the cap of the mailman pass 
by. I’ve got to see the postman. Get a blanket off Miss Frost’s bed.

The mailman coming around the side. Dangerfield opening the door.

“I say there.”

“I was just around the back. Thought you might not hear the bell. I have 
a registered letter for you, sir. There was no one in yesterday.”

“Been out. I was just taking a bath.”

“Will you sign here, please? Sorry to disturb you, sir. Be a bit warmer 
today.”

“I sincerely hope so. Thank you very much. If ever you don’t find me in, 
just put it under the door.”

“And there’s one more.”

“Right.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Good day.”

Good mailman that. Write to the Minister of Posts and Telegraphs and have
that man moved up. Just get a knife and slit these.

* * *

Dear Mr. Dangerfield,

I have tried, without success, to get in touch with you at your present 
address. I am sending this letter by registered post in the hope that it 
will finally reach you. I have a great number of things to do and I find it
hard to spare time trying to get in touch with you.

As you know you were fifty-four pounds in arrears with your rent and also
that you have violated your lease which is not up until November next year,
leaving fourteen months and one week and four days. I will gladly cut off 
one week four days if you would be considerate and send me all or part of 
the sum this week. My wife is not feeling too well since we have had so 
much trouble dealing with this property. And when we went to see the house 
I was sorry to find it in such a condition as to make my wife feel sick to 
her stomach.

I want you to know, Mr. Dangerfield, that I did not disturb anything nor 
look in anything that appeared to be your property. But I feel that you 
should know that there is a large frying pan and boiling pot missing out of
the kitchen. There is only one cup left of the four supplied and two 
dishes, one badly cracked and needing repair, of the four supplied. The 
sofa is needing repair and the old, antique chair with the round knobs is 
gone completely from the drawing room. The Axminster rug is covered in soup
stains and other stains which my wife, thinking of your wife, wishes me not
to disclose. I had the plumber in at considerable expense to myself to see 
the lavatory and he claims the lead pipe was hacked apart with an object 
which may have been an axe, and found other holes of a suspicious nature.

It is not for me to advise concerning your living methods, Mr. 
Dangerfield, but it causes my wife great grief that an American gentleman 
such as yourself should perhaps not keep up the standards we mutually know 
as Americans, but my wife and I are still proud of the citizenship we 
acquired in that land across the seas.

Before closing, I will mention that the ceiling in the bedroom has fallen
down to a great extent which would be such a blow to my wife that I did not
let her go upstairs in the house. The two mirrors are gone, one which was 
antique and hard to come by and a lace curtain from the front room and nine
pieces of assorted cutlery. I would be glad to overlook such minor things 
as stains on the rug and of grease on the stove if I got satisfaction in 
the way of some payment this week. My wife has been making a number of 
visits to the doctor since she has been feeling so ill over the breaking of
the lease and I have been put in the way of a great deal of expense. I 
know, Mr. Dangerfield, that you will come through and I would appreciate it
if you would let me know when you are in, as it is a long drive when I 
don’t get satisfaction. I do not want to get in touch with my solicitor yet
as I feel perhaps you have just been a little busy with your little baby 
and have happened to overlook the little debt now outstanding between us. 
My regards to your wife, who both my wife and I hope is enjoying her good 
health.

Respectfully yours,

Egbert SKULLY.

* * *

* * *

Dear Mr. Skully,

I have caught my neck in a mangle and will be indisposed for eternity.

Yours in death,

S.D.

* * *

Why can’t we all be little friends. Friends of Jesus. Not a sound in the 
house, must be made of rubber.

He put on the gas, filling the teapot. Miss Frost was always good for a 
shilling in the meter. Now what’s this from O’Keefe? Kenneth, what news? 
What fearful news have you? Don’t tell me anything unpleasant, will you 
now, nothing unpleasant. Just nice things. I think I’m going to go bye bye.
All alone in this house. And afraid of getting that last and final chill, 
the one to be avoided at all costs. This world which has caused me so much 
distress and indignity. I’m heartbroken and frightened. But before I do 
down, pack up, dry up or waste away, a few people are going to know about 
it. Kenneth, don’t be unkind.

* * *

Dear Phony,

No money. As I expected. Right. I know your affairs are in a mess. I 
can’t stick it here any longer-as you say, funt. Now I would like to make 
this arrangement with you. Don’t send any money here to me because I am 
coming back to the ould sod, arriving next Monday. Three weeks ago I wrote 
to the Irish Times to send a paper. And I got a job. Ever hear of Lady 
Eclair, Roundwood, Co. Wicklow? Well evidently Lady Eclair wants to do the 
thing properly and wants a French Chef. You can gather the rest. For all 
practical purposes, I am now a frog.

I feel that there may be opportunities in the kitchens of Lady Eclair for
romance with the scullery maids who will be under my lascivious thumb. Now 
I don’t know for sure whether I have this job but Lady Eclair says she will
pay my fare to Ireland and this is where you play the lead. I want you to 
arrange to have seven (7) pounds waiting for me so that I won’t starve in 
that agricultural country.

I find that hunger puts one at a disadvantage when dealing with people 
who eat three times a day. I’m depending on you.

I have abandoned homosexuality for it has only succeeded in complicating 
my life further. I have been satisfying myself by hand as usual but find it
very boring. However, I had written what I called “A Beginners Guide to 
Masturbation” in Greek to add sophistication, but gave it up in despair. 
That was when I decided to try to get back to the ould sod. If I must be 
celibate I may as well live where celibacy is a virtue. I speak French 
enough to be phony. I’ve told Lady Eclair I was educated in England and 
have travelled extensively in America.

Have that seven quid. Or else I’ll be kaput and at the conversational 
mercy of Lady Eclair whom I want to impress with my command of the English 
language and also any items of interest I should spot around the house. I 
also want to appear temperamental as this will give me a certain amount of 
leeway and perhaps I can meet some of her rich guests after they have 
feasted on the food from my well run kitchen. If things go wrong I can 
always suggest that Lady Eclair sail a nate in a sauce boat. Don’t let me 
down.

God bless you,

Kenneth O’KEEFE

Acting Duke of Serutan.

* * *

Kenneth, we all want wampum. And as you must know, if only I had some I 
would be only too willing to share. But the only thing I have here is a 
pile of business magazines which I am going to burn for a fire.

Day is covered in clouds, high gray sea and white horses. Be wild and 
fretful all along the coast. A day like this when I used to watch the brave
men out on the grave water. And seals popping up. If a yellow light bobs on
the end of land that means a fearful thing. Out there, death and disaster.

Sebastian went looking for aspirin. The house looks unusually empty. The 
closet. Marion’s clothes are gone. Just my broken rubbers on the floor. The
nursery. Cleaned out. Bare. Take that white cold hand off my heart.

Feverishly around the house again. Pulling out all the drawers, tearing 
through the closets. Sewing kit gone, and balls of yarn. No message, no 
sign. Into the desk. Locked. He took the poker and smashed it through the 
smooth veneer. Curled his fingers round the side and ripped off the cover. 
Inside, neat and clean, and empty. But for a few of my calling cards. 
Through the kitchen. Looking in the garage. Gray puddle of water coming in 
under the door. No pram. An empty shell of concrete blocks.

Back to the pot boiling on the stove. Tea and aspirin. Auburn is tea. And
tea is about all there is. This is a day when they put the clods on the 
pine box. Jesus, where are the warm moist winds from the Atlantic and the 
tropical plants in profusion. I’ll die of cold. Do something. Shave. Is it 
true that women are frigid because men don’t have beards? Marion, you’ve 
taken your hairy tits away. For butchered Christ, I’m finished. No blades. 
Shave with the edge of the tub. Miss Frost, I must borrow your towel, 
criminal, but these are desperate times. I’m going to sprinkle nitric acid 
on Mr. Skully’s Axminster rug.

On the mantelpiece is one of my treasured possessions, my stoical statue 
which has a cross on the belly. I must now lie without movement, eyeballs 
frozen in my head. Absolute zero. So Marion has left me holding the bag in 
which there are two leases. There’s a game called cricket. And this is a 
wet wicket.

Sebastian went to sleep in the supine chair. At five forty five, Miss 
Frost came in. In my dream I had just given orders to lower lifeboats, to 
start singing and a few other things and I went to the bow to lower myself 
into an unsinkable rubber raft. This was April 14th, 1912. And the sea was 
icy. The light on. Miss Frost standing in the doorway. Looking. 
Embarrassed.

“O, Mr. Dangerfield.”

“Excuse me, Miss Frost, I’m afraid I fell asleep.”

“O.”

Dangerfield sweeps the rug around, covering his exposed parts.

“I’m sorry for all this mess, Miss Frost.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Dangerfield.”

“I hate to ask for such a thing, Miss Frost, but I wonder, could you ever
let me have a cigarette?”

“Certainly, Mr. Dangerfield, I’d be glad to, here.”

“I really am very grateful-very grateful indeed.”

“I don’t know how to say this, Mr. Dangerfield, but Mrs. Dangerfield told
me to tell you that she’s not coming back.”

“Can you tell me where she has gone?”

“She was very upset and she left without saying exactly, although I 
understood that she was taking the Liverpool boat and she had a ticket on 
the train to Edinburgh.”

“Rash.”

“She was disturbed.”

“Couldn’t have gotten my gram.”

“I don’t think she got a telegram.”

“No. More’s the pity. Avoid this misunderstanding. Rash.”

“I’ll clean up a little here, Mr. Dangerfield.”

“O don’t bother, Miss Frost. Leave it to me. I’ll take care of it. Desk 
was a little stuck.”

“O no, Mr. Dangerfield, you look so tired. I’ll do it. It will only take 
a minute. I bought some bread and sausages. I think there are a few 
tomatoes in the cupboard. Would you like to share them with me, Mr. 
Dangerfield? You must be very hungry.”

“I couldn’t, Miss Frost, it’s not fair.”

“Please do, Mr. Dangerfield.”

“Well, it’s extremely kind of you, Miss Frost.”

“O it’s nothing at all, really.”

“God damn, arse hole, bitch.”

“Is something the matter, Mr. Dangerfield?”

“O no, Miss Frost-my leg a little itchy. If you’ll excuse me, I think 
I’ll change for dinner.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Dangerfield.”

Swathed in blanket, Sebastian crept from the room. I’m an Iroquois for 
sure.

He put on his corduroy trousers, kept kidden and damp in a drawer. And 
difficulty buttoning the fly. Don’t want any pink penis showing or Miss 
Frost will think I’m being suggestive for sure. And I could never bear 
another nightmare due to exposure of part or parts. Must be careful of my 
approach to Miss Frost. Rather nice. Fine. And there weren’t many of them 
these days. All after foul wampum. O where is the dignity? Old families and
estates? Carriages and footmen? The vulgarity that has come to pass. Put 
them back down. Back down. And Marion with them. Sneak off, go ahead. Get 
out, stay out. Wouldn’t give me a chance. Some day you’ll show up when I’m 
back where I belong in this world. When I have what I ought to have. My 
due. And when you do. My gamekeepers will drive you out and away for good. 
Out. Away. Out.

He was yelling.

“Is there anything wrong in there, Mr. Dangerfield?”

“Quite all right. Everything’s all right.”

“Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Dangerfield.”

“Thank you, Miss Frost.”

Finish joining this piece of copper wire around my waist. And a bit of 
this curtain for the scarf that’s in it. Just cut it off. Cut. Cut. Cut. 
Fold. Like that. Hide a few of the ragged edges. Little comb of the hair. 
See how my teeth are. Spread the lips. Look rusty. But I have fine flared 
nostrils on a fine straight nose. An aristocrat wherever I flee. And my 
eyes are curious, big ones. They all say I have very fine eyes.

Sebastian entering the morning room. Guilty look at the destroyed desk. 
Miss Frost putting a great platter of sausages on the table encircled with 
mahogany. There was a tablecloth, back rashers. Bowl of milk and pile of 
neatly cut bread. Sugar. Plates clean and sparkling, a knife on one side, 
fork on the other.

Miss Frost sat down, her hand reaching and pulling at the end of her 
skirt in modesty and lurking sensuality. Dangerfield hesitant. Must let the
boarder always make the first move towards the food.

“This is certainly very good of you, although I don’t think it’s really 
fair to let you do it, Miss Frost.”

“It’s nothing, really, Mr. Dangerfield. I enjoy having something to do 
like cooking.”

“But after a hard day. I think it’s asking too much.”

“O no.”

Miss Frost smiled with rather large, well shaped teeth. Something like my
own. And no lipstick. Pleasant to look at her mouth. Sitting sedately 
across, passing me everything going. That platter there.

Sebastian took four sausages, leaving five. Meant only to take three but 
some uncontrollable instinct made me take four. And pass the bread to Miss 
Frost. Must show that I’m not all absorbed by the sausages. Marion perhaps 
was at her, telling a lot of lies about me. Miss Frost will find out for 
herself that I’m all right. If there were more people like Miss Frost, 
people with kindness and consideration. Her gray hair is most becoming.

“These sausages are delicious. I don’t believe I’ve had them before, Miss
Frost.”

“I get them on Pembroke Road. A shop just past the bridge. Homemade.”

“It just goes to show, doesn’t it, Miss Frost, that there’s no beating 
the homemade.”

“I do agree, so much, Mr. Dangerfield.”

“Well, how was work, Miss Frost?”

“It’s always the same, I’m afraid. When I’m put working in the shop, I 
enjoy it because I see a lot of different people.”

“And how is business?”

“It tapers off around this time. Early potatoes are being ordered now and
I think it’s a good time to plant fruit trees.”

“Do you? This is fascinating.”

“O, I think, Mr. Dangerfield, were you to do it for awhile, I think you 
would get very bored.”

“So jolly interesting.”

“It bores me.”

“Bores?”

“A little. I’m tired of working for other people. I’d like to work for 
myself, Mr. Dangerfield. But it’s so hard to get started.”

“Yes, Miss Frost, things are a little difficult these days. Not what they
used to be, of course.”

“It’s so true, Mr. Dangerfield. All sorts of people are keeping gardens 
these days. Yesterday I had a little man come in to me for petunia seeds. 
‘By goom’ type. I assumed he was someone’s gardener. Then I discovered he 
was a very wealthy man and keeps a big account with us. It’s so hard to 
tell, these days.”

“Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.”

Sebastian filled Miss Frost’s cup with tea, reached for a piece of bread.
Miss Frost had three sausages. Must show her I have no interest in the 
remaining two. Bide my time. Let her make the first move. Patience was the 
thing. Suppress these animal desires.

“Have those two sausages, Mr. Dangerfield, before they get cold.”

“O I couldn’t, Miss Frost, I’ve had much more than my share. Indeed. 
Won’t you?”

“I’ve had a sufficiency.”

“But I do insist that you have at least one of them, Miss Frost.”

“No, really. Here, let me help you.”

“Well. Must say, I am a little hungry. I’m usually very careful about my 
diet. Tell me, Miss Frost, do you like Ireland?”

Miss Frost chuckled softly. A gentle, sweet sound. She’s very nice.

“Well, Mr. Dangerfield, it’s my home, but I can’t honestly say that I 
haven’t thought of living elsewhere. I like it well enough. The people are 
good.”

“I should say, the Erse are a very fine race. Now Wexford is your county.
Would you say Wexford had a better class of people?”

Miss Frost gurgled tiny laughter.

“O I don’t know, Mr. Dangerfield, but they are industrious.”

“And a great characteristic.”

“Work?”

“A very necessary thing for most people, Miss Frost. Now, Miss Frost, I 
don’t want to be personal, but if you had your choice, what would you do in
this world?”

“I guess, just to own my own business. What would you like, Mr. 
Dangerfield?”

“Well, Miss Frost, to be quite frank with you, I would like nothing 
better than to be an underwriter to Lloyd’s or inherit a large fortune.”

“Ha, ha, we would all like that, Mr. Dangerfield.”

“Ha, ha, quite.”

“But that isn’t easy, ha, ha, ha.”

“Hey, heh. No I’m afraid it isn’t, Miss Frost. To be sure. Ha, ha.”

“Ha, ha.”

“Miss Frost, come out and have a drink with me?”

“Well.”

“Come along now, you’ve had a hard day. And I think you deserve something
after this extremely pleasant meal. Do you good to have a little walk. I 
know a very interesting house, The Three Eyes.”

“But I don’t want to give the wrong impression, Mr. Dangerfield-you know 
the way people talk. I know there’s no harm in it. O it makes me so upset.”

“Be all right. It’s dark and rainy, won’t see a soul.”

“All right, then.”

“O, just a little thing. I wonder, Miss Frost, could you do me just one 
little favor. I wonder could you let me have this week’s rent. I’m a little
short.”

“I’ve already paid it to Mrs. Dangerfield.”

“O I see, that’s a little difficult. Now I don’t want to inconvenience 
you any, Miss Frost. This is entirely up to you and I don’t want you to 
feel obliged in any way. Could you let me have a pound of next week’s rent 
in advance? Now don’t feel any obligation whatever. I certainly would never
dare think of asking such a thing save for the circumstances. You 
understand.”

“No, I understand, but Mrs. Dangerfield took all next month’s rent. In 
advance.”

“Why that dirty bitch. I beg your pardon, Miss Frost. I do beg your 
pardon. I get so confused sometimes.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Dangerfield.”

Miss Frost went to her bag on the window sill. She took a pound from her 
purse. Sebastian distracting his attention by bending, grunting, and tying 
his shoelace.

“Miss Frost, this is, indeed, most kind of you.”

“It’s nothing at all.”

“I do hate making these requests, Miss Frost, but could you ever lend me 
a scarf? I’m afraid the one I have is most unsatisfactory.”

“Yes, certainly, do go and choose one. They are in the top left drawer of
the dresser.”

Sebastian in her room. There was a yellow one. Bright and soft.

“May I wear this one, Miss Frost?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Handsome. I like a bit of color. I think you will like The Three Eyes 
very much. Miss Frost. Ah, I feel quite refreshed. Sporting, in fact. Give 
me the facts, Miss Frost, and to hell with the fiction. I want the facts.”

“Ha, ha.”

They stepped down the little front porch. Sebastian offering his arm. The
soft million drops coming down. She held his arm lightly. And through the 
middle class streets and in these windows there were comforts. Dry chairs. 
Sebastian whistled a tune.

On a back street, through vacant lots, lanes of the poor and whitewashed 
walls, folding roofs, slates shining everywhere up these black twisted 
streets. Chickens making noise.

The Three Eyes was small and warm. They went into the snug, sat on the 
hard, narrow bench. A ring of the buzzer. A head. Good evening, sir. And 
the drinks. Miss Frost had a glass of port.

“What made you come to Dublin?”

“To be a nurse.”

“To abuse poor unfortunates.”

“I gave it up.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t like it much and I didn’t get along with the other girls. And 
the pay was bad.”

“What did you do then?”

“I went to work for the Dublin Assurance Company, but I didn’t like it 
there either. I went to England then. There was a man in the office whom I 
didn’t fancy very much. We didn’t get along.”

“Why?”

“He thought a great deal of himself. He was my boss.”

“I see.”

“And I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.”

“You did right, Miss Frost. Now, tell me, Miss Frost, how old are you?”

“O, Mr. Dangerfield, I can’t tell you that.”

“O yes you can, Miss Frost.”

“O I couldn’t tell you. I just couldn’t.”

“Miss Frost. I’m your friend. Remember that. Friend. You can tell me 
anything, anything at all. Least of all, your age. Now how old are you?”

Sebastian reached over and covered Miss Frost’s hand in her lap. Comfort 
in a moment of distress.

“O dear, Mr. Dangerfield, I’m thirty four.”

“Excellent age. Best.”

“How do you know?”

“Miss Frost, sometimes I feel fifty three. Seldom, but at times, I feel 
twenty. Like the days. Ever feel a Saturday on a Tuesday? Or a week of one 
Friday after another? Recently I’ve been seventy. But I remember thirty 
four as a fine age. Do you mind, Miss Frost, if I have another, quickly?”

“O, no. Do.”

“Now, Miss Frost, let’s get down to business. What do you want? What do 
you want out of life, anyway?”

“Dear me, what a question.”

“Answer me, now. Truthfully, Miss Frost.”

“Well, your question covers so much ground. There are a great number of 
things I want out of life. Of course, as I’ve said, my own shop.”

“Ah, you want money, Miss Frost. Money is what you’re after.”

“I’d hardly put it that way.”

“But that’s what you’d like, isn’t it?”

“Doesn’t one work towards saving one’s soul, too, Mr. Dangerfield?”

“People ingratiate with God. Think he can do something for them. O.K., 
Miss Frost, now what do you think of when you first get up in the morning?”

Miss Frost was twisting her glass and watching it.

“O just getting ready for work.”

Miss Frost chuckled, a high throated one. And said she’d better go back 
because she had to be up early. Sebastian bought a Baby Powers. Whipped it 
into his pocket. Banged the door for the bartender for a quick one for the 
road. He put his hand in the small of Miss Frost’s back, guiding her, my 
dear ship, out the door. Don’t foul the rudder, darling. Back at the house.

“Mr. Dangerfield, would you like me to make you some coffee. I bought 
some today.”

“Miss Frost, do you know, you would make someone a very fine wife.”

“O Mr. Dangerfield.”

“You would.”

“O, ha, ha. O.”

Miss Frost into the kitchen. Sebastian in the supine chair, bringing it 
up a few notches. Poured himself a drink. Cruelty’s not the word, Marion. I
made every effort I could to start our little family. Things weren’t ideal,
but I was willing to make the best of them. I want to get out and enjoy 
things too. I’m human. But Miss Frost has been very good to me. The way she
moves around that stove. The flex of her rump isn’t bad and a good strong 
developed leg coming out of her brown boot. A heavy hand but that’s all 
right. Heavy hands are sadness. Miss Frost has a rather good physique. Kind
and youthful. See all the turns, cups and pits, fingers. Yum yum yummy. O 
aye, grip, fasten and feel. Go ahead. Good for you. I need help and a 
polite period of rest, of sleep, of peace, to eke out these few more weeks 
till I’m absolutely rotten rich.

“Miss Frost, let me pour you a little drink.”

“Just a little.”

“Do you know, Miss Frost, it’s a great comfort to have you here.”

The blood was gorging her head. Miss Frost turned away. “I really mean 
that, Miss Frost.”

“I like being here.”

“I must apologize for subjecting you to all this upset.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I’d hate you to be unhappy here.”

“I’m quite happy. I really am, Mr. Dangerfield. I think this is the 
nicest house I’ve been in yet. It’s so free and easy.”

“It’s that, Miss Frost-it’s certainly that.”

“I like things to be free and easy.”

“I agree, a good way. Free and easy. Easy and free-it’s the way things 
ought to be, and I like things that way, Miss Frost. None of these binding 
things.”

“Yes, I think so too.”

Miss Frost brought out the pot of coffee with a plate of biscuits. They 
smiled across the table.

“Things crop up all the time, don’t they, Miss Frost? Unpleasant things. 
But we’ll see better days. Every cloud, you know, lined with lead. I like 
you, Miss Frost.”

“I like you too.”

The biscuits were passed to Sebastian. He took four. Miss Frost stirring 
in the sugar. They preoccupied their eyes. O the eyes.

Yes eyes.

No eyes.

What things

They see.

Some say happiness

Others Misery.

O the eyes.

O aye,

The eyes.

“Miss Frost?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to be quite honest, as I know I can be with you, without being
misunderstood.”

“Yes, Mr. Dangerfield?”

“Miss Frost, may I sleep in your bedroom?”

There was a pause. Miss Frost’s face was touched with a bit of redness. 
Her eyes gone down to the coffee. Sebastian continuing in the voice of good
fellowship, a businesslike sound.

“I don’t want you to misunderstand me, Miss Frost. I’ll put my mattress 
on your floor. It’s a rather peculiar thing with me. Having had so much 
upset I don’t think I could bear to sleep alone. Would you mind awfully? I 
know it must seem a bit irregular, but dash it all, I may as well be 
honest.”

“O no, Mr. Dangerfield, it isn’t irregular at all. I know how you must 
feel. I don’t mind. I understand what you mean.”

“It’s really very kind of you, Miss Frost. To take it like this.”

“But are you sure you won’t be uncomfortable? I don’t mind sleeping on 
the floor, I’m used to it. I did a lot of it in the land army.”

“Heh, heh, not a bit. The mattress is absolutely perfect. It’s just that 
I hope I’m not imposing.”

“You’re not imposing, Mr. Dangerfield.”

“I’m enjoying your coffee. Very good.”

“I’m glad. I make it in a jug.”

“Proper way.”

“Yes.”

“This has been a most pleasant evening for me, Miss Frost.”

“I enjoyed it too.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“So many people look down on a woman who goes into a public house.”

“Old fashioned, Miss Frost.”

“I agree.”

Miss Frost cleared away. Ran water. Hear the sound of cleanliness in 
there. Nothing like not facing grease slimed dishes of a morning. I’m in 
here getting my mattress. It’s gray, striped, and a wet mass. Gently now, 
on the floor. I’ve got to have a blanket. Can’t let Miss Frost see these 
dirty sheets-it wouldn’t do. Let’s go, through the door, get this chair out
of the way before I let it have it. Give it the treatment. Like Skully’s 
genuine antiques. Put back Miss Frost’s scarf. Fold my trousers. Must have 
everything neat. My underwear is a little tattered. Whether to sleep naked 
or have the modesty of these tom undergarments? Modesty at all costs. These
are the things that make the marriage happy. Meals on time, sugar, butter, 
and salt on the table. Socks darned and go to the drawer and find a clean 
shirt. Miss Frost was right in there with those dishes. No fuss. No 
excuses. Fine person. Am I smelling? Sniff a pit. Little musty. Can’t have 
everything.

Get this blanket around now, cover up any sign of scruffiness. Miss 
Frost’s room has some soul. Personality. Call it lived in. Perhaps I ought 
to appear asleep? No. None of these sneaky pretences. Lie here, forthright,
honest and awake.

Miss Frost came into the room.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable there, Mr. Dangerfield?”

“Quite sure. Surprisingly comfortable.”

“I’ll just get some of my things.”

Miss Frost took her dressing gown from behind the door and a green, 
cellophane bag from the dresser. She went to the bathroom. Running water. 
Door shuts. I face a fateful week. Week of constant Mondays. I think I will
set sail of a Friday. And I must play this game of not being seen, 
perfectly.

Miss Frost comes back.

“I’ll turn off the light, Mr. Dangerfield. I hope you’re all right 
there.”

“Blissful. I know this is a dreadful inconvenience for you, Miss Frost. I
want you to know I really appreciate it. I have till now counted my friends
on a hand of amputated fingers.”

“O Mr. Dangerfield.”

Light went off. She stood at the foot of her bed, taking off her robe. I 
shouldn’t be straining my eyes to see as much as I can. I wouldn’t want her
to notice. Got on green pajamas. From what I can see, they suit her. She’s 
climbing up from the bottom of the bed. This thing, lust. Get away. Carnal 
appetite or overture to the orifice. Climb into her brain. She’s settled in
her bed. Limbs pushing around between the sheets; I’m careful to listen to 
those things. O there isn’t much that I overlook. And Miss Frost, lying 
there as you are in your little bed and me here, prostrate, on the floor 
because everything is so tiny in the world. Over the edge, through gloom 
and whatnot, I see your two big toes sticking up under the covers. And if I
lift my head a little I can see the rest of you. I’m so lonely and you’re 
lonely too. Hearts clicking. Remember that. Just so many times and click, 
we go away in this roofless world.

“Miss Frost?”

“Yes?”

“May I hold your hand?”

Miss Frost moved her arm towards the voice and curved her wrist over the 
edge of the bed. And his fingers closed around her hand. I was a little boy
and wet the bed because I thought I was out with a lot of other kids 
playing in a swamp and could piss anywhere. To touch Miss Frost seems safe 
and sad. Because I guess I pull her into my own pit. For company or the 
bones in her hand. Fingernails and knuckles. But I can tell she’s 
tightening her grip. Her muscles tugging at my bones. Now I’m on my knees. 
And elbows on her bed. Her head trembling. Hair splayed gray and dark. 
Sighs of her mouth. Feel her sad hands around my back. Let me get in under 
these covers. Got her tongue touching my ear. Juice. Open the buttons, warm
my cold chest with hers. Miss Frost. O Miss Frost.

She put up her back. And I’ll pull down your pajamas. Throat of birth 
weeping. Kiss all the tears away. All gone. You’ve been lonely in the dark.

They lay side by side. Miss Frost held her hand to her brow. Sliding back
into her pajamas. Goes to the bathroom.

“Miss Frost, bring me back a glass of water.”

He was sipping it when she began to cry. He reached for her hand and she 
brought it away to her head. Holding her hands over her eyes.

“Now, now, this is no way to behave.”

Miss Frost turning away.

“I shouldn’t have done it.”

“Now, now, it’s all right.”

“It isn’t. O God I shouldn’t have let you come in the room.”

“Through charity.”

“It wasn’t. It was wrong. O dear-God forgive me.”

“Don’t take it like this.”

“It’s a mortal sin. And you made me, Mr. Dangerfield.”

“You made yourself, Miss Frost.”

“O God, I didn’t. It wasn’t my fault. I could never confess it. Why did 
you?”

“Why did you? Takes two to congress.”

“Please don’t make it worse.”

“I’m not making it worse, Miss Frost. You’re being very childish about 
this.”

“I beg of you.”

“You’re saved if you say the act of contrition.”

“I’ve got to tell it.”

“God’s in the room. Tell it.”

“Don’t say that-we could be struck dead.”

“Relax, Miss Frost.”

“I didn’t want to do this. I know I didn’t want to.”

“Yes you did.”

“I didn’t, please, I didn’t.”

Miss Frost turned away on her side, her body choked and sobbing.

“Miss Frost, God is all merciful.”

“But it’s a mortal sin which I have to confess to the priest and it’s 
adultery as well.”

“Please now, Miss Frost. Take hold of yourself. This won’t do any good.”

“It’s adultery.”

“One mortal sin is the same as another.”

“I’m damned. It isn’t.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“Don’t leave me alone.”

“Don’t cry. God’s not going to condemn you. You’re a good person. God’s 
only after people who are out and out bastards, habitual sinners. You must 
be sensible.”

“I’ll have to give your name.”

“You what?”

“Your name. I’ll have to tell it to the priest.”

“What makes you think that? Nonsense.”

“He’ll ask me.”

“Not at all.”

“He will. And they’ll send the priest to my mother.”

“Ridiculous. The priest’s only there to forgive your sins.”

“No.”

“Miss Frost, you’ve done this before.”

“Yes.”

“For Christ’s sake. And they sent the priest to your mother?”

“Yes.”

“And they asked the name of the man?”

“Yes.”

“I can only say that it’s just fantastic. And when did it happen?”

“When I was twenty.”

“How?”

“A man who worked for us. They sent me to a convent in Dublin to do 
penance. The priest said he wouldn’t give me absolution till I gave up his 
name. And you’re a married man.”

“You’re afraid of the priest?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a special church on the quays where you can confess these 
things. I’ll find out for you.”

“God, don’t. I couldn’t be seen there. It’s not respectable.”

“Sin, Miss Frost, is never respectable. Now just relax a little and 
everything’s going to be all right.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“All priests’ confessionals are not the same. Ask around for a 
sympathetic one.”

“I know them and I couldn’t ask anyone about such a thing. Word would get
around.”

“Go to sleep now, it’ll be all right in the morning.” Sebastian put his 
hand out to her. Few friendly pats on the shoulder. She dried her tears and
blew her nose. I took a sip of water and swallowed for the quench that was 
in it. Miss Frost had closed her eyes. She would sleep. She had a nice 
little salary, nothing to worry about. She may as well get as much as she 
can and confess it all at once. O Lord, for all thy faults I love thee 
still. And will he ask you, did you wiggle? Your nates. There must be a lot
of steps to heaven. And Ireland is closest of all. But they’re ruining 
Jesus with publicity.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

At six a.m. on Monday morning, Sebastian climbed over the body of Miss 
Frost, and touched his way through the dark to the bathroom. Using Miss 
Frost’s scented soap to wash the face and around the ears and the back of 
the neck. Then throw the icy water generously over the head for the 
stimulation. Good habit of a morning. And toothpaste, brush way back there 
round these molars.

Tiptoe back into the room and into Miss Frost’s dresser. Pull the drawer 
out slowly. Miss Frost sleeping soundly. Take the drawer out into the hall 
and borrow one of these blouses. Whoops. Drawer out too far. Have lost 
touch with it in the dark. What calamitous clatter.

Miss Frost was awake with a dreadful fear in her voice.

“Who’s that?”

“Me.”

“O Jesus, Mary and Joseph. What happened?”

“Little accident.”

“O.”

I think this is the first early morning conversation I’ve ever had with 
Miss Frost.

Talking through the dark.

“I wonder, Miss Frost, could I ever trouble you to borrow one of your 
blouses?”

There was silence. Dangerfield standing, unclothed in the darkness. He 
waited. Her voice a little high, touch of uncertainty.

“Of course, do.”

“God bless you and keep you always.”

Sebastian groping on the floor for the drawer, dragging it with a chair 
out of the room. Had the light been on I would have been mortified. The 
naked are defenceless. I think night is my best friend. And death an 
obstacle to overcome till the good ripe years of lust, gluttony and sloth. 
I have lain in my lair with blankets tacked up over strategic windows. Miss
Frost has been good to me. Leaves me breakfast. But I have been put to 
oakie cakes. My last unpalatable resort. I’m down to my accent.

She gets all upset. And remorseful. Cloacal communion isn’t the great fun
it was. I comforted her with readings from this Aquinas because he says 
it’s good for you. And I said, tenderly earwards, heads on the pillow, that
from manure, lilies grow. To know the real goodness one had to be bad and 
of sin. What good is it to God, dear Miss Frost, for a child to be born 
pure, to live purely and die purely. Where was the grace in that shallow, 
white sterility? You don’t want that stuff. No. Get down in it, down. The 
greatest whiteness is touched with black. The righteous were a sneaky bunch
anyway. And she took this little comfort. Nude and at my side, saying, if 
my mother ever got wind of it, it would kill her. Even to confess on the 
quays, Mr. Dangerfield, would have the bishop to this very doorstep and I’d
be put into the nuns. My dear Miss Frost, were we to get the bishop here, I
think, I myself would join the priests.

He found a yellow shirt. For the cheerfulness. And Miss Frost would never
miss one of her vests. I must have warmth. Cold as a eunuch’s balls on the 
quays.

He dressed and went into the morning room and put a few oakie cakes in 
his raincoat, took down a curtain rod and stepped out into the cold, dark 
morning. Passing through the limp front gate, sauntering down the street, 
sucking in the atmosphere.

Run the curtain rod on these rungs of gates. Everything is wet and 
silent. White, low clouds. Some light flicking on in the houses. Here comes
a milkman whistling. And I hear the roaring tram. Morning is great.

Walking down the Custom House Quay, the cobbled street filling with the 
rumble of carts and huge, pounding horses. Stand back and watch them go by.
Taxis and hansoms collecting at the boat exit.

Dangerfield leaning against the warehouse wall across the street from the
third class door. Giving final attention to his clothes, little nip at the 
tie and the rather fashionable long collar of Miss Frost’s blouse. Good to 
see O’Keefe again.

The passengers coming out. Sebastian rapping his curtain rod against the 
building. He took out an oakie cake, crunched it, and ate. Stale fat. Dry 
and gluey.

Suddenly framed in the door, the half man, half beast, red bearded jaw, 
the same green shirt he left in, same trousers. Kit bag slung across his 
chest, same smileless sad face. He paused, looked at a newsboy suspiciously
and bought a paper. He opened it quickly, closed it quickly, sticking it 
under his arm. He threw his kit bag strap higher on his shoulder with an 
awkward flick, and bending slightly forward, lowering his head, started to 
drive forward up the quay and stopped. Turning his head slowly. His eyes 
met those of the silent, austere spectre of Sebastian Dangerfield whose 
cadaveric lips, widening, showed his newly brushed teeth, as he leaned 
carefully against the bricks.

Dangerfield crossed the dung-covered street. Reached into his pocket and 
stretched forth his hand to the waiting O’Keefe.

“Kenneth, will you have an oakie cake?”

“I figured on this.”

“On what, Kenneth?”

“Oakie cakes.”

There was an evil laugh.

“Kenneth, aren’t you glad to see me? To have me welcome you back to this 
green garden in the sea?”

“That depends.”

“Come, my dear Kenneth, put down this animal caution. Just look. The 
commerce, barrels and barrels, steel girders and see these fine beasts, 
ready to be cut to size. A grand prosperous country.”

“We’ll see.”

They walked by the huge boxes and stopped to let a drove of bullocks pass
across the street through the lifting, half light. The wild fearful eyes of
these animals. A long line of spidery bikes, flowing along the edge of the 
sidewalk and the taxis and horse cabs coming up from the ship. They were 
cold figures passing on into this ancient, Danish city.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

They had come to Woolworth’s Cafe for breakfast. Sun was out. Sitting, 
facing one another across the white table. Bacon and eggs, tea, bread and 
butter. Yummy.

“Kenneth, let me hear about your travels.”

“Dull.”

“Did you go to a professional in Paris?”

“No. Lost my nerve at the last minute.”

“I take it then-?”

“That I didn’t have a smell.”

“Quite. It’s a pity, Kenneth. Something will have to be done for you. An 
arrangement made. Bring you to the Congo or something. How would you like a
Pigmy?”

“Where’s this seven quid?”

“Be all right, now. Don’t worry about a thing. Taken care of. Just tell 
me, what else happened?”

“Nothing. I got nothing. Just nothing. Wrestling in the dark with this 
student and I gave that up because it wasn’t getting me anywhere and was 
driving me crazy. The only thing that kept me from going completely around 
the bend was this fantastic correspondence with Lady Eclair.” O’Keefe 
quickly slitting the soft tissued white of egg. Wiping up fat with a piece 
of bread. They could see from this window down into the early morning 
stirrings of Dublin.

“It was really fantastic. I told you about the ad for a chef. I write and
get this reply written in the third person, Lady Eclair would like to know 
if Kenneth O’Keefe is Protestant or Catholic. I wrote back that Kenneth 
O’Keefe is neither and will not require to be delivered to Church on 
Sundays. She writes back, Lady Eclair feels that Kenneth O’Keefe should 
have some religion because everyone needs a church for the development of 
their immortal soul. So I said that Kenneth O’Keefe’s immortal soul is 
already developed therefore did not find churches useful. Next letter she 
says Lady Eclair would like to quote from Proverbs, ‘Poverty and shame 
shall be to him that refuseth instruction but he that regardeth reproof 
shall be honoured.’ I answered that Kenneth O’Keefe has already suffered 
much poverty and shame while a member of the Church of Rome and that ‘The 
simple believeth every word; but the prudent man looketh well to his 
going.’”

“And you’re hired?”

“So far. This religion business will present a problem. I’m suspicious 
about people interested in saving other people’s souls. Where’s the money?”

“I beg of you. Eke. Beg. Patience. Kenneth.”

“What’s in this house. Does it have a toilet?”

“Every amenity. A place for soap. Four gas burners. Wooden floors. Bit of
the damp and loneliness.”

“Your own kitchen?”

“Everything, Kenneth.”

“And you’re alone?”

“No.”

“You’re not alone?”

“Exactly.”

“Who’s living with you?”

“Not with, Kenneth. In the house. A Miss Frost. A charming young lady 
from Wexford. I’ll have you meet her.”

“Marion. Where did she go?”

“Away. Scotland. Not feeling well.”

“What’s the matter? She pregnant?”

“I hope not. Now I think I can see you right. Come out to the Geary with 
me.”

“Doesn’t Marion mind your being in the house alone with Miss Frost?”

“Hardly think so. Miss Frost is a very good Catholic. Quite above board. 
No fear, no scandal, Kenneth. A most interesting person.”

“You’ve got money out there?”

“Just come.”

“God damn it. You’ve got nothing on you?”

“I’m a little short.”

“God damn it. I knew it was going to be like this. All right, I’ll pay 
the bill. I’m just an utterly defeated bastard.” Dangerfield leaning back. 
Wiping the mouth. Waitresses watching them. O’Keefe led the way down the 
stairs. His jutting red beard. Put his hands in his pocket. Dangerfield 
behind him, walking curiously.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“This, Kenneth, is the spider walk. I’ve been trying to perfect it for 
some time. You see, every two steps you bring the right foot across from 
behind and skip. Enables one to turn around without stopping and go in the 
opposite direction.”

“What for?”

“I’m a little self-conscious about turning around these days. Mobility is
what I like, Kenneth.”

They were approaching the bottom of Grafton Street.

“I’m thirsty, Kenneth.”

“Yeah.”

“Drink of water.”

“Go into a shop. They’ll give you water.”

“That’s very complicated.”

O’Keefe suspicious. Jaw clamped. Walking faster.

“Now, Kenneth, is there anything wrong with wanting a little drink of 
water.”

O’Keefe stopped. Threw his hands in the air. Eye wide. Screaming.

“You God damn drunkard. Damn this damn country. Drink is the curse of 
this country. God damn it.”

The crowds stepped back to make room for this shouter. Dangerfield 
abandoning his spider walk set off swiftly across the street towards 
O’Donogue’s Public House. He missed the door. A great slap of body into the
wall. He stood there stunned. Scratching at the bricks.

O’Keefe watching him, broke into wild laughter. The crowd stepped back 
further. When shouters laugh, there’s violence.

O’Keefe speaking to the crowd.

“Can’t you see I’m mad? Drink is the curse of this damn country.”

He followed Dangerfield who was standing, a bit twitchy inside the pub 
door.

“For God’s sake, Kenneth, what’s the matter with you? Do you want to have
me spotted?”

“You bastard, you got me into a pub anyway. Boy did you look silly 
running into the wall.”

“Well I think you’re cracking up.”

“I’ve come back to this place after putting in a half year of loneliness,
not enough to eat, no sex life, nothing and this is what I have to face. No
money waiting and I’m not going to buy you drink. I just can’t stand it. I 
don’t want this life anymore.” “Kenneth, you’re upset. Now don’t be upset. 
I know you’ve had a hard time of it and I want to see you enjoy your 
return.”

“Shut up. Get your drink. Here. Take this. Get it but shut up. Drink, 
drink-go ahead.”

Sorrowfully, Dangerfield took the half crown. He whispered to the man 
behind the bar. He came to O’Keefe with a pint of cider and a pint of stout
for himself. In O’Keefe’s eye, a bit of mist. Dangerfield put the pennies 
change down. O’Keefe swept them aside. Sebastian put them in his pocket.

“Look, Dangerfield. When someone farted in my house you could smell it in
every room. At every meal there were seven pairs of hands reaching for a 
pile of spaghetti. Fights and yapping. Yap, yap, yap. I’m here because I 
want to get out of that forever and there’s one thing that will get me out 
and that’s money. I don’t give a damn what you do, drink yourself to death,
murder Marion, but me, I’ve had all I want. What have I got to show for two
years over here? This sack has everything I own in the world.”

“I’m only trying to be of help, Kenneth.”

“Well you’re not. You’re sucking me down. I don’t want you on my back.”

“You don’t mean that, Kenneth.”

“I mean it. I don’t care if I never see you again as long as I live. You 
could be dying in the gutter, I don’t care. All I want is my money and you 
can go and drink yourself to death.”

“O hard words, Kenneth.”

“What the hell have I got to show for all the time I’ve been over here? 
Nothing. And it’s because of people like you. The Irish are all the same 
wherever they go. Faces compressed into masks of suffering. Complaining and
excuses. And the Irish rasping, squabbling and bickering. Hear me? I’m sick
of it. I hate it. I thought you got places when you learned to be an 
electrician. Good steady job. Good money. Have kids. I don’t want kids. I 
don’t want to be sucked down. And listen to some priested mick saying this 
is the second Sunday after Pentecost, there will be a communion breakfast 
next Sunday, and I want to see you all put a dollar in the basket. And 
every time I get a chance to get out of it, something screws me.”

“O you’re distraught, Kenneth. Now calm. And remember poverty is sacred. 
But don’t strain to get away. All these other things will come. Let me sing
you a little song.”

All the way

From the land

Of Kerry

Is a man

From the dead

Gone merry.

This man

Stood in the street

And stamped his feet

And no one heard him.

CHAPTER TWENTY

They arrived in the Geary. The sea is right down those streets lashing 
and lapping. And have to bend down to get under these clouds. O madam bend 
over, I want to tell you something. Out here it’s like soft bread and fish 
things burrow and hide. I used to climb around here. Get the tiny creatures
caught in these crystal cradles of rock. Like me. Until they take the 
fearful sun away and give me a bosom of deep.

In the post office. Of the Geary. Dangerfield approached the counter 
abruptly. Clicked his heels.

“I say, my good man, would you see if there is a letter for Percivil 
Buttermere?”

Clerk turning to the row of boxes. Dangerfield rotating on his ankles. 
O’Keefe standing glumly aside. An apostate. Man murmuring seeing is. Pound 
in the pocket is twenty in the post. There were guilty smiles.

“Have faith, Kenneth. They say they build a lot of things on that. O I 
wish the world had more faith.”

“I’ve no sympathy for the grief it’s causing you.”

Clerk going through the butter. Pulls out a letter for a good look. Puts 
it back. Comes to the end. Grumbling is heard and mumbling.

“Sorry sir, no Buttermere.”

“I say, doo ding dong, there must be some mistake. A mistake, I say. Or 
said.”

O’Keefe drew his shoulders up around his head. And let them down slowly. 
A shift of the pack and he bent towards the door. Drove his weary self out 
into the street.

“I’ll take another look for you, sir.”

“Would you. Very urgent matter.”

Clerk, nearsighted and whispering.

“There’s Butcher, Buttimer-there’s Buttermede.”

“I say, ding dong, that may be it.”

“Blotted.”

“Let me see it.”

Sound of ripping.

“This is it. Ding dong. Come up you numb bunch of bastards out of that 
hold and batten down or something.”

“What, sir?”

“A sentiment.”

“O.”

A cat, his eyes afire. There were three five pound and broken notes. And 
a letter. And a moment of hesitation and instant of animal. Reading these 
sweet Erse words.

TA GUTG PUINT STERLING INIOCTHA AS AN NOTA SO LE N-A SHEALBHOIR AR N-A 
EILEAMH SAN SO I LUNDAIN.

Out into the street. Alone. Did I say that this faith was rampant? Or did
I say it was just like hot tamale. Check me please. O yes, put this brown 
stuff in my pocket. If I can get up the street away. O’Keefe gone.

Sebastian went hurriedly to a building with an eagle over the door in 
which they were serving liquor.

“Good day, sir.”

“Good day. Put a bottle of brandy on the bar.”

“All of it, sir?”

“All.”

A figure appeared. Beside Dangerfield. And an outstretched hand. Hungry 
palm.

“O.K.”

“Kenneth, won’t you join me?”

“Just give me my money. You would have left me without a cent.”

“Had to get change.”

“You’re a no good bastard and where’s that money coming from?”

“Ye of little faith. This is going to be a great night. Have you got your
coffee grinder?”

“Give me the money.”

“All right, Kenneth, if you prefer. But I can only spare four.”

“God damn it. Give me the four then.”

“Be my guest. We’ll have dinner with Miss Frost. Be nice. I think she 
gives, Kenneth. Might be worthwhile looking into it. Wouldn’t you like a 
bit of that thing they do in the dark?”

“You’re just a son of a bitch. You’d leave me to return to Dublin without
a penny. Tomorrow I see Lady Eclair and I want nothing to screw this deal. 
I have to get the eleven-thirty bus to Roundwood. I’m going.”

“Don’t leave, for the love of God, Kenneth.”

“I know you. I don’t want to see life through a haze. You’ll be talking 
with some bogman all night.”

“Now, Kenneth, you’re a man who speaks fluent Greek and Latin, a man of 
much useless knowledge, schooled in culture, who knows what Plato said to 
his boys, buggering them in the bushes. Where do you think this harshness 
is going to get you? I’m going to report you to the Legion of Mary.”

“I’m going.”

“Jesus, stay. I beg of you, Kenneth. Don’t leave me in this time of want.
Or wampum. Drink up. Motto. Drink up. Come on, Kenneth. Snap out of it. A 
great world this.”

“Where did you get the money?”

“From across the seas.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

“Sounds fishy to me.”

“The name of Dangerfield has never and will never be touched with such.”

“You’re up to monkey business.”

“These are strange times, Kenneth. Very strange. There’s a world out 
there with people with eyes and mouths. The eyes see these things and the 
mouths want the things the eyes see. O but they can’t have them. That’s the
way things are arranged. Got to have things unequal or nothing would 
happen. Men like yourself who want to have carnal knowledge of the female 
nates and boob-si-boobs and the other thing they have up there between the 
legs that we can’t get at so easily without first twisting off the garters 
and whalebone. It’s there, but you can’t have that.”

“I’ll get it.”

“And I hope you do. But if you get put down without it, don’t be bitter, 
Kenneth. Those things are for a reason. Saints and things. You’re a man 
equipped for old age. Don’t waste your time on this sexual appetite. I 
think we are natural aristocrats of the race. Come before our time. Born to
be abused by them out there with the eyes and the mouths. But the likes of 
me, Kenneth, get it rectally from all manner of men. The professional 
classes take exception and it is among this class that I would take up my 
place but they want to make mock of me and drive me out, rip my privates 
away and put them on a public pole with a sign, Dangerfield is dead. That’s
what they want to hear. But there’s no bitterness in me. Only love. I want 
to show them the way and I expect only taunts and jeers. But there are the 
few who listen. Worth it all. I put this to you, Kenneth. Go back. Go hack 
to this church of yours. Put down these things of making money and living 
in a fine big house with nice comfortable chairs and an Irish maid putting 
logs on the lire and bringing in the tea. Get these tweed suitings out of 
your mind and trousers lined with satin and put down the desires of the 
flesh, nipple nuttiness, nate needy, boob bothered. You don’t want an M.G. 
and a manservant, shallowness and deceit, or lawns to the lake and garden 
sets where one sits thinking of more money. All I want out of this life, 
Kenneth, is my rightful place and for others to keep theirs. The common 
people back down where they belong. And if it’s not too much to ask, 
Kenneth, how do I pass these exams?”

“Study.”

“My mind’s a blank.”

“What the hell is the matter with you?”

“Kenneth, I’m beaten. I’ll never pass. I must dine with my tutor but I 
can’t appear wearing these frightful rags and with hunger written around 
the eyes.”

“God damn it, in spite of everything, I love this country.”

“Why Kenneth, are you off your jump completely?”

“I love it.”

Dangerfield’s face the color of gold, eyes, bright fires. O’Keefe hoisted
himself on a stool, his pack hanging between his legs. Sebastian pouring 
out the brandy.

“It’s good to have someone to talk to, Kenneth. I’ve been a bit on my own
lately.”

“This country can be so damn exasperating but just to be in Dublin sort 
of gets me all excited. I tingle in all my bones. And with nothing but four
pence for a cup of coffee in Bewley’s. I used to lie awake at night 
memorizing new French words and dreaming about coming back. If I could open
up a restaurant with the money saved from this job, I’d be set.”

“All you would need would be some chairs, tables, forks and lots of 
rancid grease.”

“Yeah.”

“Be very fashionable.”

Dangerfield pointing east with a nervous finger.

“I’m going over there, Kenneth. Across the Irish Sea and there will be a 
bit of the good life. I’ve got plans. If one stays in the land of the crut 
too long it gets a bit tight around the various glands. Sun and the dance. 
And perhaps the song.”

“Well have your song and dance, I’ve got to go. So long.”

“Don’t.”

“So long.”

O’Keefe turned and pushed through the door. Dangerfield counting the 
swinging of the hinges.

I’m a friend of all kinds. And animals too so long as they don’t get 
rough. Some of them have to be put in the cages but o aye, they deserved 
it. Everything is always fair and square, anyhow. Part of the rules. Heavy 
breasted Mary and your foul father. Chasing you around the house, you in 
your nightdress, he with a broom. One doesn’t know what goes on in these 
suburban houses. Must watch for these incestuents. I have a friend in Miss 
Frost and Mary has faith. Must read this little note.

* * *

Dear Sebastian,

I hope this finds you all right. Please write to me and tell me. Please 
try to arrange to see me because I’m very lonely, and worried because my 
father is suspicious and threatening to write to the bank. Tell me what day
I should leave for London and where I should meet you. The boys have gone 
to Cavan to stay on my uncle’s farm.

Please think of me and write to me. I want to see you so much, and want 
to be in bed with you. Write, please.

Love,

MARY.

* * *

He moved out with bottle. Under the eagle. Into good air. Night and 
Ireland. Like licking moisture from leaves. Eating up green. And up the 
Geary Road. I do not trust this acute joy. Misery is my forte. O’Keefe will
be caught by Lady Eclair. Be on a maid. And Eclair will beat his bottom 
with a Bible. Poor chef. I’d put it that there are only a few more days 
before I see the end.

He pushed in the front gate. A bit twisted. A light coming through the 
garage window from the kitchen. Must watch that. I’ll just pretend I’m 
Egbert and check up. A few windows need attending to. The back door locked.
Good thing, Miss Frost. That’s the way I like to see things, everyone on 
their toes.

Sebastian knocked. Miss Frost’s shadow twisting the key. She smiled. A 
little shy around the eyes, a little embarrassed around the teeth, her face
atwinkle.

“Good evening, Miss Frost. A bit of softness.”

“Good evening, Mr. Dangerfield, are you very wet?”

“No. Pleasant out. Nice smell.”

“A friend of mine got me some sausage meat from Bray.”

“Jolly good show. How are you, Miss Frost-tell me, how are you?”

“O, I’m all right. A little tired. I was in the shop today.”

“On your feet?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Frost, give me a kiss.”

“O, Mr. Dangerfield.”

Sebastian approaching in the hard, kitchen light. He put the brandy on 
the table and reached out for her wrist. Tightening his fingers around the 
bone and she let go of the frying pan and it fell on the floor. Miss Frost 
in her gray sweater and her mouth a little uncontrolled. This evil man from
Mars, hand on the flat of her hack. Pressing with dignity. And whatever 
else happened, if we have that, we’re all right. Whispering in Miss Frost’s
ear.

“Miss Frost, you have a lovely nape of neck. Chew your ears. Ever chew 
ears? O Miss Frost, chewing ears is the thing, down on the lobes. 
Especially the lobes. Get down on those soft things of flesh.”

“O, Mr. Dangerfield, you’ll bite them off.”

“Tender.”

“You like them that way?”

“Mixed with eyes.”

“Hee, hee.”

“Eyes.”

“You go on.”

“Miss Frost, are we going to put the sausage in that nice pan? Lash it 
with a bit of butter. Sizzle. O I think we’re going to like this with the 
drink that’s in it. Now would you say, Miss Frost, that there’s a bit of 
drink to go with it?”

“Hee, hee. O please. Dear me.”

“Give you a little bit of the mouth along the shoulders. You’ll take this
off later like a good girl, Miss Frost. Later? Yes? Smell them. The sizzle.
The silly sizzle of them, Miss Frost. And do you know, Miss Frost, you’re a
very fine person.”

“You’ve had a few.”

“Five for the road. Never let it be said that I took to the highway or 
even byway without fuel for me little heart. Hear it in there. Go ahead, 
feel it. Here. Little feeble now until I get my fangs fastened to this 
meat. Meat.”

“Dear me.”

Sebastian released Miss Frost from his arms. Your gray sweater and their 
shape in there. And your hips have a nice swell. Want to press a tip of 
warm nose in your white cool ear. And smelling this new bread. Get the 
juices well around the teeth. I think, Jesus, we’re just two little bread 
breakers. I want a big loaf. Big enough to get inside. Safety. Miss Frost, 
take my clothes off and put me in a big loaf of bread. A touch of gold on 
the crust. Float my ears and eyes. Do that, put me in there and save me. 
Little naked body, shrivelled with fright of the world and cock by which 
I’ll poke my way to poverty and my tiny buttressed buttocks, fold me all up
like these noiseless nomads and put me in the bread. Don’t burn my balls, 
just brown and cozy, fat with fine crust. And take me out in the morning 
baked to a fine turn and put it on the table. And I’ll be there inside. My 
little self with my lovely strange eyes looking better than ever. Miss 
Frost. Eat me.

Dangerfield cutting the bread. A nice little pile now. I feel I’m just a 
crazy boat on British waters screaming what ho bastards on port, starboard 
and everywhere. Are you mad? Want us to founder? Or spill me into the sea? 
Or twist me in the rigging. Fire all the guns. We’re at sea you bunch of 
vulgar pigs and when I tell you to fire, fire. Batten down all balls and by
Jesus, any erection gets the guillotine.

“Miss Frost, I’ve a declaration to make. I love you.”

“Mind, you’ll cut yourself, Mr. Dangerfield.”

“But love.”

“You’re just going on.”

“Let me repeat. I love you.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I mean it, Miss Frost, and there’s not many or none I can say it to. I 
only feel that it’s better to be in this world with a few polite 
possessions than without. Get that meat in there. See there’s a way of 
doing it so O’Keefe says, give the pan a bang just here and it slides 
nicely around. I am partial to the oil of the olive. Now have a little 
drink. Have you ever seen a color like it? Little sniff? Would you say 
there is a bit of mellowness there now, Miss Frost, would you say that?”

“It’s very nice.”

Miss Frost leaning against the sink, watching Sebastian carefully from 
glistening eyes. He was sitting on this white kitchen chair, waiting for 
the fry. And sticks his finger into the sausage meat and sucks the 
stickings down his throat.

“It’s so very good, Miss Frost. Now there’s another shop on the Pembroke 
Road that sells a meat that would put ten years on your life. Need a little
garlic.”

“O no, Mr. Dangerfield. Garlic?”

“Why yes, Miss Frost, garlic, of course garlic.”

“But it smells.”

“That’s what we want, Miss Frost. We want that smell. O I’m going to see 
some times yet. I’m thinking seriously of buying a large new cup for the 
breakfast. I love breakfast. Going to be a few changes made. A lot of 
changes. Some big. Some small. Miss Frost, can I rely on you not to spill a
bean or utter a word? Can I? Even though they take the hook to you and 
other Irish instruments as well, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Frost, this is top secret, an affair of state the like of which 
would finish Ireland were it ever to get out, and me as well. I’m going to 
London on Friday.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“What will you do?”

“A few little things. General clearance. Need a little rest from tension.
Few matters need clearing up, tiny grains of sand in the vaseline. Miss 
Frost, I like you very much. Do you know that?”

“O Mr. Dangerfield. But I don’t know about all that’s happened. I like 
you.”

“Know what, Miss Frost?”

“Between us and things.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I feel I’m right and then I don’t know what’s 
going to become of me. In my church it’s a mortal sin. God forgive me and I
wish it weren’t true and that it was all a pack of lies. And they watch me 
in the shop. If it’s ever found out, I think I’m going to die and with this
sin I’d be doomed forever to hell.”

“Have a little more, Miss Frost.”

Filling her glass with brandy.

“No more than that, please.”

“Tell me now.”

“And a country like this has nothing for a girl like me. That I won’t be 
able to get married until I’m too old and they want so much money and a 
farm and anything they can lay their hands on. That’s all they ever look 
for is the money. You’re one of the first people I’ve ever met for whom 
money doesn’t mean everything.”

“Well, I don’t know, really, I wouldn’t say that was entirely true, Miss 
Frost.”

“This isn’t a country for women.”

“I would say that was true.”

“And I’ve had horrible dreams. They frighten me. I don’t think we should 
do it ever again. I wish I could go away. I know they are talking about me 
at work.”

“Now Miss Frost, don’t let these little things upset you. Don’t let them 
do that.”

“But it’s more than that.”

“Nothing is more than that.”

“If someone gets word that I’m living alone with you in this house 
without Mrs. Dangerfield here, it would be the end of me. And they find 
out, they don’t miss anything. They would go to the priest, and he would be
down here in a minute.”

“So long as there’s drink, we’re right for him, Miss Frost. Take it from 
me.”

“I’ve seen people watching.”

“When?”

“For a long time from across the street.”

“Strollers.”

“O spies, Mr. Dangerfield. I know.”

“Now, now, a little of this sausage. Everything is going to be all right,
Miss Frost. Not a thing to worry about, good days ahead. Beep beep. Days of
richness.”

Sebastian leaned back in his chair and looked at the eyes of Miss Frost. 
Short hairs growing from the sides of her head. And around your nose the 
flesh turns up. Something I’ve never noticed before. I think you are just a
little girl, Miss Frost. That’s what you are. You need to be held, that’s 
all. Come let me hold you in my own little forest where the crows are 
crying down all the trees. And into the big doors of my house. O they’re 
thick to keep them out. Because you don’t want people, trust none of them. 
I think I want it in bronze for weight and looks, with good quality brass 
hinges. See it. Dangerfield. Big S.D. on it. Keep people like Skully away. 
I say, Skully, would you mind awfully getting out of the way while my man 
closes this good door. Clang. What relief. No one will ever know the great 
relief to have these people shut out. Or a walled-in garden. Walls forty 
feet high and I think the three-foot thickness for strength. Hundred acres 
of it. Boxwood mazes for me to get lost in. Monkey trees. Magnolias and odd
yew. My heart is mended and splendid under the yew tree. And then there 
will be lots of bells. And bells are balls. All balls bells. Big ones and 
little ones hanging all over. Ring them. Ring them out like mad. Me the 
mystic maniac. Fill my wholesome little garden with sound and the child in 
me crawling around the garden floor while my bells ring and birds sing and 
all the fluttering in me dances down, filled with all the silences and I’ll
sit thinking in the rare light and this part of me I can hang in the trees.

“Mr. Dangerfield, why don’t you believe in hell and things like that?”

“Hell is for poor people.”

“Hee.”

“Miss Frost, I think I am a man with a future. What do you think? Do you 
think I have a future?”

“Of course, I think you have a good future. You’ll be in law.”

“And the jigs and jail and incognito. All those.”

“I think you would do well in almost anything, Mr. Dangerfield. I think 
business would especially suit you.”

“I think we will get on with the meat, Miss Frost. I have a hunger on me 
that has me belly screaming my throat’s cut.”

“O Mr. Dangerfield.”

“Thank God up there for codes, Miss Frost. Get down there now on your 
knees and thank him and for the meat as well. All down on our knees. But 
never hit a man when he’s down. Wait to see if he tries to get up and then 
by God, let him have it. The sledge between the eyes. I think my unlimited 
faith is killing me, Miss Frost. I want to chop this house down.”

“I don’t believe a word you’re saying.”

“A little underdone. Rawness of all types is for me.”

Miss Frost moving the pan, circling it over the fire. Exhaling sound of 
gas. At the peak hours. The despair of the fading pressure. These damn 
people in the gas works. No one wants to do a decent day’s work anymore.

“You’re so strange to be with, Mr. Dangerfield.”

“You can’t mean that, Miss Frost.”

“You’re not like other people.”

“Well, geek, geek and all that. Perhaps there is some truth in what you 
say.”

“Mr. Dangerfield, would you pass me your plate. Why do you water that 
little plant in the front with an eye dropper?”

“Miss Frost, you’ve been spying on me. On me in my secret moments.”

“O I haven’t. But why do you such a funny thing?”

“I’m poisoning the plant.”

“Lord save us.”

“Now look at that plant out there, Miss Frost. Would you say it was much 
longer for this world?”

“O Mr. Dangerfield I don’t know what to say. That poor plant.”

“It’s something in me, Miss Frost. I thought to myself why don’t I slip 
this plant something to kill it.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I’m a killer.”

In the air the smell of spiced meat and brandy. A soft slow whistle of 
wind bleeding under the doors. And in my heart a sorrow. First sorrow of 
the end. Of this strange week of things. Of plans and movements. Of seeing 
the wild beast O’Keefe. Of these uncanny bedlam moments in the streets. 
Everything fruiting in a cold winter week. Months of being in the bed with 
the bedclothes all twisted with my anxiety. The wild things that were going
through my mind like storms, I’d wake up my legs spinning round in the 
freezing air. I need another body with me. I’ve tried the hot towel on the 
eyes and made meself some balm but with these tricky chemicals you’ve got 
to watch it. I tried mustard plaster all over me and I won’t forget that 
blunder in a hurry or even ever. But I’m not badly off. Not complaining 
really. Just wouldn’t mind a complete change.

Miss Frost and Sebastian Dangerfield sat in this cold dining room eating 
sausage meat from Bray and drinking a pot of tea. Across from one another, 
looking up and down to food and back to each other’s face. Smiles.

Is this no longer home? I feel all my homes are behind me. Only a house 
here because I think I must have nearly pawned everything in it except Miss
Frost. The Rock gone. The Balscaddoon. The Rock, The Doon and Trinity. And 
that first day there when I got off at the back gate out of the green 
upholstered tram. And there was the university through my apprehensive 
eyes. A chill wind blowing. My new suit, white shirt and black tie. I felt 
all dressed up for failure, but feeling important because they were looking
at me. There’s the porter’s lodge and a parking lot and in this building I 
see the contortions of glass, bubbling pots and skylights poking out of the
roof. I want so much to learn. To know what you do with acids and esters 
and make my experiments go pop at the right time like the rest of you. From
the very first word you tell me I’m going to remember. On my way to my 
tutor. Through these playing fields, flat green and velvet. How lovely with
benches where I can sit watching, reading, or anything under these old 
trees. I think late summer is still hanging in the sky. And by these flower
beds still smelling, into this pretty square where the opulent members of 
college live behind granite and big windows. That’s for me. I see a man 
filling a pail of water from a green pump. He salutes me with a wave. How 
can I make a good impression, tuck my tie in, smile perhaps. I hope they 
will see I’m eager, ardent to listen, ready to take notes for all four 
years. That building there must be the library because I can see the stacks
and stacks. I will borrow and read. I promise. What luck has brought me 
here because it’s so beautiful. I’m told scholars can play marbles on the 
dining hall steps and shoot birds in college park. Got some great rules. 
Perhaps some day will see me shooting with the best of them. There are 
little clusters of students and I can hear their beautiful voices as I go 
by. And I can’t help but look from face to face seeking out those who will 
also fail. The rest of my natural life without a degree. I almost wish now 
some little white angels would flutter down and take me or my dread away. 
Across the cobbled square a bell ringing and into this building number 
eight. Up the foot carved stairs where I see an open door. I’ll knock 
lightly so’s not to be rude. Hands out of pockets. Do the right thing. 
Always wait till asked. Come in. From behind the door he’s telling me to 
come in. How shall I do it without making noise with my heels. I said as 
best I could that I was Dangerfield and he said ah delighted, do come in. 
Piles of papers everywhere and books. Must have been like this since God. 
Great waves of hair on this man’s handsome head, a scholar in Greek and 
Latin for sure. Ah Dangerfield, I’m very glad you’re here and I trust your 
trip across the Atlantic was pleasant. My God, this gentleman is telling me
he is glad I’m here and what can I say. I can say nothing, there’s no chat 
in me because I’m trembling. I hope it won’t mean some awful thing is to 
happen. He’s only being nice and saying, now Dangerfield, I would like you 
to meet Hartington, it is Hartington, isn’t it? And this tall person 
standing in a shadow stepped out, said yes and offered me his hand. You’re 
to attend the same classes together. I tried to say splendid, couldn’t and 
said safely how do you do. Our tutor rustled in the papers, came out with 
pamphlets and said I hope you will be very happy with us here Mr. 
Dangerfield. And now what could I say, trapped on this casual note of 
friendship. I did so want them to know that I knew I would be, but it was 
too late, no space left to tell them I was overjoyed to silence. On that 
cold morning in October I came away from that old room filled with books 
and paper with this strange tall person walking beside me who asked softly 
and slowly won’t you come and have coffee. I was scarcely able to say thank
you I’d like to but I was smiling so pleasantly willing to please.

If there were music all the time. I can hear the tap in the bathroom. 
Miss Frost washing her hair. I’m finishing the brandy, I guess teetering on
the edge of this chair. London a big city. I’ll manage. Just let me get 
there, that’s all. Just bring toothpaste. Pack it safely in a little bag. 
On the corner of Newton Avenue and Temple Road there is erected a cross to 
mark the end of the Pale. And I’m outside it now in more ways than one. I 
just hang my head forward, lick my lips because they are so dry and I see 
that the edge of this carpet has been destroyed by feet. My hand to my 
brow, and over my eyes. I’ve forgotten so much. Too much going on, too much
confusion. I just feel numb having fertilized. A moment of fatherhood comes
at the birth. Malarkey told me all about it. I think he’d like to see me 
fertilize more often, told me what a joy it was to have kids. Now I know. 
What a joy.

The bathroom basin gurgling out its water. Must be going down the Geary 
Road under the street and it will pour into Scotsman’s Bay. Miss Frost will
be twisting water from her hair. I know she uses vinegar in the rinse. From
the bathroom, the shuffle of her slippered feet across the hall. Her door 
banging against the green chair. Dark furniture in her dark, damp room. 
Used to go in there and just look. So hidden away. Unrelated room. Touch 
the fabrics. This house at the end of the street. Little do you know out 
there, you strollers and spies perhaps, how much despair and yelling for 
love goes on in this shrouded house.

Miss Frost standing at the door in her thick, woolly robe, her green 
pajamas, her red slippers. Sebastian looked up slowly.

“You’re so tired, Mr. Dangerfield. You look so tired.” Sebastian smiled.

“Yes. I am.”

“Let me get you some chocolate before you come to bed.”

“Miss Frost.”

“Yes?”

“Miss Frost, you’re kind.”

“No.”

“Miss Frost, I’m weary. What will you do when I’m gone? I’m worried about
you.”

“I don’t know.”

“Move somewhere else?”

“I guess so.”

“Leave Ireland?”

“I don’t know.”

“Leave.”

“It’s a bit of an undertaking.”

“Come with me, Miss Frost.”

“You don’t want me.”

“Now don’t say that.”

Sebastian fell forward on his face. Miss Frost caught him beneath the 
arms and half lifted this light body to his feet. She led him slowly and 
carefully to her bedroom. Lowering him to the edge of the bed. He sat there
elbows on his thighs, hands hanging from his wrists.

Dreaming out this sunset. Tacked up on a cross and looking down. A cradle
of passive, mystifying sorrow. Flooded in tears. Never be too wise to cry. 
Or not take these things. Take them. Keep them safely. Out of them comes 
love. Miss Frost stepped from the door shyly. Her head a little bent and 
red spreading under the flesh of her temples. There was a small spot middle
way up her nose. Her lashes dark and flickering, the wandering skin around 
her eyes. Some lines of her hair and her age of thirty four. The vulnerable
steep bottom of her skull. Never to turn around and look at our backs, or 
as we are walking away. But her feet stepping with red toes. The part of 
her that was her falling arches, the sway bent ankles which put a tender 
part in her eyes. For women are lonely people, lonelier with women and with
men, enclosed by sunless children and the little vanishing things that go 
away during the years of waiting. And hearts. And how was love so round.

If

There’s a bell

In Dingle

And you want to say

How sorry you are

I’m gone

Ring it

And make it go

Ding dong.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Wednesday. That morning Dangerfield picked up from his front hall strewn 
with bills, a picture postcard of the Lakes of Killarney with an inset, a 
poem.

My heart is yearning

For that familiar scene

Of those dear blue lakes

In that land far and green.

Turning it over.

* * *

I am kaput. Meet me in Jury’s lounge, Wednesday, seven.

Duke of SERUTAN (ret.)

* * *

Dangerfield rode the roaring tram to Dublin. At the bottom of Dawson 
Street he swung gingerly from the screeching instrument. Moving swiftly, 
face deflected to the left to look in shop windows and avoid eyes. In Brown
and Nolans here, I see they have some beautiful books, so nice never have 
to look in them. That’s the way it ought to be, saves time. Received 
correspondence from this fine firm. Polite. Not like the others. They say 
perhaps dear sir you have overlooked such a small amount or would like us 
to bill you yearly. Yes, yearly I told them. My, time flies.

There’s a lovely smell in the door of this restaurant. Look at them in 
there, wealthy happy people. Some coming out. Getting into that luscious 
car. This elegance does my heart good. I know something else I need. With a
very tricky maneuver of the feet I take this turn into this place by the 
back alley. Lovely girl give me a glass of malt because I cannot face those
beaten in battle without some little thing to still my own restless 
despair.

He crossed over College Green. Glanced at the Trinity clock. Seven five. 
A newsboy standing in my way. Mister give us a penny. Here’s my heart, 
sonny. And did your mother come from Ireland too? And sonny, give me an 
Evening Mail, please. And here’s a half-penny for yourself. May you never 
have another poor day, sir.

Sebastian entered Jury’s by the side door. Seated in a far corner, half 
obscured by a palm leaf, sat the retired Duke. Before him on the table, a 
brandy glass.

“For God’s sake, Kenneth.”

“It’s you.”

“Ah Kenneth yes, I see.”

“You see an utterly broken man. I’m going to drink this till I’m stinko.”

“Wisest words you’ve ever spoken.”

“I’m finished.”

“Tell me what’s happened.”

Dangerfield settling himself comfortably in these wicker chairs, folding 
his hand to hear like father confessor, this red-bearded man’s tale.

“I gave myself up.”

“What?”

“I went to the consulate and told them to ship me back.”

“Surely you’re not serious, Kenneth.”

“Ship sails tomorrow night. It’s in Alexander Basin right now. Sick man 
and I’m taking his place. Lady Eclair was a dead loss. As soon as I got out
there I knew it was no go. Could feel it in my bones. Too good to be true. 
She took one look at me and almost had a fit. And I almost went right of! 
my rock. I just said to her give me thirty shillings and I’d get out 
because she was driving me nuts.”

“Do relax, Kenneth. Now how did this happen?”

“She thought I was French. Never gave me a chance to get started and my 
foreign accent just went to pieces, I sounded as if I had just got off the 
boat from U.S.A. What could I do? In a situation like that there’s no point
in prolonging the misery. Neither of us were getting anywhere so I just 
said give me thirty shillings for my expenses in Dublin and coming out and 
I’ll leave. So I left, that’s it.”

“Cheer up now. Let’s see a little smile. Every cloud, you know.”

“I’m sick of people. The less I have to do with them for the rest of my 
life the better. I don’t care if I die.”

“Nonsense now. Where have you been staying?”

“And that’s another thing. I’m staying with Malarkey and my Christ was 
that depressing. Do you know what’s happened?”

“What?”

“Clocklan committed suicide.”

“Jesus.”

“When I left you Monday I went to Tony’s to stay. I didn’t sleep because 
I kept hearing knocks on the window, then I heard a fight on the steps. I 
didn’t know what the hell was going on. I wanted to get a night’s sleep so 
I’d be at my best for my interview. Now I could have been beating my brains
out all night against the wall for all that mattered. God it’s weird. Then 
about a quarter to ten we see this uniform coming down the steps. We open 
the door and it’s a policeman and he asks does a Tony Malarkey live here. 
We were all going to say no just on principle when Tony screams from one of
the back tunnels for his tea and the policeman says is that Mr. Malarkey? 
Tony comes to the door and the policeman asks him if he knew a man by the 
name of Percy Clocklan and Tony said remotely. Then the policeman said he 
had a message addressed to him at this address, to a Mr. Tony Malarkey, 
which was picked up by some people on Portmamock Strand. He said the 
message was found in a Power’s whiskey bottle which was washed up on the 
beach. Then the policeman reaches into his breast pocket-we’re all watching
the whole proceedings from behind the door-and he takes out a crumpled 
piece of paper and hands it to Tony. I think Tony went a little white. Then
the policeman asks him if he knows anything about it and Tony said he 
didn’t know a thing except that Clocklan left for England about a week ago 
and hadn’t heard a thing since. The policeman asks if he were depressed 
before he left and Tony said he couldn’t notice because he was drunk all 
the time and the policeman says he was just checking up and that if they 
got any word on anything he would let Tony know. Tony came in the door and 
stood there and says it’s that bastard Clocklan, he jumped off the mail 
boat and if he thinks I’m going to waste my time claiming his body he’s 
mad.”

“Blessed Oliver intercede for us all.”

“Tony didn’t seem to give a damn but I felt rotten. He just went on 
saying that if Clocklan wanted to commit suicide why did he have to get 
sentimental and send him notes. The note said he was fed up and couldn’t 
take it any more and felt rotten, it was the only way out and that he 
wanted to be remembered to Terry and the kids. Jesus I was really upset. 
Tony standing there with a cup of tea saying that if he knew Clocklan, he’d
never jump off the boat before it got to Liverpool because he’d feel he 
didn’t get his money’s worth out of the trip. Honest to God I felt 
depressed. That’s why the whole Lady Eclair affair was such a dismal 
failure. I thought that if such a happy-go-lucky guy like Clocklan would do
himself in what hope would there be for me?”

“What’s this business of being shipped back?”

“I took the bus out to Roundwood. Waited around the local pub and I was 
picked up. Then the interview. I don’t know what happened to me. A few days
ago I was all hit up about it. Conjuring up wonderful dreams of zinc table 
tops, pans, dishes, scullery maids. Then bang when it comes for me to do my
stuff-puff-smoke. I was as nervous as a kitten. I was thinking of Clocklan 
floating in the Irish Sea. Then I knew it was all up. As soon as I got off 
the bus on the quays I went straight for the consulate. Went in and said 
deport me. The vice-consul was a nice guy. He phoned, found this ship and 
that was it. Now I’m on my way back to the States. A beaten and finished 
man. Malarkey thought it was wonderful. To me this is worse than death.”

“Poor Percy, good heavens. I liked him.”

“Yeah.”

“Perhaps, Kenneth, with all this bad news to bear we had better have a 
little something.”

“Yeah.”

Dangerfield snapping his fingers, O’Keefe twisting his glass round and 
round on the table.

“Don’t let it get you down, Kenneth.”

“I’ve never felt so damn screwed in all my life. I’ve now commenced my 
last twenty four hours in the ould sod. When I went back to the Catacombs 
they were all congratulating me. Can you imagine that?”

“I think it’s possible.”

“Tony can’t seem to understand.”

“Perhaps he’s thinking about the food you’ll be eating over there.”

“I’ll say one thing for him. He’s generous. That’s one thing about the 
Malarkey household. Nothing’s too good when you come to visit. Go in there 
to that cellar and they haven’t got a penny but everything is neat and 
clean and when they invite you to eat something, even though it’s potato 
cakes, heavy as lead, you feel you’re getting a meal. As tough as this 
country is I hate to leave it but if I don’t I’ll die.”

“It’s a pity about Percy. He could have fixed you up in the Iveagh 
House.”

“It’s all over now anyway, and what are you going to do?”

“Kenneth, the mail boat, Friday night.”

“I don’t get it. Your affairs are so fouled up that I don’t think you 
know what you’re doing. What are you going to do in London?”

“Rest from the eyes. Ever notice the eyes along the street. Ever notice 
them? Looking for something. And in this fine cultured city it’s me. 
Marion’s in Scotland with baba. O having a fine time, great girl is Marion.
Of course I’ll have a chance to get down to my studies and perhaps a little
ballet in the evenings.”

“On what?”

“Kenneth, do you know I think you have the arse of a servant.”

“Have I now. Do you know there’s something just a little fishy about this
business. I was talking over your affairs with Malarkey and he says that 
rumor has it that you’re taking off and that Marion’s left you, and that 
there’s a little irregularity and carnal knowledge going on in the Geary. 
Also that you’re socked in with a woman in Rathmines who works in the 
laundry in Blackrock and another one in Cabra. As Tony says it’s just 
gossip but isn’t it always true?”

“I can see your faith is so strong in Malarkey there’s no point in saying
anything. But I would like to point out that my life is an open book. Yes, 
open book.”

“Dangerfield, you’re not fooling me. I leave this setup tomorrow so it 
doesn’t make a bit of difference how you screw yourself up but let me tell 
you one thing. Women, drink and the general chaos will ruin you and this 
crazy dancing in the street. I think you’ll end up in the Gorman.”

“Have it your own way, Kenneth.”

Two glasses were placed on the table by a smiling waitress. “Your brandy,
sir.”

Dangerfield with a twitch.

“Ah.”

O’Keefe with a sigh.

“How much, how much?”

Waitress bowing concernedly.

“That’s seven shillings please, sir.”

O’Keefe with sadness.

“And here’s a shilling from a poor man because I’m leaving Ireland and 
won’t need it anymore.”

Smiling a blossom of blush.

“Thank you, sir, very much. I’m sorry you’re leaving Ireland.”

O’Keefe looking at her.

“What do you mean sorry? You don’t even know me.” Waitress intently.

“O yes I do. You used to be in here a lot last year. We all remember you.
You didn’t have a beard then. I think it suits you.”

O’Keefe astonished, leaned back in the creaking wicker chair. He smiled.

“Do you know I really appreciate that. Thanks.”

The waitress reddening, walking away.

“God damn it, Dangerfield. I’m a hard son of a bitch but do you know I 
think I’d get down on my hands and knees and kiss a Jesuit’s arse if it 
meant I could stay.”

“I’ll take up the collection if you do.”

“Jesus, people are interested in you here.”

“Foreigners.”

“Even so, they shit on them in U.S. This morning I got up early and 
walked down Fitzwilliam Street. It was still dark. I heard a clip clop 
coming along and the milkman singing. It was lovely. Jesus, I don’t want to
go back.”

“In the land of the big rich. The monstrous rich. Over there the quids.”

“I feel every minute spent in U.S. is wasted.”

“Now, now, a fine great place of opportunity for the young spirit such as
yours, Kenneth. Maybe a bit of that unhappiness and people whoops out of 
the windows. But there are the odd moments of joy. May even solve your 
problem.”

“If I can’t solve it here I’ll never do it there.”

“How will you bear it being waved in your face. I don’t think I’m 
exaggerating when I say bodies over there are beautiful.”

“I can wait.”

“And how’s Tony?”

“Makes his kids toys all day. Gets up in the morning and yells for his 
tea. Then he goes out and sees his accountant and places a shilling bet. 
Then he gets keyed up till the horse loses. And then, as he says himself, 
when the horse loses I go home and pick an argument with Clocklan. When I 
was there I tried to get Tony interested in taking the North by force. And 
Tony was telling me about a time when they went over the border. Everyone 
going to shoot a policeman, couldn’t hold them back, going to declare the 
North under the tricolor. They get over the border, pockets filled with 
homemade bombs, hand grenades and gelignite. Then they meet a policeman. 
There are forty of them and one policeman and he comes over and says, ‘ere,
‘ere, this ‘ere is King’s land, now behave yourselves or I’ll have to lock 
the whole lot of ye up. They all get long faces, roll up the tricolor, put 
away the bombs and go into the first pub and get drunk, with the policeman 
with them as well. It was good. Do you know I don’t think they ever want to
take the North. Barney says they’re the finest people on the earth. Do you 
know perhaps the North ought to take over the South.”

“At least we’d have contraceptives then, Kenneth.”

“What about these women of yours when you go to London?”

“Do you think I keep a harem, Kenneth? I lead a life of spartan 
self-denial. Miss Frost is one of the finest people I know, good Catholic 
and in every way leads a gainful respectable life.”

“Malarkey says the neighbourhood is in disgrace over this affair.”

“Miss Frost and I would never stoop. Or set upon one another 
lasciviously. Within the bounds of good taste and dignity. Furthermore I’d 
like to point out that Miss Frost is joining the nuns.”

“You awful bastard.”

“Have you ever known me to involve myself in anything not above board or 
on boards or anything? I say, out with it, O’Keefe. Geek. You’re so starved
for it, Kenneth, that you’re imagining things. You think I sin. Not me.”

“You’re socked in there like a banana in the peel. Tony says that you 
give her so much that she can barely crawl to work in the mornings.”

“Absolutely outrageous. Miss Frost tiptoes through the tulips.”

“You think you’re getting away with a lot. It’s drink.”

“And sure it’s only the sociability that makes me drink.”

“Do you know what my ambition is when I get money? To move into the 
Shelbourne Hotel. Strut in through the front door and tell the porter would
you garage my Daimler for me please.”

“No, Kenneth. Would you garage my car.”

“Jesus you’re right. That’s it. My car. Would you garage my car. And into
the Shelbourne rooms. They say it’s the most beautiful bar in the world. 
Have Malarkey come and meet me. How do you do, Tony, how are things in the 
Catacombs?”

“Yes, Kenneth, you have the arse of a servant.”

“You mean for riding. Built for a horse. Do you know that if it weren’t 
for the British this place would be so many wild savages.”

“I’m glad you’ve come to see it that way.”

“The Irish feel that children are brought down upon them by the wrath of 
God for screwing. All you hear is that if it weren’t for you kids life 
would be rosy and we could have a good time. But we worked and slaved 
ourselves to the bone to give you a little more than we had and now look at
you, won’t bring a penny into the house. No-good loafer wasting your time 
with these books when there are good jobs on the railroad.”

“Geek.”

In the eight o’clock sound and smell of Jury’s lounge, they sat with 
stretched legs and toes twitching in their shoes, thawing damp bones in the
centrally heated air. Priests scattered through the room, red faced, watery
eyed and smoldering. Immaculate collars choking their scarlet necks, 
clerics in pain. With waitresses, young, black and round. Potted palms. It 
was not what was inside but what was outside that made what was inside so 
good and desirable. Because outside there is the gray wet over everything. 
And it came up through the shoes, soaking socks and squealing between the 
toes. Near here is the Bank of Ireland. So great and round and granite. 
Outside it a whore and a beggar.

“Well Kenneth it is fitting indeed that we should have the comfort of 
this fine room for our last day.”

“That waitress, did you notice her teeth? They were white.”

“Her eyes very fine too.”

“Why can’t I feel I could ever marry one of these girls?”

“Nothing more fashionable these days than to marry down, Kenneth.”

“Be marrying one of my own, that’s the trouble.”

“I like your blood, darling.”

“Yeah. My whole sexual life depends on the nuances of wealth. Come back 
from a good hard ride around the edges of the estate looking for poachers.”

O’Keefe leaning back in this sudden glory, continuing with mellow aplomb.

“I pass the scullery out back and call, I say, Tessie, what’s for dinner 
and Tessie scurries into the cook. Lady O’Keefe has already told me what’s 
for dinner but in my little democratic way I have a banter with the 
scullery maids. Lady O’Keefe at one end of the table and I’m at the other 
and we discuss the estate and horses. I ask her what she did at the flower 
show and if any of our blossoms took a prize. After dinner to the library 
for espresso with a twist of lemon and a bottle of Hennessy. She reads me a
play till ten. Goes up to her room. I wait in the library for about ten 
minutes and go up to my own. I notice that the door between our rooms is 
slightly ajar. I wait a discreet ten minutes, tiptoe over, give a delicate 
knock, may I come in dear? Yes dear, do. Ha.”

“Eeeeeee. Kenneth, if you’re ever rich it will be an anticlimax.”

“By God.”

On O’Keefe’s head a brown dirty tweed cap. Women in this lounge looking 
at the two of them with their legs stretched all over the place. And they 
were cocking their white ears to hear that bearded man go on about such 
fantastic things with that awful accent of his and who is that man with his
haughty ways and county voice, flicking his fingers exquisitely and rolling
his head back to belch laughter. So sure of themselves.

And between priests and pouting matrons were business men from Manchester
who made furniture to sell to the civil servants for the sitting room and 
they were a little red faced, with a touch of proud overtone in their 
voices. They wore striped blue shirts with white stiff collars and their 
gent’s natty suiting with white pin stripe and short coats where underneath
it all were braces, red, blue, green and overlaps of wool and buttons here 
behind and everywhere. And men from Bradford and Leeds looking out of 
conservative corners of eyes. I know you are rich, in silk underwear and 
have finished a fine cut of meat with a small mountain of mushrooms, 
carrots, peas and other things.

Kenneth O’Keefe told the waitress he wanted coffee. He looked around the 
room to see who was watching or listening. Bent his head forward, removed 
his cap and scratched the back of his light brown head. Dangerfield 
semi-supine, his chin resting on his chest looking out broodingly at 
O’Keefe.

“This is our last night audience, Kenneth.”

“Yup.”

“After this the curtain comes down.”

The business men from Bradford and Leeds who live between the brownstone 
buildings in sunless smoky streets, feeling and pricing cloth with darting 
eyes, spending long afternoons over tea and fittings for suits, with winter
fogs outside their dark stone mansions. These men lean back in their 
chairs, pulling from their pockets silk, feathery handkerchiefs, and 
removing their glasses, pass the fine cloth sensuously back and forth, 
round and round, hard and then very softly touching the exquisite glass, 
holding them to the light and with rare, long fingers put them back over 
their eyes. In the throes of prices and bottoms dropping out of the market 
they are smiling, thinly but smiling, the richest men in the world.

“Kenneth, I’ll walk as far as the quays with you.”

“Suits me.”

Kenneth O’Keefe gave a last smile to his charming waitress. They finished
their coffee and stood up. The lights in the room grew brighter. Everyone 
stopped talking. In the silence, the two walked across the lounge. 
Waitresses in their black garb stood along the wall by the serving hatch. 
One of them nipping her head smartly in the hole and said they were going. 
Three more faces appeared with sparkling eyes. As they neared the door all 
faces were on them. All on their feet clapping. Shouting out of their 
mouths bravo. The lights brighter and clapping swarming up from their hands
louder. The gentlemen from Bradford and Leeds cornering silk handkerchiefs 
in the tears in their eyes, twisting with an index finger, then blinking 
and watching. The priests up at last. I know they think us glorious. And 
uproarious. Our backs go out the swing door, pass into this street, narrows
of warehouses and brokerages by day filled with the making of money and a 
deserted lane by night.

“When you come back, Kenneth, I’ll walk naked wearing a green bowler to 
greet you at the boat. With a donkey cart flying green streamers and 
shamrocks imported from Czechoslovakia and a band of girl pipers blowing 
like mad. Did you know that they imported the English Sparrow into America 
to eat the horseshit off the streets?”

“No.”

“Look into it. Got to fight, Kenneth. Must resist or go down in the pile.
And perhaps there’ll be a little richness for one of us soon. And when 
you’re out there on that high sea I want you to remember to pray. Because 
I’ll be in that city of London and London is groaning with lust. What do 
you think of that?”

“Nothing. I hate the place. One look out of Victoria Station was enough 
for me. What the hell, maybe you’ll make out.”

“Must fight. There are books, Kenneth, that tell us that we must. And 
also about the animals who gave up the ghost. No fight. They put a little 
word at the bottom of the page to tell you something. Extinct. To be 
avoided.”

“Here’s where I leave you.”

“Well, Kenneth, it’s ironic. Taking leave of you in the North of Dublin. 
Never thought this would ever happen to us.”

“Give my regards to Tony and everyone. Although I think it unlikely, I 
hope to see you on your arse in the Old Bailey.”

“Count on it Kenneth.”

“Good luck.”

“Take care.”

O’Keefe sauntered sadly off and disappeared down this gray dark street 
called Seville Place. Dangerfield walked back across Butt Bridge, a finely 
divided rain falling. My body has blue joints. Ireland is heaven bound with
this low weather. Rub my knuckles because this climate is only for brains. 
Cranes and masts down the river. On Aston Quay the last buses leaving for 
the country. And clusters of men hunched in black overcoats sucking 
cigarettes, spitting and mean. With tongues of shoes hanging out like dogs’
hungry mouths. I’d give anything for a drink now. Wearing this rag of 
despair and sorrow. Full of holes and dirty. Across my shoulders wet and 
cold. They say nothing lasts. It’s all gray. Gray for what? Gray for rain. 
And pink for poodles. Colors for everything.

They say, green for work. Now what is it? For Idleness? I think the 
black. You there below decks, run up me little black ensign. Well? For 
lust. What are they going to say? Red? No. Not red. I think the brown. 
Brown for lust. Red is for money and blue for deads.

Take deads

Away.

Play music

Please.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Miss Frost was lying upon her back, her head supported by two nice white 
pillows. There was a grayness under her eyes. Near to tears. Her hand 
divided over the back of her book, holding it face down on the covers. Mr. 
Dangerfield, arbiter of wisdom, stood erect at the bottom of her bed, 
concerned and loving. Looking at her eyes as they flashed sorrow and asked 
him to come to her for now. And they were in their little room together 
shut off from the rest of the house and world out there ready to axe them. 
How to get out of it. And Dangerfield. And Miss Frost.

“I am going to call you Lilly.”

A shy smile tightened upon her lips, her eyes turning away and back and 
tight lips and the edge of her teeth coming to nip her mouth and her face 
up to face his.

“O.”

“I think it’s time I called you Lilly. Lilly.”

“O well.”

“Lilly.”

“Dear me.”

“Are there eats, Lilly?”

“Just some bacon and tea but take that ten shilling note, Mr. 
Dangerfield, and get some eggs.”

“No. I couldn’t.”

“Do. Please. I insist.”

Dangerfield to the dresser. Slipping the note in a pocket.

“Won’t be a minute.”

Yet I stoop to menial things. But there just hasn’t been enough money. 
However, in the flux. Keep one’s eyes wide and never know when or what 
might come up. Live off the environment. Take fruit from my trees. Fine 
shirts from counters and charge them. Ton of turf from my fuel merchant and
bill me later. Take one large turkey, rat trap and rare cheese, pound of 
Robert’s best coffee and bit of salami, oh and a quick quart of sauerkraut 
and would you mind frightfully putting it on my account. Air filled with 
certainly sir. O it was good. Creamery butter? How many pounds sir? I think
the three. Rashers? A nice bit of back please. A ton if you will. Picture 
me walking up Grafton Street. I am passing Mitchell’s Cafe and the doorway 
where I have always looked carefully to see aristocratic faces poised out 
of necks of flowery, sweet-smelling dresses and looked at their noses and 
rather lovely nostrils, racehorses for sure and eyes sparking with vitamins
always hoping one would smile at me. And one speaks. O Sebastian wherever 
have you been? What? Not really. You mean you’re hungry. Ghastly. O you’re 
joking. Shocking. But do come and have tea with me. Of course I’m paying. 
Whatever are you wearing? That thing. Yes, that thing. My God, it’s a 
blanket. Rakish. Only thing I can think of. Frightfully I.A.F. I mean it’s 
sort of R.A.F. sort of thing. I.A.F.? Irish Air Force, of course, stupid. 
Do come and have tea. O no, wear it. I like it. Suits you. Frightfully 
exciting. You do some rather weird things, everyone says so. And there I am
with this girl, by the window upstairs. She’s paying. Me under my brown 
blanket. Brown for lust. Eating my cake she bought for me. Eat one. Steal 
two. Eat one. Steal another. After tea. I go to the lavatory and flush my 
blanket in the toilet. I take a cardboard sign and fashion it in a stiff 
collar. Use my black shoelace. Black for private means. I return wearing 
this and nothing else. You might say making an obvious gesture of 
indecency. But fed.

And tonight I go in and buy eggs. And Miss Frost, my lily and Lilly, 
wherever will you go? I’ve not wanted to cause you pain but to understand, 
be with you and give you love. And we got our bodies mixed up on the bed 
and one night I wore your pajamas. Green suits me I think.

“A dozen of the very finest please.”

I think they are coming along very well in this shop. New counter and 
glass and I notice a clean fingernail here and there.

Sebastian hurried up the Geary Road and with two acute lefts into his 
cul-de-sac. Walking towards a wall. Searching on the green gate for 
latches. What did these neighbors do? Light on in that house. What were 
they doing with their bodies? Toasting in front of the last coals. Tomorrow
I go bye bye. O’Keefe on the high seas. And Miss Frost, I see a peak of 
light coming round your curtain. Bad for security but it’ll do for this 
last day. Only hours left. I’m coming in the house to hold your hand and 
spend my last night with you. I want to take you with me but I can’t. Would
you be willing to put your shoulder to the big wheel? Push. I’D show you 
how. You’ve been good to me like none of the others and kept me company in 
this last loneliness, might have gone quite mad were it not for your body 
and sweet smiles and breasts. Saved me. Even the little secret smells in 
the pits of your arms. Like bears in winter lairs. Nuzzling the short 
hairs.

He walked around the side of the house. Looking at the laurels. Dark 
round here. Get this light on. Miss Frost keeps a clean kitchen. Into her 
room.

“Please don’t get up, Lilly, leave this to me.”

“Let me. You’re tired. It’s no trouble at all, Mr. Dangerfield.”

“On this last night, Lilly, do call me Sebastian.”

“I just can’t. Don’t make me, but come sit down. I’ll make it. You have 
such a long journey ahead.”

“Aye. It’s very good of you. May I look in your book, Lilly?”

“It’s one of those awful things.”

“Lilly I’m terribly chilled, that walk I think has given me a little 
a-choo, my nose is stuffed. I wonder could I just get into your nice warm 
bed here?”

“But we really shouldn’t anymore.”

“Just till I get my teeth into the rashers and eggs.”

“You have an awful way with you, Mr. Dangerfield.”

“It’s your hot water bottle, I just can’t keep away from it.” She left 
him sitting on his chair. And he took his garments off. Shoes neatly beside
the bed. Winds outside. Keep telling myself they are temperate, moist and 
warm. Spend my life huddled over a weather map. Guest in Lilly’s cozy bed. 
Pretty name. What made me do it? Call her white and pure. Virgin. Driven 
snow. And I’m sneaking between these sheets, deep down after the bottle, 
catch it, hook it, pull it up here near my balls and wait for her. When I’m
in London I think I’ll join the Trinity College Dining Club. I read the 
soothing words which said the Dining Club exists to promote mutual 
intercourse and good fellowship among T.C.D. men, to provide an opportunity
for renewing old friendships and keep Trinity men in touch with the life of
the University. I keep telling myself that I’m one of you because I never 
want to lose faith. Something to hang on to. And I’ll come along in the 
evenings and sit with you. I will be reserved and listen. To those things 
dear to me. I hope it’s raining. And step out of my carriage, suck down a 
few lungs of fat fog. Wearing my Trinity tie. What a handsome tie it is. 
Most illustrious of all. I say, Trinity? Why yes. You? Yes. Forty-eight. 
Forty-six and any other year you want to name. How do you do, I’m 
Dangerfield. Jolly good show, this. Quite. In fact, bung, frightfully ho. 
Will there be chandeliers? Chicken? Sprouts? Fire? And will this be what I 
want? Please.

Lilly came in with tea. The long red strips across the plate and the two 
yolks glistening. And buttered bread. A light green napkin. She puts it 
down.

“Lilly.”

“O you’ll make me spill it.”

“Just a little one. On the lips. There.”

“It’ll scald you if I drop it.”

Just my cup of tea. You are.

“Lilly, this is very good of you. I need this, this warmth and food. I 
sometimes wonder if there is an island a little smaller than this one where
we could go.”

“It would be nice.”

“Lilly, you’ve been packing your bags.”

“Yes.”

“This is all a pitiful life. I want to settle somewhere. Stay there for 
good. I’m sick of moving. We must have somewhere to call our own, Lilly. I 
think that’s what we all need and stop this moving.”

“My aunt said she would do with me till I got other digs.”

“What’s your aunt like?”

“She has a studio out in the back of the house where she paints these 
models in the nude. I posed for her once and felt awful.”

“Why?”

“The way she looked at me.”

“Lust?”

“Yes.”

“It’s everywhere, Lilly. Everywhere. I don’t see how it can be stopped. 
It’ll never get you anywhere save to bed.”

“O Mr. Dangerfield, you go on.”

“I hate to leave you. I feel it’s unfair.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Mr. Dangerfield. I’ll take care of 
myself.”

“But I want to know that you’re going to be all right.”

“What about Mrs. Dangerfield? I know it’s none of my business but I felt 
you were so right for one another.”

“Little confusion. I don’t think there was enough of the money. Mrs. 
Dangerfield thought I was rotten rich. I think there is a considerable 
fortune somewhere but it’s a little tied up. But I’ve got plans.”

“I’d like to get married.”

“Be careful. Want to watch these Irishmen.”

“Not one of those. I’d like an Indian.”

“An American one? Like me. Did you know I’m part Mohawk? Woo hoo.”

“It’s been a great experience knowing you, Mr. Dangerfield, even though I
don’t agree with all the things you say. But inside I think you are a good 
person.”

“Lilly.”

“I mean it.”

“Come here.”

“But I’ve made an oath not to, again. Please. No.”

“There is no harm.”

“Just on the cheek, because I can’t stop you once you get going.”

“There’s no harm, Lilly.”

“Mind, you’ll knock everything over. Don’t.”

“Come lay beside me then. This little kiss on your ear will never hurt. 
Just the one. Lilly, you’re wearing perfume.”

“I beg of you, Mr. Dangerfield, please don’t make me feel awful.”

“I want you to come and see me in London. Will you?”

“We should never see each other again. And what’s to become of the house,
Mr. Dangerfield?”

“I’ve made arrangements. Come closer now. This is our last night 
together. This is great tea.”

“There are a lot of letters for you.”

“I’ll take care of those too. Now let’s not bother about these things, 
you just get cozy in here and never mind about the rest. Everything’s taken
care of.”

“Mr. Dangerfield do you like me even just a little.”

“I like you, Lilly. You’ve been good to me. A comfort. Take my hand. 
There now. Easy. All’s going to be all right. I haven’t felt as good for 
some time.”

Miss Frost in her green pajamas. I put the orange egg yolk over my bread 
and ate it up. I think this is near it now. As near as ever could be. 
Peace. Sacred silence. On the move or run, just as you wish, tomorrow. 
Perhaps Skully will try something a little too clever for himself and get 
tripped on the secret wires I’m organizing on my trail. I don’t want to be 
caught by anybody. Nor imprisoned or put down. In England they put a rope 
around the neck and let you go, whoops. Just across the channel they hoist 
that thing, shined and sharpened and tell you lay your sylph-like thing in 
there. I don’t know why I’m so terrified by this capital punishment because
I feel I’m a gentleman and live by all the rules and regulations any of you
have put down and even a special few of my very own. O watch the noose and 
knots and knives. And these doctors too. Once you let them get in these 
white coats and hold you by the wrist they want to tap you on the chest. 
Then they want to see in the mouth. Later they put you on a table and go to
the cabinet for the knife. They say they just want a peek inside.

Lilly, I never get tired of your white thirty four year old bubas, buns 
or beauties. Or will I ever get over how much I like to imagine them under 
that green pajama top. Rare that I ever make these dogmatic statements but 
I cannot help feeling that when other things are gone that carnal knowledge
is here to stay. I guess with me it has been a case pure and simple of a 
little frightened man looking out and seeing all the prowling animals. I’ve
had other women. Lilly. Kissed them in bed with me. And a girl who lives by
the Bleeding Horse, another body rich with tender muscles and nuzzling in 
the sparkling curly hair. Take juice and comfort from my thighs. And walked
and talked to her along the edges of the canal where I heard once years 
ago, the coach was coming up from the South laden with people and it fell 
from the bridge into the canal and they thought like good Irishmen and 
engineers they ought to float them out and opened up the sluice gates and 
drowned the whole lot of them. The canal is a favorite place of mine for 
this reason and others. And this girl too was kind to me. There is no use 
otherwise. Kindness. And you came into my life for this collusion, boarder 
bedded down with the landlord. Common sort of thing these days but 
different with us because we were both in need. And the little talks we 
had. I told you about the journey of the exposed penis. You laughed. O 
those things are funny now but I was fit to be tied on that Tuesday. It was
your willingness and interest which bound me captive, Lilly, to your body 
and nice teas we’ve had. I can coin the odd phrase with the best of them. 
But I’d rather keep that part of me secret. Like the entangled laws of this
church of yours. But I know a bit about law and the ones they call Canon. I
even went into Brown and Nolans and got the book, stood three hours at the 
counter reading to the assistants’ utter concern because I’m sure they must
have noticed that I was wearing the remnants of a chasuble under my 
mackintosh and these laws were so interesting. I felt I was poking through 
sin and limbo. Lilly I’ve heard you whisper when in the throes, holy mother
of God, they will never forgive me. But of course they will, you succulent,
tender chicken and gorgeous creature to boot.

With the light off and B.B.C. closed down for the night. Tiny sounds 
outside. And warnings of gales in Malin, Rockall, Shannon, Fastnet and 
Irish Sea. Rain beating against the window panes. Laurel leaves shaking 
crazily. And our green curtain swelling out and a light slicing the room. 
Out there on the water. I think it’s my grave. The Isle of Man, Dalkey 
Sound and harbors of Bullock and Colimore, a hundred and twenty miles to 
Liverpool. Let us hold tight, Lilly. And give up this right and wrong. And 
you tell me, Mr. Dangerfield, if they ever hear of it and it’s not as easy 
as that just to be forgiven because they make you confess it all and as 
soon as you let on to something they start asking questions was it alone 
and about marriage and did he? Between your legs, my child. And what other 
departures were there and did he do that too. Yes. He did. Lilly I will 
make all this suffering up to you. I am no cheap chicken myself. 
Corporation law and fixing treaties between nations should pull a lot of 
weight up there. I’ll tell him, Mr. Jesus, I knew Lilly and if you knew 
Lilly as I know Lilly. Well. You wouldn’t have minded having a bit 
yourself, now would you? Not at all. Jesus and I have been through a great 
deal together. And I tell you Lilly, he would roar with laughter and say, 
why my dear child you laid with the ginger man? Great. Don’t worry about 
it. What’s a piece of arse between friends so long’s you both get a good 
chunk. Got a few of these self-centered people down there, efficient but 
finicky who don’t get much themselves who try to put the lid on lads like 
Dangerfield. I know Dangerfield. His whole life. Oceans of integrity and 
puddles of dependability. By God, myself, as great a man as ever I did 
split from a rib or even make with the fishes on whatever day I made them. 
Like him up here with me. When you’re dead Danger. They say you’ve never 
been beaten in chess, dominoes or croquet or for being right when the 
others say you’re wrong. And to use one of Dangerfield’s rather amusing 
phrases, I’m no cheap chicken meself.

So Lilly. There you are. Come to me now. For think of it, Friday we are 
sundered. When I reach out for your parting white hand. On the trumpeting 
boat leaving for sea. Will you stand by the gas tank and wave? When I rub 
my chest on yours. I’m sad. Dropping away body from body. I plead the 
please tonight. And any mortal sin you care to commit. And do you remember 
the little white pan in the garage that you got one night when I came home 
from my overtime in the pubs and I said would you ever, Miss Frost, get it.
Fill it with water and bring it to me. And I put my feet in it and you let 
me use your talc. And you helped dry. Me leaning a hanging head between my 
legs. Like they found me mornings slung over the chains in Trinity my hair 
touching the top of the grass. Lilly what a nice white scalp you have, not 
a sign of dandruff. When you held my feet. In your hands. Miss Frost you’re
the kindest person I know. I held you by the shoulders. That’s why I do 
this. Because I like you. And take off your green pajama top. Just after 
you enjoy it, you begin to cry. Let me take your nipple. Nor am I nutty 
like Kenneth, but needy nevertheless. This string quartered around your 
waist. Pull it below your navel which is a deep one. May I button up your 
belly, Lilly? Did you know I have a degree? In navels. Did graduate work. 
Published papers. Lot of things I’ve done. Is there a tide of flesh rising?
Why Miss Frost, you’re giggling. Whatever for? You think it’s funny after 
all? Is fucked and finished. Or because I said God was on my side or 
splitting his sides up there over this tender little scene. Or are you 
watching as if you were an eye in the ceiling? What’s happening on the 
sheets. Catch as catch can. Don’t turn away till I’m finished with your 
mouth. Just this last time. Sins are sticking out everywhere. Tempt me, 
Lilly. And is this you? And your voice in my ear. Taking an oath and can’t 
you wait till we’re finished. Lilly, you can let me. No I can’t let you. On
this last night. I want you to but I can’t let you. Now, now. I’m going to 
miss you and making love to me. Nothing to do but sow me ould seed Lilly. 
Sell my seed Lilly. In the shop. They planted the mother of the Lord and 
they say it didn’t have anything to do with the flesh. But Lilly you turn 
your back to me. On this last night telling me this is what you will let me
do, for I did it once before and a few times since. They learn all sorts of
things on the farm watching the animals. But won’t it hurt or pain? I may 
pretend, but I’m shocked, but on the other hand I can’t help laughing at 
the whole silly setup. Offered me your arse. I’m touched, too. Somehow. 
Like July Fourth at that party in the Phoenix Park. Soft sunny summer day 
with people driving up in shining cars in dresses and jewels. I almost 
tiptoed to the door half hoping to sneak in and then they took my little 
card from me and read out Sebastian Balfe Dangerfield and I almost asked 
the man not so loud please. I faced one smile after another. I’m a little 
short on fellowship but I put a little squeeze into each handshake. Filet 
of sole. On the tables were eats the like of which I’m sure have never been
seen on this isle. I shot over to one of the tables. Champagne, sir? How 
can they be so kind? Where can so much drink come from? Mushroom eclairs. I
never said a word to anyone. Marion talking with the Earl of Kilcool. I 
looked a little rough shod to be mingling. After about an hour or so, 
however. I think I had something to say. Marines were called and someone 
whispering see that man is taken out at once. I was just going to scream 
for God’s sake don’t take me away from all this booze. An elderly gentleman
said something as they approached me. And I was left. Later during 
someone’s aria I crawled under the tables untying shoelaces and, I’m 
afraid, looking up dresses. Next day I think I read in the Evening Mail 
something about the Minister being raised to the status of an Ambassador. 
One thing begets another. On the one hand. And then on the other. On these 
white sheets tangling white bodies. Turning from me Lilly as I bump these 
mounds. And the cool pressure. It’s as they say, tight circle with nothing 
beyond. And my arms around your neck. Riding you. Brown for lust or bronco.
I’m throwing my heart down your throat and you tear and tell me tender 
hearted Lilly. And the pain of it up and down my legs. And even though you 
are just passing the time away, say lying on your side, twisting a shoulder
to get the blanket up and keep out the cold, think of me. If you look up 
the Liffey under a low sky in setting sun you’re in heaven. My dreams of 
collecting the ha’pennies on the metal bridge. Miss Frost. Pure as the 
driven snow. White as the North Pole. And buttocks a trifle soft. And why, 
Lilly, did you want me to do it this way? I’ve tried to be a member of 
Christian society, for I am a Calvinist at heart, with one or two 
reservations of course. And I’ve been a bit puritanical watching out for 
the improperly dressed and those coarse of accent, for what else is there 
if one doesn’t keep one’s place. And we’re all within a stone’s throw of 
heaven. O happy humping ground. And even the day I took a look around the 
Municipal Museum of Modem Art saying to myself by jove this is a jolly good
show. Yes, suggestive pictures. With the things there that are displayed in
flesh tint. Is this to confound conception, Lilly? And done by all the farm
folk. In zoos too. I love the Zoological Museum. Learned all about the 
Irish Elk with it standing just in the entrance way with antlers from one 
wall to the other. And stuffed fish and birds around Ireland. And an Irish 
Wolfhound nicely stuffed too. And upstairs a whale hanging in the middle of
the room with a balcony all round where they have this thing evolution 
displayed with the bugs getting bigger and bigger. I prefer to feel that 
Big Chief up there started us with Adam and Eve.

Miss Frost’s hair has its pleasures and a light green smell. A down on 
the back of her neck. A slim neck. I could easily choke her to death. She 
looks broader from the back. From the front there are those two 
distractions. Distance grows shorter with familiarity. I’m acquainted with 
the facts. Good pair of shoulders built for work. Been a little dream boat 
of mine that if Marion drowned on the mail boat, Miss Frost would live with
me and would go to work in the garden out back. Dig it all up and lace it 
liberally with lime and phosphates with mounds of kelp mixed with ould 
bones and guts laced with dead leaves all of it rotting graciously making a
nice gooey compost. Visions of Miss Frost laying down the seed. Especially 
the spuds. Some think it a dumb vegetable. Not me. Like the lion, king of 
them all. I would have helped Lilly sow the potatoes although I don’t like 
to use my hands too much. Pour on the rot now. And a little chicken 
dropping will do no harm. Why does food make so much money in my dreams?

“Lilly, why did you want me to do it this way?”

“O Mr. Dangerfield, it’s so much less of a sin!”

And

Fun

Too.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

He was dreaming.

Choosing the blue socks and then a pair of red ones. They were made of 
this material nylon. Wear forever. And stand up by themselves and as they 
say, walk away. I’m in these narrow streets and into one shop and out of 
another. Here is a woman who is middle aged and plump. Plump, ripe plum. 
Standing behind the counter telling me she loved foreigners. And I’m 
filling my bag with millions of socks. And can’t get them out of the shop. 
And they call a waste truck to take them all away. Hear a sound which puts 
the shudder of fear through me. I think of a rat.

His back was stiff. He stood up. His eyes tight with sleep. They don’t 
ever let you sleep enough. And my body is so cold.

Miss Frost turned over. He went to her and kissed her cheek. Her eyes 
fluttered open.

“Don’t touch me.”

“What?”

“Don’t kiss me.”

“For Christ’s sake, what’s the matter? Are you drunk? God damn it.”

“O don’t carry on. You walk out of here and leave the scourge of the 
tongue on me.”

“Now, what is it? Lilly, I say.”

“You’re well away.”

“God damn it, what’s the matter?”

“You’ve no worry. Off on the boat. I can’t help it. They know.”

“Who knows?”

“They’ll be talking.”

“If you’re eating. Don’t worry about the talk.”

“That’s easy.”

“Now, now, let me get you a little something. Can I fry you a sausage? 
It’s the meat, me Lill, forget ould talk, and tongues.”

“Mrs. Dangerfield will have me in the courts.”

“She won’t have you anywhere. Do you want a sausage?”

“She will. And they’ll fire me.”

“Just a second, Lilly me ould love-”

“Stop.”

“I’m going to brush me teeth.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”

“Never mind the Jesus and the Mary and Joseph. Put plea to B.O.P. Blessed
Oliver Plunket. My patron. Have an in with him.”

“You’ve had your way with me. I have to stay behind.”

“Not at all. Come to London.”

“That’s a wild idea.”

“Have to brush my teeth. Me teeth will be coming out of me-”

“Don’t.”

Sebastian scurried in his ragged underwear to the cold bathroom floor. 
Put his hand over the melted soap. It squeezed through his fingers.

“God’s teeth.”

Bristle brush best. Nylon wears the white stuff away until there are just
stumps. Sebastian turned the tap and put his joined hands under the 
blisteringly cold water. Put a little touch of Miss Frost’s Mum in the 
pits. With one of these rusty razors I’ll cut the hair off my numb jaw. And
put my brown corduroy trousers on for the rough traveling that may he in it
and the unpredictable fly. For the honey drenched mercy of Jesus, prevent 
that. Never again because I couldn’t bear it. What’s got into Miss Frost? 
Me. Yes, of course. She’s turning treacherous. No telling. Liable to foul 
the rudder of the ship. Can’t trust her if she’s feeling like that. Might 
spill the beans. Boston baked. Must keep all beans in my own little pot.

Sebastian went back into Miss Frost’s bedroom. Went to the dresser and 
picked up her tiny wrist watch, reading the time. Perhaps it would get 
three pounds at my broker. Mustn’t. Not playing the game. Although it’s a 
little hard to know who’s on whose side.

“Lilly, I’m going to cook some sausages. Would you like some? I’ll make a
nice pot of tea for the both of us. Now won’t that be nice? Buck you up. 
Yes?”

“I hate to be alive. I hate this country.”

“Don’t despair.”

“You don’t have to stay here and suffer with them wagging their tongues 
and they’ll hear of it at home.”

Sebastian walked out of the room. He put the black pan over the gas. 
Caught a corner of grease and melted it off on the edge. Sliding down and 
vanishing. Passed the knife through the connecting skin and the little 
sausage fell neatly, hissing in the fat. Don’t know what to tell this 
Lilly. Could tell her that life is a matter of resistance. Been telling too
many people that. I have an aesthetic. Tell Miss Frost to get one. Judge 
these little difficulties with it. My, look at that sausage swell. A spout 
of richness coming out of there that will drown the whole lot of us, 
aesthetics and all.

Sebastian left his pan and went to the bedroom. Miss Frost standing naked
in front of the mirror and said O as he entered. Folding her arms over her 
breasts.

“Lilly, we know each other better than that.”

“O.”

“Get your toothbrush and I’ll take you to London.”

“I couldn’t go. Everyone would know.”

Sebastian went back to the kitchen. Shook the pan. Sausage shrinking and 
splitting, juice pumping out of its side. From now on it’ll be eats for 
one. Must drink more tea for me nerves.

Miss Frost came into the morning room as he was biting off next to the 
last length of sausage. She was wearing her black skirt and gray sweater 
and little red hearts hanging from her ears. Heart of Jesus.

“Bread, Lilly?”

“Please.”

“Butter?”

“Thank you.”

“Tea?”

“Please.”

“How many sugars, Lilly?”

“You think it’s all cod.”

“Very nearly.”

“You don’t know Ireland.”

“I know Ireland, Lilly.”

“O dear me. What am I going to do?”

“Out there in the front hall, Lilly, is the most fantastic collection of 
fan mail in the world. People spend many pounds writing to me. Hiring 
detectives to trail me round Dublin city and environs. Posting children on 
corners to watch me. Lilly, you see talk is the least of it.”

“But you won’t work. Mrs. Dangerfield told me you were missing all your 
classes.”

“That isn’t the point. Do you know, Lilly, that I arrived in this country
with the largest wardrobe ever seen on these shores? Now in the hands of 
Mr. Gleason, my broker. A fine man but he now has practically every 
material thing I have ever owned and even a few I didn’t. Ownership to me 
means nothing. All I want now is peace. Just peace. Don’t want to be 
watched and trailed. Don’t care what they say. I owe this mess to two 
things. Firstly my father-in-law. A lovely old gentleman, an admiral in His
Majesty’s fleet. And I’m a naval man myself. Well, he put me in charge of 
the most fantastic kind of dreamboat. Two hundred and fifty quids. The 
quids, Lilly. Quids. Always watch the quids, Lilly. I don’t say they mean 
everything, but watch them. And then the doctors. They got me. One after 
the other. They come in to you in the white coat with that thing for 
hearing hearts and they put it right over my wallet. I’ll take just another
little sup of tea.”

Miss Frost passed the tea. Red rimmed around her eyes. Off to work. How 
small we make our worlds. Gather them in, tighten them up into little 
castles of fear. Must get out into the meadows. Miss Frost ought to go to 
the Gold Coast. Get in on this ground nut scheme the good British are 
doing. Get what she wants for sure on that coast.

“Write to me Lilly, care of American Express, Haymarket. All right?”

“I don’t think we ought to write to one another.”

“Cheer up.”

Miss Frost carefully chewing her sausage. Sebastian reached over and 
pulled the little flowered blinds apart. There’s the garden that’s figured 
so prominently in my dreams. Everything wet. Rickety tool shed. I don’t 
believe I’ve even had a look in there. Broker would collapse if I arrived 
with rakes and shovels. Explain I was finding gardening a bore. Out there. 
To put one’s hand to the cold earth on a morning such as this would be a 
hardship. Too late now for seeds or sowing. Wind bending over the shrubs. 
Laurels make fine hedges. Across the garden I see the tops of windows and 
the electric light. How cold. Wonder if anyone ever tried to pawn a plant.

“Lilly, may I have a cigarette?”

Lilly took one from her little Woodbine box and handed it across.

“Now, now Lilly, cheer up.”

Tears moving down her cheeks.

“O Lilly, don’t.”

There was a sob. Sebastian lit his cigarette. Miss Frost shaking, 
stuttered breath pumping out of her throat. She stood up. Sebastian stood 
up. She twisted away from him.

“What’s the matter, Lilly?”

Miss Frost ran from the room. Banging of her bedroom door. He waited 
looking at the mantelpiece. Maps and a wooden statue with a cross on the 
belly. Going over to the desk he pulled back the top. Hanging off by the 
hinges. I fouled this and beat it with the poker in rage. Everything 
screwed. The front door slammed shut. God save us. Sebastian quickly moved 
into the hall and to the door. The front gate squealing in the rain. 
Pulling open the door. Miss Frost was running. Dear Lilly. I’ll just get 
down these steps and watch from the gate. There’s something historical 
about this. A nice leg on Miss Frost. What will the neighbors think. Can 
hear the curtains twitching. Running down the street with the tears pouring
out of her head and soft rain touching her hair. There she goes round the 
corner. She can move all right. I’m standing here wearing her blouse.

Sebastian went slowly back into the silent house. Stopping at the door to
look at the letters all over the floor. Pick them up. Twenty-three. Would 
you believe it. Mean, gombeen handwriting. Every one of them rotten. They 
couldn’t help it could they. Not at all. Had to earn a living. Cliches are 
the only things make sense these days. I don’t want to inherit the earth. 
All I want is my only little barn filled with hay. Perhaps Lilly got upset 
because I ate the biggest sausage. I can’t help myself. Don’t mind with 
tea, can always make more. And it’s mostly water so I feel it’s cheap. But 
meat. My. Blood brings out me worst. About five shillings worth of stamps 
on these envelopes. Companies come to me. And I’ll give you each a seal on 
the arse. I have always felt even in the throes of indiscretion, folly, 
lust and lassitude that business was for me and I for it. I’ve even 
practised twiddling my thumbs and showing my teeth in the mirror so’s to 
amuse myself in the office when I was alone. And a few naughty habits I 
have too. O I’d say I’ve got me gambits ready. Promote me, please.

Standing in the hall, letters at his side. Sebastian at rigid attention. 
He did an about face. And another one. I’m on guard duty. The pictures on 
the walls were shaking and he marched into the morning room. Went to the 
desk and tore off the broken top. That’ll be the last squeal out of these 
hinges. Picking up his calling cards. Sebastian Balfe Dangerfield. Many is 
the door these got me through. Perhaps to leave discreetly by the back. And
on this long sheet here I have a list. Debts. I owe the whole world. Even 
the Eskimos. But. And this is the main thing. I’ve kept the dignity. 
Dignity in debt. A handbook for those just starting out. In debt in death.

Sebastian got a shopping bag from the garage. He moved around the kitchen
filling it. Delft. Tell Mr. Gleason this cutlery is heirloomic. And a tea 
pot and one mixing bowl. Bag breaking down the sides. Greed befouling me. 
Ought to tell meself the story about the men in the boat in the West who 
filled it with loot till they all sank. Miserable micks.

In the bathroom. He wrapped Miss Frost’s soap in the oily sort of paper 
the Americans are great for. Can’t beat us when it comes to wrapping 
something up. Tie this with a nice ribbon. Hanging here are Miss Frost’s 
nylons. Dear me, I am somewhat of a thief. Poor Lilly, but do realize it’s 
the awful plight made me take them. Thirty shillings at a good London 
broker. Don’t want to laden myself too much, might have to move fast. 
Speed’s essential when spotted in the street. I’ll pay you back with love 
and interest, Lilly. And now into your bedroom. Somewhat of a mess. If only
there were more time. Might make use of these curtains for a coverall. 
Better look under everything. Lift them up. And this little dresser cover 
won’t come amiss for future scarves.

Sebastian back into the morning room. Through the letters. One from the 
landladies.

* * *

Dear Mr. Dangerfield,

We hope everything is satisfactory, however, we would like to remind you 
that you are considerably in arrears—

Fix that with a little note.

* * *

* * *

My dear Misses Burton,

It has become incumbent upon me to make an extended business trip to 
Tangier. I have taken every precaution in closing the house having had a 
man from Cavandish’s to polish and cover all furniture except the hall 
stand, and a man from a reputable ironmonger’s to check the locks on doors 
and windows.

I know that you must feel a little anxious about the garden and I am sure
you will be glad to know I have gotten in touch with the Department of 
Agriculture to take samples of the soil so that I may have it properly 
prepared for a spring sowing. As soon as I have their report in my hands I 
shall have steps taken to have the garden brought up to standard.

I realize you must feel a certain disquiet concerning the rent now 
outstanding, however, upon my immediate return from Morocco I shall send a 
draft to you through my bank and bring the rent up to date.

The weather of late has been rather unfortunate but perhaps it will make 
the spring an even greater pleasure. Both Mrs. Dangerfield, who is 
presently holidaying in Scotland, and I extend our very best regards to you
both and look forward to having you to tea upon our return.

Yours sincerely,

Sebastian Balfe DANGERFIELD.

* * *

He licked the stale glue and sealed the envelope. I’ll give satisfaction 
if only illusory. I think it might be put I’ve polished. Off the furniture.

Taking the rest of the letters and knocking a straight edge, Sebastian 
ripped them down the center and placed them reverently on a crushed 
newspaper in the fireplace. Matches are one of the things I still have 
besides my life. Bye bye letters.

He went for a last time around the house. Into Marion’s bedroom. Inspect 
the curtains, tuck in the corners, shut out all light. There are three 
library books. Overdue for eternity. Wow, it’s lonely here. And this baba’s
bedroom. Dada, mommie says you are a cad. Easy, child, don’t talk to dada 
like that. Dada’s good dada. He big, good man. Mommie says you pawned all 
the dishes and pram. Nonsense, child, dada big, good man. O it might be 
worse. Worse than that. He closed the doors behind him. Stood in the hall 
to look at a picture of a man with a beard. A handsome man for sure but 
must leave it behind. Now I think that’s it, just lock this front door.

Turning from it he heard the front gate swing. He nipped smartly into 
Miss Frost’s room. Through the spy hole wearing a black chesterfield, white
starched collar, blue striped shirt and brown tie, Egbert Skully. His hat 
looks a little wet Rain dripping fore and aft. A man in black hat and black
shoes. Black is for private means and I’ve got none. All right. All hands. 
Abandon ship.

From the hole Sebastian watched Skully retreat suspiciously down the 
steps, look up at the green tiled roof and reclimb the steps silently. 
Bending over, Mr. Skully brushed his sleeve across the frosted window to 
look in, but the frost remained. He went down the steps again, pausing to 
put his face close to his and Marion’s room. Thank God the windows are 
closed. Skully will be making for the back door and a peek in the kitchen. 
This is dreadful. Skully, despite your predilection for gold I think you 
must come from the bottom of the lowest bog. If I shoot out the front door 
he will see me before I get to the bottom of the street. Have the police to
me for sure. Must think fast and furious. Get on this mackintosh and a 
quick scarf for the throat. Prepare to be prepared. This is no prepared 
piano. Remember the letter and must make off with this package at all 
costs. Eeee, Skully knocking on the morning room window. Must have spotted 
warm grease on the plates, you scoundrel. Trying to trap me in bed. Great 
Jesus. Smoke from the burning letters. He’s looking up at the roof. Sly 
gombeen smelled one of his own cheap envelopes burning. One hope left. One 
way out.

Sebastian checked his shoelaces. Made a last inspection of his 
self-addressed envelope in which were his quids. He waited. More knocks on 
the morning room window. He waited again. Skully trying the back door. 
Security measures were paying off. Now was the time. All hands. Lower away.

Sebastian opened the front door, waited an instant and then with a 
massive heave slammed it shut. The whole house trembled. He stood 
absolutely still in the hall. He heard Skully’s running feet coming around 
the house. They stopped. Then the swinging gate squealing. This was it.

Sebastian turned on his heel and into the morning room picking up his bag
and closing the curtains. Skully will come back from the bottom of the 
block and think he’s got Sebastian, shrewdest of beasts, Dangerfield, 
trapped. Not so, Egbert, just not so. Opening the kitchen door quietly, 
locking it. Take it easy heart, save your beating till later and stop 
jumping round my chest. Moving across the garden and lifting himself up on 
top of the chicken house. On top, balancing himself, the sound of breaking.
The rotting wood gave way beneath his feet. He caught the top of the wall 
with both hands. Paper bag came apart. God’s merciful teeth, me loot lost. 
Control. Full steam ahead. Over this wall. A loud crash of glass at his 
feet passed through the top of a cold frame. For Christ’s sake, twisted 
Jesus. Looking at the back of this house for eyes. Whoa, woman looking at 
me from the window. What to do? Smile, by God, smile at all costs. Come 
through smiling. She’s scared shitless. Just as well she won’t be out 
trying to befoul me little lifeboat or taking brooms or bricks to me. Yell 
to her.

“I’m sorry full moon tonight. I mean I’m mad, my wife’s had an accident.”

He ran between the houses and across the front stingy garden and 
flowerbed and with a slightly miscalculated leap cleared the iron picket 
fence. Put the fear of God into me, picket fences and balls don’t mix. He 
landed falling forward on his knees, and set off at a fast run down the 
street. Please Skully don’t be waiting behind one of these bushes or walls 
because my heart won’t stand it and the ould lungs are coming up out of me 
mouth. Pity to lose my well earned plunder. Egbert will never suspect that 
this is it. He’ll wait outside the house for weeks waiting for me to slip 
the white flag out between the curtains.

And

I

Won’t.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

It’s said people of letters and fine conversation frequent this place and
they call it a Palace. I’m keeping out of sight. In my pocket is a ticket 
bought from the British & Irish Steam Packet Co., Ltd. Guarantees to get 
this flesh of mine to a civilized shore. At eight tonight. Signed and 
sealed for delivery.

Sebastian lowered malt. Walked out of this public house and moved swiftly
under the portico of the Bank of Ireland. If this roof ever fell, boys, not
even Skully could find me. Running across the street through the front 
gates of Trinity. Stopping at the notice board. Never know. May be a 
message from God. Peek into the porter’s lodge. All of them in there 
smiling and rubbing hands round a nice cozy fire in the grate. Wearing nice
black uniforms. Ready to give any little hope or help.

“Good morning, Mr. Dangerfield.”

Boys, I give you me grin of guilt and paste it on the notice board 
because I won’t be needing it soon. And good morning full of rashers and 
fresh eggs from the hot chicken rumps with coffee hopping on the hearth to 
the sound of the meaty sausages splitting sides in the ould thing of a pan.
Good morning and how are you? Student’s morning. Come follow me, students. 
Get the noses out from between the sheets of paper and get some of this 
air. You don’t want this security, bad for digestion. You want something 
better than that. Out under the trees. I am the piper. Beep beep. You up 
there in the garret with your arse white with sitting. Avast. Ahoy and 
avast. Little right rudder. Left unfashionable. I see you all up there in 
your windows before dawn when you think there’s no one looking, extending 
the piss stains down the walls. They say it has seasoned the rock. It’s 
said the Junior Dean was hit on the head with a sackful of it wrapped in 
the Irish Standard. And don’t think I’ve forgot when you invited me to tea 
and we sat round the winter fire friendly and full of cake.

Dangerfield was skipping, using the rotary step. Moving along the raised 
concrete at the side of the library. My passion purple, my pendant pink. 
Trinity covered by lovely soft rain and all its smooth carpets of grass. In
the doorways over there are milk bottles which I drank. Handy for 
hangovers. And down here is the printing house, set back from the silvery 
black street where they print the exams. My little tortured dreams of 
breaking in to see. And along this iron fence with the chain from post to 
post with tops of tiny spires. And the trees in the square. Branches thrown
like stale hair. And the lamp posts and inside the shiny glass. Boot 
scrapers on the granite porches. Seagulls wheeling from the stone buildings
and standing in the street screaming. No world outside. Or hearts boiled in
grief. Or scheming, cruel dying eyes. Nor spades hurrying into the soil for
gold. Just micks.

A professor followed by a gray cat crossed in front of him in a dressing 
gown. Green white pajama legs catching a rim of wet and blue feet showing 
from his slippers. The professor nodded, a little early for smiling. I dip 
my head. I see him go up the steps and down the stone hall on his lonely 
academic legs with the milk whine of the cat behind.

Up in the windows here I see things that make me feel that I’m a tourist.
See a man with a beard behind the grease and steam-stained glass. He’s 
pouring tea in pots or something. Give me some. Think I met him at the 
Student Christian Movement. Hale and hearty fellow. O I remember reading 
about that in the calendar. They said the Student Christian Movement is a 
fellowship of students who desire to understand the Christian faith and to 
live the Christian life. This desire is the only condition of membership. I
beg you, let me belong. Met that man there. Apt to forget a lot of things. 
I came to the Student Christian Movement with an open heart. And mouth. And
stood at the door of No. 3 shyly aware of salvation. A blond, curly haired 
young man came forward offering his hand in a strong warm greeting. Welcome
to our little society, come in, let me introduce you. You’re doing law? 
I’ve seen you around college. We’re a very little group here. This is Miss 
Feen. Miss Otto, Miss Fitzdare, Miss Windsor and Mr. Hindes, Tuffy and 
Byrne. Now won’t you let me get you some tea. Weak or strong?

Weak please. In the corner a kettle on a gas ring, steaming in the 
evening air. A piano. Miss Fitzdare wore a soft woolen light gray frock and
as she passed under my quivering nose, a winter perfume. She offered me a 
cream cake and asked is this your first time here? First time, yes. I 
thought she was lovely. While she was saying not many college people are 
interested, I leaned and said tenderly to her, a cordial group. We try to 
be. O I think you succeed admirably. I’m particularly looking forward to 
attending your prayer meetings. I let out my halo and she said she was so 
glad and are you fond of singing. The song is of course for me. Please say 
some more, Miss Fitzdare. We have some very fine voices in the group. And 
you, Miss Fitzdare, do you? With me. Sometime. Maybe. Pass under my nose 
again. I went out that night in the cold smells of Dublin and last streaks 
of light. Down Dame Street with hope and massive heart. In that little 
group singing me high twisted notes. Not altogether agreeing in all 
respects but at least warmed by their kind considerate faces, their bright 
eyes. I loved them so much.

He walked between the corners of the two buildings in back of the Queen’s
Theater. Feeling all is closed for winter. This back end and never noticed 
place. One night I climbed up on the bank of grass by the playing field and
wept between my knees. And Saturday afternoons I came here to watch them 
bust each other’s head chasing a ball. Just a few people lined along the 
edges of the field in mufflers and upturned collars. Back here are the 
science buildings where they put the stuff together to go boom. And the 
Botany Department and pretty flowers. It must be so nice to just grow 
plants for a degree. And the examination hall. Begging permission to live. 
Better than most. The Physics building where I spent a shilling to go to 
the Gramophone Society. Chilly but pleasant. And beyond the tennis courts 
the Zoology building. In there is an impressive collection of insectivora 
and an elephant standing in the middle of the room. I went up those steps 
and pressed the shiny bell for visitors and they came to usher me in to 
look around. And after lectures in law I came to this little museum to look
at the bats. You might say I had a lot of little fancy occupations. Stuffed
animals my specialty. And the sports pavilion. Played the odd game of 
tennis here with Jim Walsh. You didn’t know that either. And the tub of 
cold cold water. These rugby roughs in from the pitch to plunge in 
bellowing. I was content to stand under the shower till I was nicely 
scalded.

Sebastian passed under the arch of the back gate of Trinity College.’ 
Crossed Fenian Street amid the wild manoeuvers of carts and cars. Walking 
with head bent, looking up now and again to chart the territory ahead. Up 
Merrion Street and the sun came out shining on the government buildings. 
Secretaries with morning hip swinging turning in the doorways. All their 
lips bright red. Red coats across their broad backs. Men in dark overcoats 
passing with red noses, red raw hands. Girls had purple ankles. I go on. 
Faster. Along the Lower Baggot. Quick right, lash up Pembroke and around 
the Square with pretty Georgian doors. I crossed Fitzwilliam Place and 
touched the iron fences as I went by. Till I opened a narrow gate and went 
down the steep steps. Knocking. No answer. Rap the S.O.S. on the window. 
Bring him for sure. I know Tone’s a great man for the seafaring. The light 
goes on. Door opens and Tony Malarkey peeks out.

“Jesus, Sebastian, I had to be sure.”

“And quite right. Hello Tony.”

“I haven’t answered the door for weeks.”

“A little bit of the landlord?”

“I’m beat. How are you? Come in while I bolt it up.” Sebastian waited 
behind Tony watching as he closed the door and lowered a stout board into 
place, jamming it tight with several wedges.

“Eeeeeee it’s good, Tone. Good.”

“O Jesus it’s taken the youth out of me. No more just rapping, they try 
to break it down. I worked all night on it and had it ready in the morning.
They came along with two policemen, thick peelers, couldn’t make it budge. 
They just stand out there with their bloody papers mumbling and me just 
behind the door ready to send the first head through to the moon. Bad for 
the kids, couldn’t let them out at all.”

“I say, Tone, what’s happened?”

“I moved everything out. Sent Terry and the kids down to the country. I’m
in this tomb holding out just in case they give up trying to evict. It’s 
good, isn’t it.”

Sebastian sat on the window sill. Tony leaning against the stove, 
grinning over his folded arms, a pair of pampooties on his crossed feet. 
This bare room with a single pot hanging over the stove and their voices 
echoing on the damp thick walls. Looking at each other. Dangerfield bent 
himself double. Squealed. Tony put back his head and laughed. The windows 
shook.

“Would you say Tone that there is no end to it? Would you say that now?”

“Jesus I would and I haven’t even got a spare bullet for the gun.”

“Would you say you’re ready for a little bit of sleep, a nap in the 
‘Nevin’? Here lies the body of Tone who left only a moan. Would you say 
that?”

“Sebastian we’re all finished. This last month has really been the worst.
When things are bad you keep telling yourself they can’t get worse. Then 
they get worse. And stay that way until you’re so weary and screwed you 
can’t even worry anymore. It gets like that. So damn bad that you have to 
cheer up or die. Clocklan was right, the whore. Up there selling God 
clouds.”

“Kenneth told me.”

“That was the way to do it. A bottle of Jameson and off the mail boat. 
I’ve been reading in the papers to see if the old whore will wash up 
somewhere. Just like him to come up on some bathing strand next summer and 
frighten the life out of some poor defenseless kids.”

“Do you really think he went off the boat, Tone?”

“I don’t know what to think. No one’s heard from the ould whore since. It
wouldn’t surprise me if he’s off somewhere like Cardiff screwing some old 
hag for the few quid she’s worth. O’Keefe’s finally gone. It’s a shame.”

“On the high seas.”

“A pity.”

“Well, Tone, what are you going to do?”

“I haven’t a whore’s notion.”

“Where do you sleep?”

“Come here till I show you. This will give you a laugh.” Sebastian 
followed him down the long passage, their voices echoing from the dark deep
rooms. Sebastian stopped at the door. Malarkey went over to the wall and 
striking a match on the scaly stone lit a gas mantle.

“Twisted Jesus. I say Tone that’s a little bit of the fantastic.”

“I knew it would give you a laugh.”

In this long pink room. At both ends there were huge railroad spikes 
driven into the wall to which were attached stout ropes suspending a 
gigantic hammock lined with a black overcoat.

“Tone, may the Blessed Oliver pray for us all.”

Tony with a swift skillful leap landed in the center of this mammoth 
black cradle. He reached out his hand.

“Hand me that cord on the wall, Sebastian.”

Grinning Malarkey pulled on the cord drawing himself towards the wall, 
releasing it to slip through his fingers. The hammock rocking gently back 
and forth. From the door faint animal squeaks of Dangerfield.

“Tone, if this weren’t the Catacombs, if I weren’t deep down here in the 
cats with an honest man such as yourself I would say it was lies I saw but 
seeing is, and watching is, believing.”

“I’ll tell you something. I would have gone out of my mind if it weren’t 
for this, Sebastian. It’s been the saving of me. I had nowhere to sleep and
just this coat and ould junk. I couldn’t get a night’s rest on the floor 
with the suburban community of rats. So with the coat a rich American gave 
me and this rope I found while looking for something to whip into the pawn 
I got to work.”

Tony lifted up the coat.

“I braided this out of some old bits of string and rags. It’s the good 
gas.”

“Tony, you’ve got so much brains you’ll never amount to a thing.”

“Isn’t it the way, Sebastian. Tell me, what’s new?”

“I’m going to London.”

“You’re not?”

“Tonight’s mail boat.”

“What’s happened?”

“It’s so involved I don’t know.”

“That’s fair enough.”

“Tone, we’re all going to the wall.”

“They’ve been trying to get me out of this place for over a year and they
haven’t succeeded yet. It’s the only satisfaction I get out of life. Just 
screwing this landlord. But I’ll tell you Sebastian, while there’s a spud 
left in Ireland, I won’t be beat. A lot of faces will be bashed in before 
I’m finished.”

“Them’s the words, Tone.”

“It’s the kids. I don’t know what I’ll do. They’ve got to have a place to
live. I’ve got to find something. Get my hands on a few quid. Just a few 
nicker and I could get a little farm in the Wicklows.”

“Turn to gangsterism.”

“Sebastian, I couldn’t.”

“Tone, pride has you at its mercy.”

“Has me by the very ballocks.”

“Tony, I think a pint would see us right.”

“I think you’re right for the first time since you last said that.”

“Wait till I use your toilet.”

“You can’t.”

“I say, Tone, what?”

“Jesus, I ripped the damn thing out and sold it down the quays for thirty
bob.”

“God’s teeth.”

“A fine bit of lead too, fetched eight and six.”

“Will we ever see the end.”

“I’m desperate.”

“Now Tone, tell me. I’m professionally interested. How did you get a 
thing like that down to the quays?”

“In the pram. Tied a ribbon on it. Pillow and blanket.”

“I think it can be said Tone that we’ve both pushed more than babies in 
the pram.”

“Terry had a fit.”

“How is she?”

“Fine.”

“And the kids?”

“They have no idea. Everything’s great. Beauty of kids. They only miss 
love and food.”

“And while there’s a potato left, eh Tone?”

“You’re right.”

“I think the pint now. Time for pint.”

They paused at the front door. Tony fiddling with his elaborate 
fortifications.

“Now watch this, Sebastian.”

Tony adjusted the stout board wedging it perpendicularly at the side of 
the door. Sebastian stepped out, watching with interest. Tony slammed the 
door. Inside the sound of the board slipping into place.

“For the love of the B.O.P.”

“Isn’t it good?”

“I wouldn’t relish you as an enemy, Tone. How do you get in?”

“Now watch.”

Tony opened the door to the coal cellar. Reaching carefully around the 
wall grinning. He held out a cord.

“This goes through the wall and you just pull it back until the board 
jams up against the door frame and bob’s your rudd. Took a lot of 
fiddling.”

“Someone told me Tone that you can take sixty thousand volts through one 
ear and out the other while singing The West’s Awake.”

“Who in Christ’s name told you that? I didn’t want that to get around.”

“Eeeee, we’re going to win. Win win win. Do you hear me out there? Win.”

They set off for Lower Baggot Street. Into the house on the corner. 
Malarkey wearing a purple scarf with tiny yellow and green stripes tucked 
up carefully to hide garments that had seen better days on the back of a 
rich American. Dangerfield holding his female mackintosh closed with a 
baby’s big safety pin.

‘“Sebastian, I hear from reliable sources that you have been getting a 
bit from your boarder.”

“I beg your pardon, Tone.”

“You shrewd whore.”

“Miss Frost is joining the Carmelites.”

“You mean a kip.”

“I assure you, Tone, for your own peace of mind that no commerce, carnal 
or otherwise, has taken place between us. On the contrary, Miss Frost and I
often attended Benediction together. Took the holy water on the cheeks. Of 
the face. Do you know she has a very fine voice. Bit of baritone but with 
heart. Yes, heart. Puts her heart in it. Sings from the bottom of.”

“If you weren’t screwing Miss Frost day and night and mostly nights, I’d 
give up drinking and betting for life.”

“Eeeeeeeee.”

Gathering pennies from the bar, they moved to another pub on the Baggot 
Street. Sebastian who said he felt a slight chill coming on had several 
double brandies.

“Do you know Sebastian I’ve got to get a farm as soon as I lay my hands 
on some quids. Only way to live. Make packs of money.”

“Tone, I think we put too much faith in the farm. Get this farm and then 
be out there at dawn feeding pigs and some bull sneaking up for a good butt
in the arse.”

“You’re right.”

“I’ll be sorry to leave, Tone.”

“Not at all.”

“A bit of sadness. The burial boat. But I need the change. Over the water
and far away. The greenness will be gone. Strange, Tone, how you, direct 
descendant of the original king, take so much in your own country. Without 
land or spuds.”

“If it weren’t for me ould blood being blue I’d have sold it at the 
hospital long ago.”

“But never mix it, Tone. Never do that. Our day will come. Just stave off
the starving and a few other things and our day will come.”

The holy hour of two-thirty when public houses get the big iron gates 
shuttered across the doors to keep the thirsty out. They went to the Green 
Cinema where they sat at a white table and golfed down platefuls of 
rashers, eggs and chips. When they came out the traffic was stopped. Heads 
out of the cars and honking horns. Down the street a huge hulking man lay 
himself down in the road and went to sleep. Some said he had drink taken. 
Others that he was listening to see if he could hear the pulse of the city.
Sebastian danced and yelped. Newsboys in the crowd asked him what he was 
doing. Dog dance, sonny.

They walked down the Friday throng of Grafton Street and by the customers
waiting for the cinema. Heavy skies coming over the city. Dark dark. Glow 
of lamps in the Grafton Cinema Cafe. My haven. Bikes flooding up towards 
the traffic jam which was becoming general throughout the city. The public 
houses filling with the huddled men wiping noses across sleeves and on 
chilblained knuckles. Bartenders hard at work. Serving up to the voices 
touched with bravado of payday, and mouths shut on Monday. And now we go 
down Wicklow Street because on this street there is a public house which I 
have always found very special. It can’t be beat for the mahogany or 
barrels. When I go there the man is nice to me and has even asked if I went
to the theatre. For once I didn’t lie outright, and I said no. What do I 
say when I lie? I’ll tell you. I say my name is a Gooseky and I’m from 
Westsky every Leapsky.

Dangerfield got his hand through to the man for two foaming pints of 
plain. They retreated to a corner. Put the pints on a shelf. Tony brought 
out a box of butts.

“Good God. Tone.”

“I got these out of the fireplace of an American in Trinity. They throw 
them away big.”

“Put them away. Away Tone and permit me in a moment of lavish to treat 
you to twenty.”

Huddled over cigarettes and porter. There comes a time in the city of 
Dublin, when the glass tinkles. Morning despair and afternoon’s passive 
agony fruits in a jell of joy. And leaks all over when it melts later. I 
look into Tone’s face, which is Ireland. “What would you do, Tone, if you 
ever got money. A lot of money.”

“Do you want the truth?”

“I want the truth.”

“First thing, I’d get a suit made. Then I’ll come along to the Seven Ts 
and put a hundred pound note on the bar. Drink up the whole kip of ye. I’ll
send a hundred quid to O’Keefe and tell him to come back. May even, if I 
get drunk enough, put a plaque in the sidewalk on the corner of Harry and 
Grafton. Percy Clocklan, keeper of the kip who farted on this spot, R.I.P. 
Then, Sebastian, I’ll start from College Green and I’ll walk every inch of 
the way from here to Kerry getting drunk at every pub. It’ll take me about 
a year. Then I’ll arrive on Dingle Peninsula, walk out on the end of Slea 
Head, beat, wet and penniless. I’ll sit there and weep into the sea.”

“Tone, take this.”

Dangerfield placed a folded pound note in Malarkey’s fist. “Jesus, thanks
Sebastian.”

“So long, Tone.”

“Good luck.”

Shaking hands. Sebastian drained his glass. Hand in front wedging cracks 
between the overcoats, finding a way out into the street. He stood on the 
corner. Look up into the wild, dark sky. Pin the mackintosh up around the 
throat. Stop the sneaky drafts. And hands in the wet cold pockets. While I 
try to get up heat rubbing the pennies. I’ve got a passport. Two hours 
left. I’ve seen whores walking along this street. In there they sell the 
dishes. And this ironmonger’s great black window. Think of the basins in 
there, miles of copper pipes, tubs and lawnmowers. I love it along here. I 
want to die in a country district with the cemetery not far away.

Rural for me. Rural last ride. A casket without handles. All I ask is 
don’t nail it too tight.

Sebastian entered the side door of the Bleeding Horse. Lowered a Power’s 
Gold Label. A man approached in British attire speaking French. I told him 
my bile was green. He said you speak French. Goo goo mick mick.

Out the door. Up the street. Down the steps. Peek in the window. Knock on
the door. Shuffle of her slippers. Twinge of hesitation. In there is flesh 
I took against mine. I licked it, pinched, pushed, tickled. O aye, her 
buzzuma. And when I’ve felt a bottom like hers I won’t forget too fast or 
ever. I ask you heart to stop beating like the hammers of hell. Here comes 
her hair round the door.

“Me.”

“O.”

“May I come in? Please. I know me big foul man. Big beast. All that. I 
know. But.”

“You reek with drink.”

“Chris, cross my heart, like any good Romish Papist.”

“Come in then. Sit down. No need to stand. Sit. I don’t want to be used. 
Just like some shoe you put your foot in. Why haven’t you come to see me 
before this?”

“I’m leaving for London on the mail boat in an hour. Cheer up.”

“I won’t cheer up. Not for your leather soul.”

“Whoops. Wait a minute. Now I don’t want you to feel like that. Please. 
Not the leather soul. Maybe plaster or jade.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before this? Your affairs were in a mess and 
there were some misunderstandings.”

“There were. Please now. Come out and just have a drink.”

“No.”

“Please now.”

“What do you think I am? Here day after day. Lonely. Hoping you might 
come. Not a word. What do you think it’s like? What do you know about how a
woman feels? You don’t know anything about life.”

“I know about life. I’m in this too.”

She turned and smoothed out a pantie. Ran the iron over the lace. Folded 
it and laid it on the pile of neat clothes. Sebastian sat, face adjusted 
for listening. With elbows resting on knees. Legs split for comfort in 
slight despair and chin resting in the cups of his hands.

“Couldn’t you have written?”

“I meant to.”

“And now you just come here to tell me you’re going. Just like that. 
Haven’t you ever suffered? Or been miserable?”

“I’ve made mistakes. I never know when they’re going to get me. I’m not 
heartless. If I could catch my breath. I’d make all this up to you. I don’t
forget when people are good to me. But when I risk getting my arse caught 
on a spike, get chased and beaten up, I’ve got to do the best I can. Start 
over again in London. There’s a little money I’m due for across the seas. 
I’m not a bad person.”

“Don’t be such a fool.”

“Ireland’s been too much for me. Badgering and insult. You can come to 
London.”

“Write me about it.”

“Will you come? Jesus, come.”

“Write me. That coat looks ridiculous.”

“My magic cloak. A little kiss.”

Kissing in the lonely basement room. Footsteps in the hall. Holding one 
of her softened hands. I’ve made peace. Go up and out. A last look. Bye.

A blast of wind and rain beating me on the back. Across the street now to
get that warm lighted bus and swing inside. I see Chris closing her door. 
Busman’s bell and hot wet air. Wipe some of this steam off the window 
because out there are shop fronts of toys, sides of beef and stained secret
windows of public houses.

On the quays with bag-laden figures hurrying on the candy cobble stones 
past the gangway lights of moored ships. Seagulls fluttering white wings in
the dark. Under the light of the entrance, passengers scattering goodbyes 
between the taxis and newsboys. I buy my last Evening Mail. I travel East. 
To the more established civilizations.

“Baggage, sir?”

“None.”

“Anything to declare?”

“Nothing.”

Between the narrow steep rails. Ship’s light bleak yellow. Along this 
deck the windows shielding against the sea. Nearly eight. Nearly gone. Go 
around to the Liffey side of the ship. Down there are the waters from 
Blessington. Man taking the cable to the other side. I want to see some 
seamanship, boys. Smartly. Making too much noise with those oarlocks. South
over there is the Trinity College, the Balls-bridge, Donnybrook, Milltown, 
Windy Harbour and beyond. I know them all. Cold killing wind between my 
knees. Slant black spires of the little mountains. Within that carpet of 
light. All my tiny sad despairs. Like watching out of my tower. Gather my 
ships from the edges of the sea. Called from where they were dying. I don’t
want to go. But if I don’t? I have nowhere to call my own again. What can I
say? Tell me. What can I say? So much I would like to keep forever. Flecks 
of water brushed from oily laurel leaves or my steps during the silences of
morning or late night. And the donkey calls. Or as I lay on my back in 
Ireland looking up out of the world. There was a day in summer when I 
walked up the mountain and stood at Kilmurry. From the bottom of the steep 
green fields and all the way to the Moulditch Bank, a blue trembling brim 
of sea, a little white. On this day there was a train coming up from 
Wicklow town towards Dublin. Crawling across my hand. Spread on the 
meadowed bottom land. The sun was shining on this train. Carrying my heart 
away. They send off the whistle so I almost jump out of my shoes. And it 
comes back from the broken houses along John Rogerson’s Quay. I hear the 
winch. Click and growl. White wash fanning away on the water. Tenderly to 
midstream. By other boats and the half island of Ringsend. Is there a nest 
of fire and home within those windows? This ship slipping between the 
lighthouses of Bailey and Muglins. Man riding a bicycle on the Pigeon House
Road. Howth and Dalkey. I feel the sea under me.

I set sail

On this crucifixion Friday

With the stormy heavens

Crushing the sea

And my heart

Twisted

With dying.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Undo this safety pin. Miss Frost’s blouse. This rusty pullover. Put these
on the chair. And I think cover my nudity with trusty blotched mackintosh. 
Walk on the rug in bare feet, dig the toes in something awful.

Opening the door, stepping out into this wide hall. A chamber maid coming
around the corner. Her kindly young smile looking rather closely at my 
ankles.

“Would you like a bath towel, sir?”

“Well-”

I’m confused, pausing in the hall in an embarrassing condition for 
consideration of a towel due to possibility of foot smell and the valleys 
of me soiled with deposits of poverty.

“Only a minute, sir. They’re nice and hot.”

“Well. Hot. Yes. Is that it there?”

“The door on your right, sir.”

“Well thank you.”

“Not at all, sir.”

The vagaries of this species. Her little hat. Flounce. Pushing open this 
impersonal door and switching on the light. In the far corner of the room a
tub to bathe the world. So fat and far and full. Cork topped chair. Taps. 
Gigantic things. Just take off this waterproof garment and get a sup of the
libido. A little of this ego admiration in the mirror. Now I haven’t a bad 
build at all. Trifle swell at the waist. Odd rib showing. Flex the muscles.
Good god. Must join an athletic club.

He was closing the little window, looking out in the stream of chill air 
to see all the windows. In this enormous city. I know there are business 
men here. I know it.

A knock. Of a type well delivered with the metacarpals.

“Sir?”

“One moment.”

Opening the door. Naked shoulder. Please don’t think me devoid of 
modesty. Young woman, do you know that this is risky business? I mean to 
say, you know, two of us and one man and one woman. Honestly, I think 
perhaps I wouldn’t be past possessing you. Out of kindness if nothing else.

“Here you are. It’s nice and big. Silly little towels wouldn’t dry an 
ant.”

“Ha, ha.”

“Prewar, sir.”

“Indeed, I thank you very much.”

“And very welcome you are, sir.”

Closing the door and taking this towel which was every bit a rather large
carpet. And turning the taps and the water pouring out. Lowering into it. 
Sitting back in this warm balm. I have been delivered from many a tired 
year and cold day with walking streets ill shod, ferrying my educated soul,
slipping sensibly behind barrels, walls and battlements, playing 
undiscovered and overdrawn at banks and everywhere.

Floating. Nothing like it. Bit of the body suspension. Last night in the 
ship’s lane. They asked me where I was staying. Under a bush in Hyde Park. 
And out of the train I saw the scraggy trees. Delighted to see so many 
streets. Tomorrow read the personals.

* * *

Gentleman going abroad for year, wishes contact suitable person, fond of 
shooting, country life, to care for estate, fully staffed. Must love 
animals. Adequate remuneration.

* * *

More. More of same, f tell you there’s lushness. And other straight 
figures and delicate fingers like my own. And tall lank women. Low shoed. 
And pink for pure. Rust for honesty. I’m a piece of old iron.

Huge bathroom warmed up. Sitting on the cork and drying carefully between
the toes. Up for a last look at me in the mirror. I think the steam has 
made it bigger.

Enclosed in the mackintosh, stepping into comforts. Large double bed, and
sink and mirror sparkling in the light. Thick flower covered comforter. And
perhaps an Axminster rug, the like of which the likes of Mr. Skully has 
never seen. The Irish do have these small pretensions. Dear Egbert, do you 
think I’m still behind the curtains?

Corner of the bed laid back and bare. Just let me lie down here now. I 
don’t think I’ve ever been quite as nude before. Makes you think. Of 
others. Lilly, lately I’ve thought of you. Don’t join the nuns.

He reached out for the phone. Buzz buzz. Click click. “May I please speak
to Mr. MacDoon.”

“I’ll see if he’s in.”

With these talking machines hear a lot of queer things. Leprechaun feet 
coming.

“Hello?”

“This is Dangerfield.”

“Say that again.”

“This is Dangerfield.”

“Just once more.”

“This is Dangerfield.”

“Now for the mercy of our savior who has wasted his Rh negative blood for
the poor likes of us, don’t tell me you’re in London?”

“Mac, I am. And tell me is there violence here? I abhor violence and 
those who wander the streets kicking the very bejesus out of the 
downtrodden.”

“As soon as you hang up I’ll tell Parnell, bare and hairy chested king of
killers, to alert the underworld to let you pass safely and swiftly.”

“Can you put me up?”

“Up. Exactly. I can if you want to hang by your throat from the ceiling. 
We supply all guests with a hook. I’ve got little rings in the ceiling. The
room is nine by eleven and I can put up forty guests of an evening. His 
Majesty couldn’t do any better. Of course I sleep on a bed. A little 
disconcerting to have so many twisting feet pointing down at you of a 
morning, get that trampled feeling.”

“Would you say, Mac, there was a bit of the abbattoir in it?”

“I’d say that. When are we going to see you?”

“Right away. Just have to dress so as not to present a state of undress 
to the public.”

“Do you know how to get here?”

“I’d say so Mac. But this is top secret. Not a word to anyone. Expect me 
in an hour.”

“The red, white and blue carpet will be out. There are two huge animals 
out front. Put your fist in the mouth of the one on the left, nothing 
political in that, and pull on the tongue.”

“If it bites me, Mac, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Bye bye.”

“Beep beep.”

Ah O me O my this is it. Pm just a mad stallion. With pink eyes. Wouldn’t
you just like to see me now. Marion, wouldn’t you? I’m not bitter. O no. 
I’m quite calm. Completely relaxed. But when you come to me in Mayfair when
things are as they ought to be, don’t try to move in and think things are 
going to be jake again. Don’t worry. The time of the faithless wall come 
and you’ll get a good boot in the arse. God I look good tonight. Color in 
me cheeks. My nostrils just quiver with the sensibility that does be in me.
Lashings of the hot water out of this tap. This soap is fragrant. Mary, 
I’ll wash you with it.

There were smiles in the lobby. Marble halls for sure. Out into the night
life. A quiet park across the street. I like this. Walk around here. And 
down into the Underground. Everybody’s got jewelry on. That girl has a nice
gray suit. Hands bit heavy round the knuckles. But a pair of legs that must
be lovely. I hope she doesn’t think I’m staring at her. Because I’m really 
aloof. I’m just looking at your legs and wondering how they are further up.
Or maybe you could even give me directions how to get to MacDoon’s. These 
seats are comfortable. Keep my legs like this because I think my soles are 
going to drop off any minute. Have to use the shuffle walk from here on in.
Not a time to be chased.

So many faces to look at. Up these stairs. Her legs are extraordinary. I 
must ask her the way. I’ve got to.

“I beg your pardon but could you tell me the way to Minsk House.”

“Yes, certainly. Third turning on the right.”

“Thank you. I hope you won’t mind my telling you you have lovely legs?”

“Well no. I guess not.”

‘Take good care of them now. And thank you very much indeed.”

“Thank you.”

I haven’t got the heart to involve her. A girl like that deserves a fair 
chance. Her teeth bit small but even and clean and I always say give me the
even and clean to dirty big ones all the time. Not a bad area at all. Must 
say MacDoon keeps the fashion at all costs and now that I’ve seen a bit of 
this city I think I’d agree with him there. Good heavens. That must be it. 
Are those lions or what. I daren’t put my hand in there, might never come 
out again. But I’ve got to do it. Blessed Oliver deliver me from fangs. He 
said pull it. Feels like something I’d rather not talk about. I don’t see a
thing anywhere. Perhaps Mac is a bit whoopsie doodle in there. I know he 
gets up to the most fantastic things. I hear something.

A door opening and closing. A shadow passing on the wall. A figure 
bending over a barrel. Stuffing something in, pulling something out. 
Somebody say something.

“I say. I say there, Mac? Is it you Mac?”

MacDoon. Small dancing figure. It is said his eyes are like the crown 
jewels. A sharp red beard on his chin. Leprechaun for sure. Can’t speak too
loudly to Mac, else he may blow away.

“Come down, come down, come down. Down Dangerfield down.”

“Mac, everybody I know these days lives down. Now why is that?”

“The times, the times. And how’s your hammer hanging. Step this way, 
Danger. Into the jaws of strife.”

There was a door with a mouth around it. Lips were red and teeth white.

“Mac, this is terrifying. Will I get out undigested.”

“And unmolested.”

“Mac, I’m relieved to be in London.”

“Sit down. I would say you had the odd bit of angst around the eyes.”

“A bit of it.”

“Now tell me all. I hear they have new bells in hell.” There were two 
nice soft chairs. A gas fire burning a blue flame on top of which was a pot
of glue. On the walls were private prongs. Large ones, medium and curved 
and, as Mac said, one in the image and likeness of. From a little colorful 
box came whimpering.

“Mac, for heaven’s sake what’s in there?”

“Progeny.”

“My.”

“Now Danger I want news.”

“Well I think I can say I’ve come a long, a rather long way. I can see it
all now. It’s been hard, evil and even unfair at times. Shall we look at it
that way.”

“Danger, I want blood.”

“Now of course there’s been the odd bit of blood. A bit of that. And 
confusion. Marion’s at Withwait with Felicity.”

“To interrupt for a moment, Danger. Now I always thought that you would 
do the right thing and take over one of the wings of Withwait Hall. It’s 
always been the feeling in Dublin that that would be the natural course of 
events. We felt it would only ‘be a matter of time before guilt drove 
Admiral Wilful Wilton to suicide and that old lady Wilton would be 
immediately sent to Harrogate to recover from the blow while you sold off 
the shooting rights and became the squire of Withwait. Fashion now Danger.”

“Mac I agree. Death can do me lots of favors.”

“And we hear old man Dangerfield isn’t well.”

“That’s true Mac and I must say it makes me very anxious. I’m just 
screwed. They call me an apostate. They say I’ve tried to save my own 
rather blemished skin. Here I am reduced to accent. No hearth nor home. But
being here makes me feel there’s hope yet. And I’ll tell you this. As badly
treated as I’ve been I’ll not forget those who gave the helping hand. Even 
now Tone Malarkey is down behind his battlements. I think if God ever took 
him into heaven he’d never get him out again. And I think he is secretly 
planning to win a few quid and buy cement blocks and just concrete himself 
in with a tunnel down to the Daids for the odd pint. He said the pumping 
parts of his heart are pure carborundum. Now both of us know that that’s 
pretty hard stuff even with the current rampant scientific advance. Tone 
said he got the way he is eating live salmon out of the Shannon. And Tone 
is the only man I know who has never told a lie.”

“Danger, I have to admit that what you say is true.”

“What in the name of God is that, Mac?”

“He, he.”

Mac lifted from a crumpled heap at the foot of his bed the head of a 
kangaroo. He put it over his skull and wagged it. He climbed into the rest 
of the body and danced around the room.

“Mac, I think it’s magnificent.”

“My drinking suit. And here, a little present I know you will 
appreciate.”

Mac hands over a small brown replica of the head of Blessed Oliver.

“Mac, I don’t think you’ll ever know how much I need or will cherish 
this. The teeth are perfect. Most significant part of Oliver. Eeeeeee and E
for effort. Help me spread the fair name of Oliver to these ones with not 
an ounce of God in them.”

“I made the teeth from a piano key.”

“Miraculous.”

“Wear it.”

“I will. And now Mac I must ask us both have we got mouths.”

Climbing up out through the jaws, gray trees and night. Along the empty 
wet streets. Huge windows there and a servant comes and pulls the curtains.
A great black car glides by, tires humming on the street.

“Mac, that’s good to see.”

“I agree Danger.”

“And I haven’t seen such wealth for years. Not for years. And I need it. 
Need it.”

“And up here Danger is the Bear Pit but first I must show you something 
across the street which I know you will be taken with.”

MacDoon led Dangerfield over the road. They stopped in front of a 
fountain and a recess in the wall. There was a poem.

God

Bless

The

Poor.

“Mac, I hope it won’t embarrass you if I just kneel down here and offer 
up a little prayer from the pavement. That’s a very fine thing. If more 
people felt that way would we have strife? Would we? I ask you would we 
have strife?”

“I can only say Danger that I have been driven to designing bras the 
uplift of which will put a new lust into the hearts of these citizens.”

The mellow lights through the frosted windows. Entering into the saloon 
bar with its flowers and decks of sandwiches. The polished chairs and 
tables. People of a class with dogs. MacDoon brought over the two pints and
laid them on the shiny table. Thirst was general.

Dangerfield leaned back in his chair, folding his legs far away under the
table. He smiled.

Sitting talking of Dublin when it had been the Rome of the world. O it’s 
little pitfalls and despairs. Of Clocklan who abandoned ship. MacDoon told 
of the hard demands made by woman, of how he was beginning to wish he had 
none at all or that it was so big as to be carried by the London Fire 
Brigade for use on major fires.

And these dogs. Happy hungry animals. If only I owned one. I know they 
foul the streets and are at times disgusting with others on various village
greens. Despite indelicacy I want one. Preferably of a fine breed and 
pedigree to go with my own. And MacDoon I must admit you’re extraordinarily
handsome with fine hands and here you are tinkering in this endless city. 
Perhaps Mary can pose for you when you design the large sizes. And bring 
home the bacon to some nice airy room with a fine gas ring and rugs hanging
on the walls where I can sit like a detective smoking a pipe and resting 
feet. I’ll read books. Polish my fingernails. I don’t care about the other 
greedy ones. I think I’ll have another bath before I go bye bye to my bedi 
bo.

They parted at the station. Where the red trains went in went out. An 
Earl’s Court for sure. And I ride along on these nice cars looking at 
everyone.

Back at the hotel crawling weary on the heavy bed. Face on the pillow, 
covers up over me. And cars squealing around the corners out there.

I set sail all right. Saw the lights of Holyhead. The black Liverpool. 
And the still birds standing up on top of that building. Cotton, meat and 
grain. I look down from the deck into the faces terrified of recognition. 
Safe only at sea. I got breakfast, a threepenny paper, and looked at all 
those girls in red lips and curlers. I’m alone. And took the train. The 
land was gray. And when I got here all the others were taking big cars and 
taxis everywhere and I had no one and just walked down the platform 
wondering what to do. I see them all greeted with kisses.

And not

One For me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Upon London Sunday, Sebastian Dangerfield went by advice of MacDoon to a 
place in the Bovir Road where he took a room on the top floor of this 
yellow Victorian house. Tiny tidy room. A soft bed covered with green 
ticking. In the corner by the large window an oak table, a chair and 
another of basket weave. Twisted electric fire in the wall and a shilling 
meter by the door. A basin and a bath across the hall where on a chair you 
can see down on the tracks and station.

Every morning a rap on the door by an Indian woman. Breakfast. Reach out 
and on with the electric fire. Into the clothes. Down these dark stairs. 
Come in where they all smile and say hello and others good morning. Cozy 
trimming and pots of dried flowers. Always been partial to them. I know 
these people are from the Commonwealth. That woman says her son has a new 
job. Yes, you know they decided to move him up. Madam, that’s just great.

Every morning it’s like this. Porridge with lashings of milk and sugar. 
Then the bacon and eggs. Bring them on. O I tell you. And the Indian woman 
bringing in the pots of tea. And every morning I go back up the stairs and 
look out the window while they go by in the street with little umbrellas. 
And that woman over there who delights in it. I know she does. Standing 
naked and unabashed by her window with a certain hauteur looking back at me
from between the towel drying her face. Don’t think I don’t see you, 
sister. You’ve got a good husky body. But if I saw you in the street 
dressed I think perhaps you would be different with your white lace coming 
out at various places from your suit.

Come down the stairs and look for my name on any of the letters. Up the 
street and stop to look in the pit of a bombed out building where a cat 
prowls. Buy a paper from the woman in the newsagents. Go back and sit with 
legs up on the window ledge. O I think there’s going to be a sign. Big one.
And it’s going to say Dangerfield Lives.

On late Monday there was the guilty letter to Mary, O me ould tired, 
tried and true love, come to London and bring fifteen pounds and I’ll meet 
you at the station and take you back to my little womb.

Wednesday night. Having come up frightened of the dark on the stairs. A 
telegram on the bed.

ARRIVING EUSTON FRIDAY FIVE P.M. LOVE MARY

Thursday. Dangerfield up the road cutting a fine figure and putting his 
hand in the animal mouth and giving a tug on the tongue. In the steamy air 
MacDoon twisting a wire to make a kangaroo tail. This man Parnell holding 
an end of it with pliers. MacDoon reaches and pulls a yellow envelope from 
behind a mirror. Hands it to Dangerfield.

“For you Danger, arrived this afternoon.”

Sitting, Dangerfield opens the envelope with nervous fingers. There was 
silence. All waiting. A frown and smacking of lips.

“Mac, would you ever pour me a cup of tea with a twist of lemon?”

“Bad news, Danger?”

“Remains to be seen. My father’s dead.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

MacDoon hopping to the pot, pouring the tea. He swept out a narrow of 
lemon into the cup with his gouging chisel. To the bottom of the iodine 
tinted tea. Sebastian leaning back in the chair. Parnell turning the wire 
with the pliers. MacDoon going up in the air at the other end. Dark 
outside. Watching the blue flame eating up the gas and reddening the tiny 
asbestos nobs. Perhaps no time to face the future. They say there is good 
in everyone. If you just give them a chance. And a good boot in the arse.

“O.K. out out out. Everybody. Quick. To the Bear Pit. Mac. Whiskey, 
whiskey.”

MacDoon drops a shoe he was fitting into the foot of the kangaroo. 
Parnell adjusting his glasses with a certain academic flourish, clearing 
his throat several times. And a whimper from the little babe in the box.

“Mac will you let me some day take your son away with me for a little 
trip I intend to make to the Isle of Man for a rest. I’m considering having
a small chapel built on the top of Snaeffell. And perhaps you’ll say a 
little mass for me there.”

“Certainly, Danger.”

“Parnell, would you look up a reputable tailor in the Row for me?”

“Sure, Danger.”

“Something like a prewar Humber with a luggage carrier might suit me. 
Would I see one of those in Mayfair, Mac? Would I?”

“For certain.”

“Good. Yes. Yes. That’s very good. See a lot of things. Brass name 
plates. They’re in there. In there behind that brass. And I think I will go
to live in Old Queen Street.”

“Danger, do I smell richness coming into your life?”

“You might put it that way, Mac. Yes. I think you could put it that way. 
Would you ever say now that this room had the universal twitch. Could we 
say that?”

“You could say that Danger.”

“I’ve known Mondays come on a Friday. Thursdays on Tuesdays. But Sunday 
is a day I can never accept. Can I put it this way? I think we all need a 
drink.”

“Danger, Parnell and meself have been driven to agree. And now if you 
will all kneel down I’ll give you me black blessing and sprinkle the holy 
juice over your young innocent heads, a fine bunch of pagans you are 
anyway.”

“Mac, you’d say I was conceived in idolatry. Parnell here by mistake and 
you yourself not even at all.”

“Aye.”

There was a certain amount of giggling. Dangerfield squeezing into the 
kangaroo. Parnell attaching the wire tail. Danger was lifted to the street.
A strange crew. The kangaroo head rolling the little blobs of eyes around 
in the cellophane sockets. Red bearded MacDoon supporting himself with a 
shepherd’s staff. Parnell beating an empty tin with a spoon. Procession of 
saints and beasts. Fourteen wild stations of the cross. Pagans.

The bar was awash. Uncontrolled pints. It was said in the pit that there 
had never been a night like it. Dublin brought to London. Some say the 
Romans were Kerry men in disguise. Talk about resting and seeing everything
a little more clearly and arranging affairs. Conclusions were reached. 
Better with than without. And if without better here than there. Thirst.

Dangerfield sitting with the kangaroo head off looking a sight with the 
pregnant belly Mac had put to the animal and the little baby hanging its 
confused head out of the pouch. There was talk about MacDoon getting inside
the little one and Dangerfield carrying him in the pouch so as to make it 
cheaper traveling to Soho. Tonight it was decided they must see the Soho.

People out of the pub to watch them walk down the street. Parnell beating
out the death rhythm. MacDoon dancing the Bali dance to lead the way for 
this kangaroo.

Moving slowly along the center of the streets. Windows opening to watch 
this strange spectacle. MacDoon cuffing the kangaroo with his long staff. 
Parnell out front walking backwards up the Kensington Church Street where a
girl threw a flower from a top window. To Notting Hill where they tried to 
close the gate and Parnell stopped it with his foot. Bayswater road. O this
was wild. Dance of the idiot trinity. A bobby said ‘ere ‘ere now, a little 
quiet and they said by appointment to His Majesty the King and this giant 
bobby stopped the traffic so they might safely pass. MacDoon doing the 
leprechaun tumble. A laugh for tired England. And out with a hat which was 
filling with pennies. At the Marble Arch, groaning under the money and 
pouring it into the kangaroo’s pouch so that they were only fit to be 
dragged on so laden down with gold and success. Maddest street circus the 
world has ever seen.

At the Arch they boarded a bus. A woman, touched with a long furry 
lapping ear, turned and saw this animal sitting behind her and screamed and
all the heads on the top of the bus looking at this beast. At the Tottenham
Court Road with the pouch dripping pennies they had to drag the beast out 
with the help of the conductor. MacDoon said there was nothing like it 
since the night they let all the cattle out of the markets before dawn and 
Dublin was aswarm with the moos of bullocks and the city came to a 
standstill and some have said that Dublin has never been the same since.

They walked around the Soho Square and then in the Greek Street they went
into a public house.

The kangaroo was talking at the bar. It raised its voice in song.

Tell me Britons

How do you know

You like it

In the Soho ho.

No joy no juice

You pigs no use

I want to know

How you like it

In the Soho ho.

There were some grunts and growls and MacDoon said now Danger these 
people here are good people enjoying their pints.

Grunt and growl

Spit and scowl

You poor pigs

Are just foul.

They were up. Fourteen in all moving toward the kangaroo which was 
singing come all ye faithful. The black brute Parnell was at them. It was 
on.

Parnell picking up the front man and holding him an instant above his 
head flung him against the advancing crowd. MacDoon rotating his staff over
his head and they said get that little bastard of a helicopter and Mac 
neatly broke the man’s nose. The kangaroo reached behind the bar and was 
draining a bottle of gin when a chair was lowered on his head from behind. 
The kangaroo fell spread-eagled to the floor. Parnell attacked from all 
sides with MacDoon pulling them off with the hook of the staff and beating 
them to the floor. The building trembling. Eight left of the fourteen, six 
unconscious under the trampling feet. MacDoon went down and they were 
kicking him and he was catching them by the ankles with the hook and 
tripping them to the ground. They were driving Parnell out the door and 
they were yelling these damn Oxford intellectuals think they can tell us 
we’re pigs. They had Parnell out and drew the latches. They were dragging 
the unconscious figure of MacDoon to fling him on the street, saying we 
fixed that big fella, he’ll not try that again. Outside a great war whoop. 
They turned to the door. Another war whoop and a voice yelling I’m coming 
through. The brown vomit-tinted door parted with a squeal of hinges and 
splintering wood. The door came asunder into the room. Parnell, face 
covered in blood, clothes in tatters, launched his ferocious counter attack
and three of the remaining eight fled up the stairs crying the man is 
insane, call the bobbies. They were holding him off with chairs. A crowd 
gathering on the street. The sound of the police. A half-revived MacDoon 
and Parnell dragging the stricken kangaroo out the door stumbling into the 
street. Flinging the beast into a taxi and yelling into the terrified man’s
ear, away you Cockney bastard like the hounds of hell before we deliver the
wrath of the Celts on your English skull.

The kangaroo groaning that it must have a drink or die. That life was not
worth living without a lash of something. The taxi man was saying he would 
get the police if they didn’t stop fighting in the back and that they 
better get to the hospital because they were covered in blood.

They came to a stop and hobbled into the white smells of this hospital. 
Crippled trinity. Down the warm halls. The nurses coming out of closets 
everywhere to see the spectacle of the limping kangaroo.

In the hot head he could see out of the pinhole eyes the buxom nurses and
the kind nun who got the Chinese doctor. And this nun said whatever is it? 
Did you go to a pub with it? We did. We’ve never had patients like you 
before and you are, you know, rather beat up, but the doctor will do an 
especially good job on his face, a serious wound. Parnell is a fierce man. 
O a brute man and Mac here, by God, could lay waste a Cockney hoard in his 
prime were it not for the fabulous thirst of your young English maidens and
even others for a sup of his Irish juice.

The hospital called another taxi and together with the Chinese doctor, 
compassionate nun and thirteen nurses called from their beds they stood 
watching the tragic trinity troop out the gate. But the kangaroo, touched 
with a slight madness what with being poisoned by his own wind accumulating
in the animal head and other things like this shower of lovely silver 
dollars, shot out the door and came in the other until they were racing 
around the taxi in one door and out the next. The nurses’ quarters alive 
with popping heads until these three weary wastrels set upon each other 
choking and collapsed and were taken away. The hospital people waving 
goodbye.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Dangerfield turned up the gas flame and rubbed his hands at three o’clock
on this gray Friday afternoon. He took a bottle of gin from the pouch of 
the crumpled kangaroo. From the bed the stricken voice of MacDoon.

“What in God’s pukka name have you got there, Danger?”

“E. Just e. Holy water. A little fast blessing for all of us. Parnell, 
wake up. Up I say. MacDoon for God’s sake see if he’s dead in there. Don’t 
want to smell up the room with corpses.”

Parnell wreathed in bandages stirs, looks out from under the covers and 
goes in again.

“Danger, come over here with that.”

“O I had this neatly tucked away in the bedlam. Looting is part of the 
battle. You think now MacDoon that this is going to be a time of richness. 
Do you think that now. Or that from over there the motor birds are bringing
me an egg. Big. Big. Nothing like that land of the big big rich.”

“Danger. Listen to me. I want you to know your friends will stand by you 
during delivery of egg. Never let it be said I deserted in an hour of 
wealth.”

“Mac, I think a bit of the Algeria for a breather. We destroyed the city 
of London in one mighty blow.”

“I’d say however, there was a bit of the counter attack somewhere.”

“There was that. Mac, one of these days I’m going to tell you the story 
of how I joined the Legion of Mary. The things of the inner struggle. 
Intestinal and other things. But got to spruce up. First little bit of the 
Parnell’s peanut butter. Nothing like the nut butter. O I’ve had the speedy
trip to the broker with the ungreased pram. I’ve had the pride. You 
wouldn’t believe it Mac but at one time I wouldn’t stoop to the pram 
greased or ungreased. Or live on woman’s earnings. But through all this, 
the battering, shell shocks, detours and even falling into the minor traps 
of Egbert Skully, I’ve come through with part of the inner man still there.
Onward you crazy Christian soldiers. Just call me Major Dangerfield.”

“Major bring me the bottle.”

“And Mac only once. Once, mind you, have I ever had the ignominy. I’ll 
take all the rest but not the igno.”

“Danger, let nothing more be said to spoil or foul the beauty you have 
released into this room. Give us the bottle.”

“Parnell. Up out of the covers. I’ve a request to make. Would you ever 
now have a clean shirt for my urgent appointment at five which demands I 
present myself without stains of blood or battle.”

“A shirt in my closet there I wore in the nick.”

“The very thing.”

“Behind the door. The only dignified thing I possess these days.”

“O handsome shirt. The cut is everything. Some day, Parnell, we must hear
more of this nick. B. Berry maintains three years in the Borstal good as 
four at Harrow. What have these British prisons?”

“Ten years lose some of the advantages.”

“Inclined to believe that a bit long even for the Ph. D. O I say, rather 
fine shirt this. How do I look? I think it suits me. Now a little something
for under the pits. Must have something for the pits. Must be no odor of 
body.”

“Danger go out in the hall and slip in the second door on the left. 
Landlady’s bedroom. Might be a little something for the pits.”

Dangerfield returns.

“Very nice. I’ve always been partial to the fragrance as opposed to the 
unfragrant.”

MacDoon propped and prostrate on the bed.

“Danger do I see a woman of blackberry stained lips, raven hair and 
haughty teeth? Do I?”

“Gentlemen, in due time. In due time there will be an announcement.”

He stepped out in the cold twilight along this road with the triangular 
park. Nice room Parnell has in this pleasant street. Now any one of these 
houses would do for me. Mary wash the windows and sweep out the path and 
make me ould porridge of a morning. Import sausages from the Pembroke Road 
in the Dub. She’s stuck by me. Trusted me. And if there’s one thing it’s 
faith. I’d even suffer the igno for faith. And whatever else, I’ve got to 
see her right. I know they think me hard because I’ve not shed the tears 
over the death. But I’m not. There’s just nothing I can do. Weil Marion. 
Now you know but you were too fast. That’s the trouble with people, too 
fast. Don’t wait, see you down and think you’re going to stay there, might 
even use the heel on you. But what ho, as I’ve said, no bitterness in me. 
Nothing like that in my heart any more. Marion will find out soon enough. 
Little note to the solicitor and perhaps we will see a little investment 
here and there. Small and conservative at first.

Down into the Underground. Standing on the platform with a few afternoon 
people going somewhere. The glassy, smooth train parks neatly. Stepping in 
and gliding away. I am told whatever else I do in this fantastic 
Underground, to stay off the Circle Line.

He walked along the windy tunnels. Up and out into this vast station. 
Throngs. Where is she? I’m late. Track seven. Watch for an Irish face. I 
couldn’t have forgotten what she looks like. Spot me anywhere because I 
look Victorian from behind. Must greet her with gladness.

In a black coat she came shyly down the platform bent with a large 
leather bag, biting her lips.

“Hello, Mary.”

“Hello, I thought you might not come.”

“Not a bit. By God you’ve lost weight. Have you been ill?”

“I’m all right. I wasn’t well for a while.”

“Give me the bag. Good Christ what have you got in it? Rocks?”

“I brought some things to cook with and some plates. And part of a sewing
machine. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Excellent. Not a bit. We’ll check it. I think those are the things we 
want these days. Now we go over here and take care of this.”

Dangerfield led her out of the station. And turned her around to see the 
building. Take a tour by Danger. See up there and the big pillars. That’s 
architecture.

“Now what do you think of that Mary? What about that?”

“I don’t know what to say. I suppose it’s nice.”

“It’s the size Mary, the size. And who paid for it. But we’ll go along 
here now and find a nice restaurant.”

“I brought twenty pounds.”

“Wow.”

Into the warm room with tables along the wall. Dangerfield told the boy 
to bring a little something from the chateau and a chicken and cheroot too.

“Isn’t this expensive, Sebastian?”

“He, eeeeee.”

“Why do you laugh?”

“Because the word expensive is no longer in my vocabulary. No longer in 
use. I think I can safely say that.”

“Why?”

“Later on, Mary. Later on for that.”

“Well tell me what you’ve been doing. You look thin. And nothing of mine 
fits me and I’ve had to alter this old black dress. I got so worried when I
was ill because you didn’t write.”

“Give me your hand, Mary.”

“This is a nice place. I’m glad to be shut of Dublin.”

“Lot say that.”

“When I got ill and told him I wasn’t going to jump for him anymore he 
was soon up out of his bed.”

“What did he say about London?”

“Said he’d have the Guarda. But I told him to go to the devil and if he 
put another finger to me that I’d have the Guarda.”

“What did he say?”

“He’d get the priest to me. I was fed up. I told him his own soul was 
covered with lies. And that the boys were well away not to have to listen 
to him again. He’s had his own way for long enough. Told me he was an old 
man and didn’t have long to go and that I shouldn’t leave him alone. And I 
said you want me to stay now. Me who has been out with men. Then he said 
his heart was ticking its last and to call the priest for him before I left
the house.”

“O I wouldn’t be too hard now. Poor man. Perhaps the only little comfort 
he’s after is to poison the Pope.”

“I’m glad he’s had to suffer. And to be shut of it all. The Tolka was the
only thing I enjoyed anymore. To walk across Phoenix Park to Chapleizod and
Lucan Road. And go into Sarsfield. It’s so lovely along there by the river 
in the trees. I used to think of you there. Don’t laugh. I really did.”

The smell of wine and sweet chicken meat. The waiter bringing sprouts and
baked potatoes. Whee. Were it not for my tram rides through sleep when I 
got off at the stops called despair and had to get up out of the cozy bed 
to make myself a cup of milk and honey and sat on the wobbly kitchen chair.
0 that thing called food. Or as Malarkey used to say, Jesus, Sebastian if I
ever had money I’d have all my friends to a place of mine in the country 
where we would sit to a table an Irish mile long with our fists greasy with
the lashings of beef and turkey and our women coming from the fire groaning
under the weight of the wild berries and plover plucked from the sky, and 
beat bulls’ heads for sport and pick up a whole field and flip it over on 
its back for planting and Jesus, cover it with a foot thick of chicken shit
and rotting kelp and then lash it with ten tons of peaches black decay. O 
have you ever heard of oats. Or spuds fit to put heathen desires in ye for 
the rest of your life. Mary leave some chicken for me.

Over there sit three secretaries. And two bald men. I think I like this. 
Healthier than the pub. O I may give up the pub. And just keep the cheroot,
slippers and sewing machine.

“Mary, will you excuse me while I make a phone call?”

“Yes.”

Now Landlady, me dear Mrs. Ritzincheck, be big hearted. Put down foul 
caution and reserve that these limes tell you is playing a sunny wicket.

“Hello, Mrs. Ritzincheck?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Ritzincheck this is Mr. Dangerfield. I’m in a rather difficult 
position. My fiancee had just arrived in London. Of course I know this is 
rather an abrupt and perhaps unusual request but I know you will understand
and I wonder would you mind awfully if I were to share my room with her. 
She’s a very fine girl.”

“Well, Mr. Dangerfield, it’s against the rules of the house. I’ll have 
every gentleman requesting to have a lady in his room overnight. I’m 
sorry.”

“Now, now. I know it’s asking a bit much but I thought I’d be honest with
you since you’ve been so straightforward with me. But I assure you 
everything will be conducted with the utmost decorum and perhaps you could 
explain. My wife, you know. Well, it’s only a few weeks till the day. We do
so want to be together. And we’ve been so cut off and she’s come all the 
way from Ireland. And Mrs. Ritzincheck I’d never dare make such a request 
if I didn’t feel you were a woman of sensibility and experience.”

“Well, Mr. Dangerfield you certainly have a way of putting it and if 
there’s no disturbance and mind you, if it’s a different woman every night 
there will be no more of it.”

“You don’t know how grateful I am to you Mrs. Ritzincheck. You have no 
idea.”

“I have an idea all right.”

“That’s excellent. Thanks again. We’ll be arriving in a short while.”

Dangerfield austerely at the pay booth saying indeed I will when they 
said I hope you will come again sir. And he pivoted exquisitely to usher 
Mary out before him. Taxi sweeping up. Mary holding his hand as they went 
for the bag, looking out the window in the crowded streets. Bury me on 
neutral soil. Perhaps in Austria with simplicity and subdued colors and 
faces. With my children around me. I want my last moments to have some 
dignity. Mary sit right up close. Don’t be scared of me because I’m all 
right.

Mrs. Ritzincheck smiled at the door and wiped her hands in her apron. I 
always say be straightforward when you can.

Up the stairs and finally in this little room. Mary sat down on the bed. 
Sebastian laid the bag on the floor.

“Well Mary here we are.”

“I like it. It’s nice to see from such a height. I like London, 
everything is so exciting. So many interesting looking people.”

“There’s that.”

“And so many strange ones you would never see in Dublin. All the blacks 
and those Egyptian fellows. Some of them are terrible good looking and 
they’ve got such white teeth.”

“Mary show me this sewing machine.”

“Kiss me.”

“The machine, Mary. The machine.”

“Kiss me.”

Mary upon him with arms and legs. Back to the bed. Down. Please. You know
how I feel about direct assault. What a tongue. All I wanted to do was take
a look at the machine.

Outside it’s night. And they’re all pulling the curtains across. And 
going to sit in their chairs. Mary at least let me up to take a quick 
plunge in the bath.

“I want to have it together, Sebastian.”

“But we mustn’t set a carnal example for the other guests.”

In the tub she said the water was terrible and no lather and it looked 
all gray and dirty and you’d think she didn’t have a wash in a tinker’s 
age. She smiled up out of the tub. Pulling him down for another kiss. 
Dangerfield’s feet slipping on the soapy floor. Watch it for Christ’s sake,
I’m falling. A roar of water over the side. Mrs. Ritzincheck will think 
we’re up here at it hammer and tongs, hanging from the chandeliers and 
divers bathroom fittings. And that causes jealousy. Everybody will be 
wanting it.

“You look a sight, Sebastian.”

“We’ve got to go easy, Mary.”

“Take off your clothes, I want to see what you look like.”

“Mary, please.”

“You’ve got no chest.”

“Wait a minute. Just look at this. There. See?”

“It’s so funny.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“But you’re thin.”

“Now Mary look from behind. Give you some idea of the breadth of me 
shoulders. I’m deceptive.”

“I’ll admit you’re broad.”

“But you’ve got a chest there, Mary.”

“But you mustn’t look, I know they’re too big.”

“Not a bit.”

“But they’re smaller than they were.”

Dangerfield stepping into the tub. Must control myself. Keep it down. 
Mary will stop at nothing. Somebody come break down the door and catch us 
at it in the tub.

“Sebastian, you’re queer looking when I see you like this in the light.”

“Don’t grab, I’ll get drowned.”

“Isn’t it an awful death?”

“O I don’t know, Mary. Out there on the waves with ships at sea.”

“Rub me with the soap.”

“Melons, Mary.”

“Don’t say that. Take me to the sea.”

“We’ll go and live by the sea.”

“And I’ll go naked on the beach.”

“What ho, Mary. We’ll see that.”

“I read about these French painters. Awful men, they were drawing without
clothes and it must be nice to be able to pose for them.”

“Mary there’s a change come over you.”

“I know.”

“I like you, Mary.”

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes. Bit of a rub here, Mary.”

“Your back is a sight.”

“A scrubbing with your fair hand it needs. Haven’t known such peace for 
years.”

“I’m glad, and glad to kiss your back and pull your hair. I used to pull 
my little brothers’ hair in the tub when they were carrying on. You have 
nice soft hair. Sort of silky almost. It’s more beautiful to be a man isn’t
it?”

“I’m sure I don’t know the answer to that, Mary.”

“I’ve got some lace and frills to wear for you.”

Standing on the linoleum in water slop. Little dark haired Mary pinning 
up behind her head a swath of wide black curls and rolling a towel around 
her. And face in full blush. She stopped and wiped up the puddles. Out that
window and down on the tracks, the Underground trains sliding in and out. 
Long gray platforms. And skipping across the gloomy hall and get a little 
of the electric fire. Mary’s dancing feet. “It’s cold. Does anyone ever be 
in the hall?”

“London, Mary. Never worry about that. See everything here.”

“I guess they do.”

Sebastian stretched out on the green ticking watching naked Mary brushing
her long hair.

“A nice body, Mary.”

“Do you like me?”

“Massed army of all the saints couldn’t keep me away.”

“You’re awful. I’ll tell you something if you promise not to laugh. Do 
you promise?”

“For God’s sake, Mary, out with it. Out. Don’t keep it from me whatever 
it is. I’ve got to know.”

“You might think I was queer.”

“Out. Not a bit.”

“I used to practice being naked in my room in front of the mirror so I 
wouldn’t mind when I was with you in London. And I’d make believe you were 
watching me and I’d stand around like this. You don’t think I’m crazy?”

“No.”

“Have you seen a lot women?”

“Wouldn’t say a lot.”

“And what were they like?”

“Naked.”

“No. Tell me. How do I compare with them?”

“A fine figure.”

“And would they stand up in front of you?”

“Sometimes.”

“How did they stand in front of you?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Would they go around like models showing off their best points or 
anything?”

“Jesus, Mary.”

“Would they?”

“In a way.”

“You don’t think I’m too forward. I thought you were queer when you said 
all those funny things to me at the party but when I thought them over on 
my walks and got used to them I didn’t think they were queer anymore. I 
used to think of you in the Botanical Gardens. In that big house with all 
those trees and vines and it was just like a jungle. And where they have 
the lilies floating in the big tank. They’re so strange. I felt I just 
wanted to jump in. But I get the feeling there would be things on the 
bottom to bite my feet. I’d just do it for a lark if the man wasn’t 
watching.”

Mary sits on the edge of the bed. I lean back here watching. You’ve got 
big ones. Use them as a pillow. I am the hot ticket to eternity riding the 
melted rails in all directions. To Kerry and Caherciveen. For a dollar I’ll
do the bull dance and you know how I am when I do that. O.K. you ones with 
the dollar, line up there and watch this, those from Cincinnati, Ohio can 
come up to the front.

“Sebastian, it’s so nice and warm and cozy to feel your body and I 
thought you’d never be at the station. I thought I was just dreaming that I
had ever met you. All the days I had to waste in that damn house and we 
could have been like this. Do you think I’m curvy?”

“You’re my little circle.”

“Squeeze me harder.”

“Call me gorilla.”

“Gorilla.”

“Give my chest a few good beats now. Whoops. Not in such good shape as I 
thought.”

“Just love me. And I want children because you’ll love them. And I could 
get a job. I won a prize for acting once. I want to rub them all over your 
chest. Isn’t that what men like?”

“Love it.”

“And I used to think I could feed you with them. Would you feed off me?”

“Good God, Mary.”

“O I can’t tell you.”

“Tell me. I’m only joking. I’ll feed off you.”

“I guess it’s because you’re thin. I want it something awful. Is that 
awful? And that night I wanted it so much.”

“It can be hard to get at times.”

“But you’ll give me as much as I want.”

“Do the very best I can, Mary.”

“I read you can sit up on it.”

“There’s that all right.”

“And get it from the back.”

“And that too.”

“I’m so excited.”

Perhaps there is even someone somewhere getting it from all sides. Round 
Mary. I may be just a bit younger than Christ when they tacked him up but 
they’ve had me outstretched a few times already. And Mary you’ve got me 
pinned right here on the bed. With your lust. Stuck on it. And twisting 
with your eyes full of black fire. MacDoon forging relics for the Holy 
Chinch of Rome. And others dressed as priests in the North of Dublin, 
patting cherub faces and blessing these children coming out of the school 
gates and then whispering an indecent proposal to the escorting nun. What 
is it that makes my heart die? Is it all my little Dangerfields popping out
of wombs all over the globe? I’ll go back to Ireland with my pockets filled
with gold. Break in Skully’s windows with lumps of it. And Malarkey can put
a train in his tunnel down to the pub. Mary how is it? It’s grand and feels
so good and will we always stay together? Please. And you’ll never go out 
with others or do it to them and I’d keep house and cook for you and make 
shirts and darn socks and make you happy. And Mary, what of other men? 
There are no other men because my heart has gone out to you. And if you 
don’t laugh I’ll tell you what I think. I won’t laugh. I think it’s a tine 
instrument that God made for the poor likes of us to enjoy.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

On Sunday morning, holding Mary’s black gloved hand, they turned into 
Earl’s Court Station. Lovers warmed and wrapped with smiles and looks and 
little words whispered in the ears. And I am newly shaved and laced with 
stinging lotion because Mary you say you like so much to rub your cheek 
against mine.

Ushering her in the train. When you cross those legs like that Mary it 
makes me gulp. I see you’ve done a bit of the plucking around the eyebrows 
of which I don’t approve.

They came up from the Underground at Victoria. Where a few bright faces 
went by. And then along the Buckingham Palace Road and Semley Place and 
into this red brick church. Through the green curtains to the music and 
gold.

People scattered over the floor touching foreheads to the ground. I smell
the smoke. And there’s song. Come out of those altar doors with the balm 
and blessing and touch me. And put some on Mary too. When I go to my last 
bed I want you all to wear this gold raiment, and put lots of balm on the 
coffin.

“How do you like it, Mary?”

“It’s wonderful. All the music. Makes me feel all strange inside. It 
makes me feel I want to go back to the room. Will we?”

“Jesus, have you no reverence in you at all.”

“I know it’s awful. I can’t help it. But how long does it go on, when 
does it end?”

“Goes on all morning. See they come and go.”

“It’s strange. What are they?”

“Russians.”

“I wish I were a Russian. It’s so exciting.”

“It’s that.”

“And the men with beards. Would you grow a beard Sebastian?”

“I’m a little conservative.”

“I always wanted to marry a man with a beard.”

“Come up now and we’ll get a bit of this frankincense.” And they went up 
to the little group for blessing. Dangerfield put a fistful of change as 
offering. The motor birds are coming with lots more from across the seas. 
And I want to be loved for my money.

With church bells ringing, they came out and went into a white-walled 
cafeteria for tea.

“You know, Sebastian, how they have all these things here. Churches of 
all kinds and the trains running all over under the city and you’d think 
that the way they were doing with us in Ireland that they wouldn’t have 
time to build all this.”

“British find time to do a lot of things, Mary.”

“Will we go right back to the room after this tea?”

“Mary, really. Just a little walk in the park first. Breather.”

“I want to try those other ways you said there were.” Sitting facing one 
another. Hunched Mary gleaming at him over the cakes. Mary you’re the very 
devil for it. But I must have a stroll in the park. Catch my breath. Oh I 
know you think I’m able for it night and day with lights off and on but it 
can wear out like everything else. Just let’s take this quiet walk, go up 
Bond Street so’s I can get an idea of the things I’ll be needing from now 
on. And may even have to see the odd disguise because some friends get very
close when there is largess.

They got on the bus to the park. Those enormous gates with cars streaming
through. And there’s Rotten Row between the trees. Horses galloping by. 
Must give them awful big arses, pounding and prancing up and down. I feel 
all sin starts in the park. Like marriage begins in the dark. And ends with
the lights on.

“Mary, we’ll walk to the round pond.”

“What’s that?”

“Where they sail boats.”

“And then will we go back?”

“Why do you want it so much, Mary?”

“I don’t know why. I just feel like it. I even felt like it before I ever
had it. Sometimes even when I was kneeling praying at a Legion of Mary 
meeting.”

“A fine organization.”

“Don’t be such a liar. You don’t think it’s a fine organization. Isn’t 
that a short way out of the park?”

“We’re both Legion members, Mary. I’ll have you know I’m in good standing
as well. Young girls like you just after cock with not a trace of religion 
left.”

“The Legion can go to the devil.”

“All right, Mary, if you want to be like that, but let me say this much. 
If it weren’t for the Legion in Ireland, everybody would be fucked to 
death. Archbishops as well. And every nun pregnant.”

“You don’t want to take me back to the room.”

“Not a bit. I’m just a little sensitive about the Legion, that’s all. 
There’s a bit of good in everything. Everything’s good. Everything. I can 
see by your eyes you don’t believe me. All right. Taxi. Straight back to 
the room. Straight back.” Mary pulled across the curtains. I can see them 
outlined. Says she likes to wear tight things. Every time I take off my 
trousers you give a gasp.

And they stayed in the room till Monday. Passionate Mary. And there on 
Tuesday. Mary relentless, regardless. But on Wednesday with a gray 
dreariness general over the city and sprinkle of cold rain, he was called 
to the telephone to hear MacDoon say there was mail of an official-looking 
kind. And kissing Mary between the open door and Mary I think you’re as 
hard as nails. And I guess I’ve been driving you constantly with my hammer.
But don’t cry if I’m gone too long or grieve. Go to your sewing machine and
whirr out a little tune. Put in some yellow thread and make me a flag to 
wave.

Down the four flights of green carpeted stairs. And at a quick pace, up 
the street. I’ve got a nice little ruche up there with Mary. She can’t get 
enough. And I can’t say I’m capable of much more. Got to ask the Doon for 
advice. They say if you don’t give them enough they go looking elsewhere. 
Send me apples from New England and a few spices from the East as well. 
Keep me supplied with juice. O.K. MacDoon what have you got for me? I’m a 
little drained with Mary after so much. And I can remember times in the 
days of my youth, spent tinkering with buttons, straps and pins, twisting, 
pulling and breaking, trying to get it. Now I wouldn’t be up to it. Just 
take it off, darlin’. This is surfeit for sure. A man who reveled in saucy 
escapades and perversion until it brought about his death at ninety-seven. 
Mary can be petulant. Didn’t like the look in her eye when I asked her to 
hand me my socks from the back of the chair. Sign of rebellion. Might get 
to be the hard woman after awhile. Got to watch it. And keeps her own 
things in her own drawer and her town towel. A bit scrutfy anyway. Had me 
by the wrists when she was on top with that look, see if you can get out of
this one. I’ve got a few things up my sleeve to deal with that nonsense. 
She didn’t like it much when I slipped my arm around her leg and gave it 
the Egyptian twist until she was biting her lip and almost cried.

“Mac, for God’s sake where is it?”

“O I’ve got it, Danger. Now quiet your poor suffering soul and Jesus give
me a minute to tell you a little story. Now once there was a man in Ireland
walking along a country road and he met two little girls whom he asked to 
come and play with him. He said it was just a naughty little game and he 
would give them a bag of chocolates. And so the little girls played the 
game and he gave them the bag. When the man was gone they opened it and it 
was filled with stones.”

“Stop. Stop. Give us it for Christ’s sake. Where’s the letter, the 
letter?”

“Now take a seat. May be your last in poverty. And the only way to enjoy 
richery is to remember paupery days. Reports, Danger, are coming in that 
you haven’t been out of the bed since she arrived and I’ll tell you 
straight to your face that it’s a disgrace that a good Christian such as 
yourself would indulge in such lasciviousness as to keep you indoors for 
three days.”

“Mac, I’m beside myself. My heart can’t take this type of treatment.”

“I’ve only one request to make. That I give it to you on my silver 
platter.”

“Give it to me on any fucking thing. Serve it with your prick if you like
but give it to me.”

“Ah here we are. Here we are Danger, on me own silver platter dating back
to the time of the Geeks who were Gooks from Gaul.”

A finger parting the envelope. Unfolding this bond paper. The law. At the
end, eyes riveted on this:

-a sum held in trust to provide an income not to exceed six thousand 
dollars per annum which income is to commence upon your attaining the age 
of forty-seven at which time—

You’ll find me prostrate and completely mad.

Mac swilling hot water in his little brown teapot. Said it was a special 
kind of tea he was using from Shaba Gompa.

All I want

Is on break

Which is not

My neck.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Christmas. Lying here on my back listening to carol singers in the 
street. Two weeks ago today I woke up in this room and Mary was gone. Left 
a note on the little table and said she loved me anyway and only hoped I 
didn’t mean all the things I said to her.

And Mac had said he met her on the street and talked to her and she was 
asking for me and how was I and did I eat enough and why did I have to 
behave like that when she was willing to help. Mac said she got a part in a
play. And a job posing. Outsizes in underwear.

I’ve not enjoyed this desperation. But I’ve never once said I’ll give up.
Mrs. Ritzincheck says she must have the rent. O I know she’s just a little 
anxious and doesn’t really mean it If I wet this towel here I can put it 
over my eyes and I’ll feel much better. Don’t worry, don’t despair, save 
hair. Heave to, head into the wind, sails aback and I’ll ride this out even
though most decks are awash and I’m taking water amidships.

On my plate this morning I found just an extra rasher and even another 
egg and Mrs. Ritzincheck said I was a very interesting person to talk to. 
She’s a fine looking woman about forty. Not past it for sure. But please 
don’t take advantage of me.

And last week I went to the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square where 
they say these pictures are priceless. I sat on a comfy chair and had a 
little nap. And went for walks till my shoes gave out. But Mac said he had 
a pair in the kangaroo feet and would I trade mine. And now me shoes are 
hopping around the Abbey Theatre.

And this is the afternoon before the birth of Christ. Good will towards 
men. How about a few quid as well? I’m thin and worn but not yet up to 
selling me body to the medical colleges or landlady either. Mac told me 
there was a party tonight with pucks of food and drink. Each time I 
subtract twenty-seven from forty-seven it leaves twenty. Well I’ve waited 
before. That’s what they all say now. That’s what Mary said, that waiting 
would get me nowhere. At least Mac was sensible enough to take me around to
the museums to let me see all the engines and machines and the boat models.
And even this big pendulum they have to show the world’s rotating. I could 
have told them that. And after he took me to Chelsea and bought a bottle of
wine to have with the roast beef and salad rolls and I said to him, Mac, I 
can look back over my life now and see certain things. And would you say, 
Mac, that marriage put me down. But I was in love, her straight blonde hair
like a Swede and perhaps her slim light limbs drove me to the altar with 
maybe an odd push from the in-laws.

Mac and I just sat there in that cultivated pub and I said I wasn’t being
sentimental but I had to tell him what it was like over there. How the 
leaves crackled and the bright moons. New England air rich and clear. Women
good enough to eat. Ripe summer tans and arses which wagged, wow. But Mac, 
for display purposes only. Keep off the grass. And don’t you see how it 
could drive me down on my knees weeping? And I thought I’d go back and 
settle in the Hudson Valley or along the Housatonic in Connecticut. But no.
I’m the month of October. Facing winter forever. And I can’t go back.

Then Mac said, easy Danger. No tears. Now come along and we’ll take a 
radio taxi for a thrill.

We went to a strange suburb and in a door and up stairs and Mac said meet
Alphonse, so I said how do you do. Then I had to take a piss and he said 
use the sink and I remembered how Englishmen piss in the sinks of France 
and even their own and I felt well that’s all right for the English and no 
doubt they taught the poor Irish the same only they could never get to 
France due to the cost and language, so I said if you don’t mind I’ll use 
the bowl. And we discussed the wages of sin and agreed they were high. 
After this little meeting I picked up a flowerpot and threw it through a 
bank window. Mac was gone in a flash and said I was unstable.

Next day on the Earl’s Court Road I had drink taken and they said, rather
unkindly, that I was seen running down the center of the street swinging an
umbrella and that I attacked poor MacDoon who only asked that I desist. 
They said I belabored him severely about the ankles and Mac told me I was 
incorrigible and a ruffian, which, of course, was quite true. They took me 
away in a wagon and put me in a room with bars. And I’ve never been treated
so well before. A bobbie’s wife baked a cake for me and I beat them all in 
chess and they all said I was a most amusing type of chap and if they were 
all like me, why a bobbie’s life would be a paradise it would. They said I 
would have to pay a visit to the American Embassy.

So I went. Wearing a Cossack hat. And I think I caused a stir. Someone 
asked me was I a spy and they brought me to a man sitting behind a desk 
cleaning his fingernails. He looked at me and said nothing. Then he brought
out a file stuffed with papers. He went through them shaking his head up 
and down. He asked me could I remember my serial number in the navy. I said
I only knew it was high. He said that’s bad. I got worried and said it was 
low. He said that’s worse. Then he leaned over towards me and said how do I
know you’re not an impostor. Buddy, I wish I were. He got on the phone. He 
looked through the papers, and said you’ve obviously spent some time in the
British Isles and I said in Ireland and Great Britain because Malarkey 
insists on things like that and he said it’s all the same to us bud. I 
watched him while he said Miss Beef check on case A48353, and then he said 
he was a very busy man but looking through this file of yours Mr. 
Dangerfield which is the longest and most complicated I’ve ever seen, I can
see you’ve had a few scrapes here and there, owe money but there’s no sign 
of your being disloyal to the United States. I thought we would both laugh 
together but I only got a chance to show my teeth. And I thought before I 
leave here the least I can do is to take advantage of a good toilet. And I 
went down stairs a bit shaky on my feet due to the interrogation and 
through this door and the fact that there was a woman with her back to me 
combing her hair didn’t disturb me in the least. So I went into one of the 
booths and did my little bit. Stole the box of toilet paper, but the seat 
unfortunately was well attached. I’m sure it would have given my broker a 
fit. But it’s an indication of the times we live in. When I came out of the
booth there were screams the like of which I haven’t heard since Bedlam and
a woman come right up to me and yelled, get out, right into my face. 
Whereupon I slapped her for her crass vulgarity. Someone must have pulled 
the fire alarm because a bell began to ring. I just said to myself, Blessed
Oliver, I’ll see you raised to sainthood if you get me out of this one and 
I’ll even pay for the candles I lit before you in Drogheda but get me out 
of this. Fingers were pointed at me. They said there he is. There was 
nothing left but to abandon ship and I made a dash for it. I got ten feet 
when an obvious football player tried a tackle and were it not for another 
college boy coming the other way I would have been finished but they met 
head on. I spidered away up the stairs. Howls of virgins on all sides. With
only one girl hanging on to a remnant of me mackintosh and I knew I could 
at least forsake this strand and ripped it loose. I went out the door like 
a shot with the marine guard coming to attention.

Yes, out there they are singing. O little town of Bethlehem. And Mary 
left me thirty shillings and a towel. They say, throw in the towel.

I must get up off this bed. Mac says the party will cheer me up. A little
wash first. Down trousers. God it’s getting thin and worn, old before its 
time. Pubic hair going gray. I hear in the New World they have dyes and 
permanents. Some, they say, even have it dekinked but you can’t pay much 
attention to such rumors. Anything for sensation. I see a few Christmas 
decorations in that window over there. Think I’ll pin something on my 
curtain and have a little Christmas all of my own.

This hall cold and black. Lights down there in the station make me feel 
so pitiful. People with red toys. I know the pubs are jammed. I know they 
are jammed. And in the Dublin right now I could be hanging on to the rim of
a round. Sucking it back free, not noticed for the festivities afoot. Close
up my little cell and put the key safely away and find my way down these 
stairs and out.

Hesitating in front of the house. Looking up at the window. The singers 
have gone up the road and there’s that woman coming out of her house with 
tightly rolled umbrella which she is hitting on the pavement. I think just 
trying to attract my attention. Ought to go up and say, look here it’s 
Christmas and let’s you and I be merry together. If you don’t mind, get out
of my way. But, madam, I’ve watched you undress every evening, doesn’t that
mean something to you? Nothing but that you’re a frightful peeping tom. 
Madam, I resent the inference. Get out of my way you tramp.

O aye. The buses are bright and cheery and laden. I know the pubs are 
jammed.

Dangerfield crossed over Earl’s Court Road and stood in front of an 
antique shop, rubbing his shoes on the back of his trousers. Put his hand 
into his pocket, took it out and held an open palm to the sky. Turning to 
watch the traffic in its Christmas Eve swarm. A taxi drawing to a 
screeching halt.

The door of the taxi slams. Dangerfield turning away. And turning back 
suddenly. A man. With a cane squeezed under his arm, handing the taxi money
and turning with a grin. I’m mad. Absolutely out of my mind or body or is 
this a street in heaven or are we all riding a fast road to hell? Or am I 
seeing an impostor or bogus bugger?

And with a wider grin. White gloved. Do I know anyone anymore who wears 
white gloves? Or this ebony cane. But it’s this round face flowering 
angelically about a bud of pearly teeth and a roar of laughter right in my 
own. Get away, Percy Clocklan. Get away. The dirty ould madness coming upon
me. Get away.

Into the speechless face of Dangerfield.

“Why you sneaky whore, Dangerfield, why didn’t you tell me you were in 
London? For Jesus sake are you on your way to the grave?”

“Percy, if it’s you. I can only say I might well be and I need a drink.”

“I was going to ask if you had a mouth at all.”

“I’ve got a mouth, Percy. But you’ve given me a terrible fright.”

Percy Clocklan pointed with his black cane up the sidewalk to a lighted 
window. There was singing inside. Come ye merry gentlemen. And they came. 
Into the bar and surrounded by song. Two brandies.

“May I have a cigarette, Percy?”

“Anything. Anything you want. Keep the change, keep the change.”

“Percy, I take all this on faith. Although from the taste of this brandy 
I’d say I was in a saloon bar at the Christmas. But allow me to point out 
that up till a minute ago you were dead.”

“O the whores believed me.”

“Malarkey was the only one with reservations. Said you wouldn’t miss 
getting your money’s worth out of the journey. All others were believers. 
But Jesus I’m very happy to see you alive and prosperous looking.”

“Prosperous looking? I am prosperous. O they believed me. I finished off 
a bottle of Irish and thought it would be a shame to waste it. So I put the
note in. I knew ould Malarkey would deny he ever knew me. And Jesus what 
about yourself?”

“Percy, I’m down. Things seem to get worse by the day. But I’ll manage. 
Where were you going?”

“Going to pay a surprise visit to Mac’s for this party when I saw you 
standing out there on the pavement as if you had no home. I couldn’t 
believe my eyes. I frightened the life out of the driver. You look a 
disgrace. What are you wearing at all? Bloody ould sacks and newspapers.”

“Haven’t seen my tailor for some time, Percy.”

“Well you’ll bloody well see him with me. I’ll have you made one of the 
finest suits in England.”

“Percy, tell me. Where did this prosperity come from?”

“Never mind where it came from. Never mind that. But I worked me ould 
fingers to the bone and got into a good thing. Now I’m making bags of 
money. Rolling it in. I left Ireland and I told myself I was going to make 
money and have plenty to drink and fuck. I’ve even bought meself a Rolls.”

“Surely you’re joking.”

“Joking, me tit. I’ll take you for a ride in it.”

“This is too much for me, Percy. Christmas, the little boy Jesus and the 
cold Bethlehem all at once. I’m finished.” Clocklan reaching into his 
pocket, withdrawing a black wallet.

“This is the only thing I’ve left, that I arrived in England with, and I 
stole it from ould Tony’s jacket in the kitchen with him in the back 
screaming for a cup of tea.”

“Magnificent.”

“The dirty eegit himself made it”

“A fine piece of work.”

“If he’d get his ould carcass out of the pubs he’d be away.”

Clocklan took five five-pound notes and handed them to Dangerfield.

“Percy, you don’t know what this means.”

“I know what it means and fair enough. But you never crowed over buying a
drink or whined on like the rest of them. Bunch of pigs, the whole lot of 
them sitting on their arses whining. Whining for their mothers. And me 
relatives who wouldn’t give me a smell of soup or a dirty ould shilling 
want to see me now because I’m pissing pure gold. And the rest of them 
talking their mountains of crap.”

“Percy, I’m very grateful.”

“Don’t be grateful to me. Drink up. Drink up. Don’t be wasting the pub’s 
time. And get rid of those dirty ould cigarettes and we’ll get some good 
cigars. What’s the matter with you at all, Sebastian? Where are your grand 
ways and silver tongue?”

“Turned to lead.”

“Fetches a good price. And those rags. Jesus, get out of them. Better in 
the buff than them ould dirty things you’re wearing. Drink up and we’ll get
you a decent shave and haircut.”

“This is very good of you, Percy.”

“Put the bloody drink in you and take what you can get while it’s free 
and don’t be asking me questions about money or the prices. Bloody Clocklan
owns London. Own the kip. Me Rolls is so long it gets stuck in the 
traffic.”

“What’s it like inside? Just tell me that, Percy. That’s all I want to 
know and then I can go to my reward.”

“Have to wear a life preserver for fear of drowning in the softness.”

“More. More. Eeeeee.”

“And a compass so’s not to get lost inside.”

“Great.”

And they went across the street to a barber who wrapped Dangerfield in 
towels and covered his face with puffy cream and drew a razor across his 
fair cheek. Then the vibro machine. In the corner, Clocklan engaged a Jap 
in conversation. A few little clips at the back of the neck and a bit of 
smell juice sprinkled all over. A bit of powder for the face, sir? A bit, 
please. And I think we’ve done an excellent job with the singe, sir? O aye,
excellent. We are ship shape now, aren’t we, sir? I’d say ready to put to 
sea.

Anchors

Aweigh.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Arriving at MacDoon’s. Hello, hello, hello. Mac standing with open arms. 
Receiving. In this limbo. For the repose of pawned souls. And Clocklan how 
did you get so rich. Woman’s earnings? Or fly by night or hundred to win. 
Come in all of you.

“Tell us Percy.”

“I pay me taxes to the King and me an Irish blue blood talking with the 
likes of you. Before I’m finished I’ll have me own militia to keep you 
shanty Irish out of my way. And Dangerfield, get out of them ould dirty 
rags. Get out. And put something decent on your back. Here’s me address. 
Take a taxi to me house and don’t be pawning me things and put on one of me
suits so you won’t be making us all look like tramps the sacred night 
before the birth of the greatest Irishman of them all. Sure, he wasn’t a 
lew.”

Dangerfield on the Brompton Road, hand raised and a taxi pulls up. To 
Tooting Bee. They say it’s great for mental hospitals. And across the 
Thames. French letters floating out to sea. Ought to auction them off in 
Dublin. Natives would go wild over them. Tell them they’re waterproof socks
and can hang them on the line to dry. Mary doesn’t like them to get in the 
way. And now she’s on the stage exposed to the grossest type of immorality.

Through all these strange suburban streets. Over there is a clock tower 
like a crazy moon. And up to this bell which glows in the dark. The face of
a young girl saying Mr. Clocklan phoned to tell me you were coming and to 
show you to his room. Through this dark drab house. Canes galore and hats. 
Young woman, you’re from Ireland. And you’re Mr. Dangerfield. O Mr. 
Clocklan has told me a great deal about you. But I don’t believe all he 
says about Ireland, I’ve never seen any of the things he tells happen. O 
they happen all right.

Following her up the dark stairs. A strange painting of mountains on the 
wall. In the bedroom a pink bed and desk covered with newspapers and a 
picture of a wild face. And she says Mr. Clocklan is a great collector of 
art but they don’t mean a thing to me. And she says I like to know what I’m
looking at. And would you know what this was if I showed it to you?

Dangerfield took a black speckled tweed from the closet. And I look so 
well with this first white shirt since when. And put on this nice green 
tie. Socks and shoes. Cane out of the hall. And a bit of paper in this hat 
to make it sit just right. Bye bye now, you’re a sweet girl. It was a 
pleasure to meet you, sir.

Down the brown stone steps and this transformation must make the taxi man
confused. Pardon my saying so sir, but you don’t look like the man who went
in. I’m not except for my underwear. Quickly back to the city now. And I 
think straight to Trafalgar Square for a look at the tree.

And look at the bright lights. O it’s good to see. I’ve come out of many 
a sunless room. And Piccadilly. Driver. Can you hear me? Go round the 
circus. O I feel part of it now, the smiles and singing. Look at them out 
there. I can’t get enough. And I’ve got to have more. I know the pubs are 
jammed.

This car sped in and out the streets. By tall office buildings and I 
picked out the little lanes and said driver down there fast to see if 
there’s madness or breaches of morality in dark doorways. And see that door
there. Stop and come in for the brandy that’s in it. And now I’ll go and 
phone them from that fancy phone booth.

“Is this you, Mac?”

“It’s not Cromwell nor his mother. A letter here for you.”

“Destroy it.”

“From O’Keefe.”

“Thank God.”

“What’s keeping you Danger? From reports you are laced with quids and as 
I’ve many times told you-I will not desert you now. And further in the 
matter of money there are lots of Americans with us tonight and I’m sure 
they will be glad to meet a brother in a foreign land.”

“Good. I need that. Earth erupting golden udders. Clocklan’s one who’s 
seen me right.”

“I’ve just wired the Pope to canonize him the instant his heart misses a 
beat. And, Danger, I bought you a kidney, a fine beef one and stuck it with
garlic. Now will you get your mouth over here so’s I won’t have to be 
giving it to the likes of these other hungering creatures. They stand 
looking over my shoulder at the blood. I’m frying it with my best bacon fat
and as you know, the fat is hard to come by. I think we have discussed 
that?”

“O aye, we came to the conclusion that fat was hard to come by and in 
particular, bacon or fat of pig. Mac, I love this life. My hands are 
beautiful white and exquisite to boot. I’m taking close note of my 
performance in front of these rich as opposed to the many poor I’ve known 
in me time. And I feel at home. And I’ve something to tell you in strict 
confidence so spread it everywhere. I know that my redeemer liveth.”

“Danger, I’m really touched. I knew beneath that cold, hard exterior 
there beat within you a Christian heart. And I’ve another thing to tell you
and perhaps a shock. Mary’s coming tonight, and she’s got a film contract.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Jesus is my judge. She’s a good looking girl, Danger. Wouldn’t be past a
little carnal knowledge of her meself. I think she likes you.”

“I’m fond of her.”

“I think you might well consider the reconciliation. With you behind her 
Danger, you’d both be in the films and it’s the general opinion here that 
you’d cut a fine figure on the screen.”

“I draw the line there. Now my kidney. This is very good of you, Mac. Now
would you wait till you hear me coming down the steps and then plunge it 
toward the pan and just before it touches, turn it over and then put it on 
my plate?”

“Am I to assume, Danger, that you are out for blood?”

“For blood. Bye bye.”

“Bye.”

The walls are panelled here. And the people rich. The lyrical quality of 
money is strange. I better look to my fly because women are staring at me. 
Mary an actress. Dreadful. Pity. I’ve got to do something about it. I’m to 
blame, may have even put the idea into her dark head. If she goes to fat 
they’ll fire her. I believe she’ll screw her way to stardom. Pole by pole. 
Like others do to marriage. And some to poverty, fewer to riches, less for 
love and of course there are those who do it for a dirty old thrill. Thank 
God there are still some who give it up for life. Now driver, fast to the 
Minsk House, scene of the reincarnation.

The room was jammed. Just enough space for a foot in the door but I drove
through to the smell of my cooking kidney. They wanted to look at me and I 
showed them, and even got up on the table for the slow dance of the moo 
cow.

“Percy, it’s a strange house you keep in Tooting Bee and a lovely maid.”

“Keep your dirty fingers away from me help. And me bloody cane. Will you 
look at him with me bloody cane? Keep them. And give me part of the 
kidney.”

“Percy, you’re welcome to whatever I possess in this world.”

“Don’t come the hound and give me the bloody kidney.” Mac with smiles 
brought forth the rare organ and it was set upon wildly. Dangerfield 
withdrew from this savagery with a raised eyebrow. Mac handed him the 
letter over the heads. What’s the news? Look at my white cuffs. Look. And 
this tweed is some tweed. Clocklan said something like eighty-four 
shillings a yard.

* * *

Dear Hoodlum,

This ship had no ballast and we were tossed like peanuts all the way to 
Bermuda which for me was curtains. But the ship’s crew were damn good skins
and gave me enough money to get to New York grimy and broke. Now let me 
tell you just one thing; if you have ever entertained the idea of coming 
back here, no matter what your condition there, I have one word of advice. 
Don’t. I turned on my accent full blast when I got to Boston but found 
little encouragement from friends. Another thing. I went out with a 
Radcliffe girl to see if I could finally carve out a normal sex life. My 
efforts met with blowing and no throwing which makes me think I need to see
the coo coo doctor.

What about you? And that woman who worked in the laundry and the other 
one, the boarder? And tell me, how do you manage to get so much ass? What’s
the secret and what am I doing wrong? I’m going mad. As much as blowing is 
classically significant, I don’t find it a substitute for the real thing 
and to complicate matters, I don’t even know what the real thing is. Every 
day I walk down Brattle Street hoping some old lady will break her leg 
getting into her car and with my European aplomb I’ll rush to her 
assistance and she’ll say, my dear boy, aren’t you sweet, won’t you come 
and have tea with me when I get out of the hospital. But no one has so much
as even tripped so far. I saw Constance Kelly too. Her face is covered with
pimples. I went up to her and turned on my accent and she laughed right in 
my face. Jesus, I’m homesick for the ould sod. I even broke down and wept 
in Harvard Square with Constance and do you think she held my hand and 
stroked my brow? She just turned on her heel and ran.

Do me a favor. See if there are any jobs open for lavatory attendants in 
London and I’ll come back. But in closing I want you to remember this, that
this is America and we out-produce, out-sell, out-manufacture, out-fight 
and out-screw the rest of the world but the latter is elusive.

God bless,

Kenneth O’KEEFE

(Absentee Duke of Serutan)

* * *

Easy now, Kenneth. This is the way you do it. Just walk up to them and 
pinch them right in the arse. Ah what tender meat, baby. But if all else 
fails. Remember, in France they have the guillotine. Cut it off altogether.
And Mac, I’m sure, would send you a false one if you ever needed it again. 
I spot a blonde head over there with gold spangles.

And I hear hymns. Away in a manger. Taxis collecting outside. Follow the 
leader. Out this hall and through the mouth behind this blonde girl. I can 
smell her. We’re all here together, rabbit stew and dumplings.

On the street, Dangerfield approached by this shining girl. “Excuse me, 
you’re Mr. Dangerfield, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. MacDoon tells me you’re an American. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Well I’m an American and I’d like to go in your taxi. I think Americans 
ought to stick together. What are you doing over here?”

“I’m—”

“That’s swell. I came here for Christmas. England’s so rustic. And this 
taxi is quaint. Meet my friend, Osgood.”

“How do you do.”

“His name’s Osgood Swinton Hunderington. Isn’t that nice?”

“Excellent.”

“Let’s all ride together. My name’s Dorothy Cabot. I’ve got a middle 
name, Spendergold.”

“Mine’s spice.”

“Ha ha. Gee I’m glad we’re going to ride together.”

Three of them in the taxi. Past the packs of choir boys and mothers 
lugging red toys. Mary with a film contract. No one can tell me about the 
law of contracts. And Mary I’m going to have a word with you. Running wild 
in London and perhaps you’ve put your picture up on one of those public 
notice boards for gentlemen to take your measurements. And I’d say they 
were partial to the big ones. Pumpkins. Like one I saw when Mac went into a
shop to buy a tin of Australian com beef. And that was when Mac told me 
about designing the brassiere. About the uplift and to get them to point 
out a little. To preserve the supple look and a certain degree of bounce. 
We agreed the bounce was extremely important in separating the real from 
the false. And Mary I’d say yours were nothing but the truth. And this 
Dorothy here has two tiny pearls hanging from her ears. Her hair a soft 
curve round the back of her head. And Mac I’d suggest that Dorothy here had
the pear shape which you said was rare and in demand. I’ll move over a 
little and take a look through the open coat. Just as I thought, the 
strapless kind. And Dorothy you’ve got a pretty jewel on your pale winter 
breast. And hairless hands. Mine are cool and joined. I’ve not often been a
man for light hair, preferring the black, the deep, the West. But you’re 
rich and I prefer that. But from the poor the lilies grow and roses too. 
I’m a fair flower.

Osgood turns to Dangerfield.

“And do you like living here, Mr. Dangerfield?”

“Very much. I think it might be said I love England.”

“Well, that is a compliment you know. I hope Dorothy will come to like 
England as much as you do.”

“But I think it’s swell already.”

“I’m trying to show Dorothy some places of particular interest. Perhaps 
you would know of something Mr. Dangerfield. I thought I got off to a 
rather good start in having her meet a celebrity like Mr. MacDoon. He is 
delightful isn’t he.”

“Perfectly.”

“But, of course, I am, you know, a little shocked by some of his things. 
Gives one a bit of start the first time you know. The Irish have such 
vitality and wit. And I do think wit is essential.”

“But Osgood, he’s just wonderful. I just love that little red beard of 
his. So cute. He’d just slay them at Goucher. He’s so virile and mature.”

“Where are you from in the States Miss Cabot?”

“Call me Dot. New York, but I’ve outgrown it. But Mommie and Daddy live 
upstate. We’ve got a house in Cornwall here but I’ve never been yet.”

“Dot has told me a great deal about New York, Mr. Dangerfield, it sounds 
a most amazing place. Must be frightening living in such tall buildings.”

“O nothing. Mommie and Daddy’s apartment is right on the very top of one 
and it’s just wonderful. Looks right over the river and I just love 
throwing rose petals down.”

“Miss Cabot, or rather Dot, did you know that in New York one is not 
allowed to throw dead animals into public waters, or to sieve, agitate or 
expose ashes, coal, dry sand, hair, feathers, or other substances likely to
be blown about by the wind or to transport manure or like substance through
the streets, unless covered so as to prevent spilling, or to throw garbage,
butcher’s offal, blood refuse or stinking animal into the street, or to 
permit any human being to use a water closet as a sleeping place. Guilty of
a misdemeanor.”

“Gee, I didn’t know that. I never thought about that.”

“I say, are you trying to be funny, Mr. Dangerfield?”

“I’m weary and fearful for future and must get a laugh.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“Knaves and thieves. I’m tired of drivel. Cads and benefactors and 
knaves. I’m tired. Let me get away.”

“What are you driving at sir?”

“I can’t bear any more of it. I think I am going to faint. Faint and 
fade. Driver stop.”

“Yes, driver, do stop.”

The taxi came to a halt. Dangerfield stumbling to the sidewalk. Dorothy 
said I mustn’t leave. But the taxi pulled into the traffic again and went 
away. And leaning against the wall of a bank. Need a bank for support. 
Eeeeee. Only a certain amount one can stand. Banks. I must see banks. I’m 
for the banks and they for me and I’ve got to get to the financial district
of London or go crazy. Sometimes too, I think I would like to be an 
assistant in a pox shop but not now. Tonight I’ve got to see the banks.

Inside another dark taxi streaking down this Fleet Street and ahead the 
dome of St. Paul’s. Everything dark, closed and empty down here. Along 
Cheapside to the Royal Exchange. This is the cheapside but I know there is 
wealth. Wealth alive. And all these high windows. Inside there are counters
and books and ledgers collecting dust over the holidays. Driver, down that 
street. I see a light. Star of Bethlehem. Not a soul here save money. Let 
me out right here and I’ll go up this alley for a pot of brandy.

Along a tiled hall into an enormous room. All men and no women. Pale 
faces. I know these people must work in the banks and here they are 
laughing and carrying on with back slapping and jokes. And there’s a man at
the end of the bar with a walking stick who looks the spitting image of 
O’Keefe. All these people so polite and contented. Boy, what a night. Holy 
infant so tender. And a pint of mild. Must call the party. I’ll fix Mary.

Dangerfield walks along the street bound by walls big and black. On the 
corner, phone booths, red, bright and warm. A wind blows and whistles 
around the door.

“Hello?”

“May I please speak to Mr. MacDoon, the royal celt. And tell him to come 
quickly for I weep for home, the clatter of fangs and the green, greedy 
mouths. Tell him that.”

“By all means, sir, do hold on.”

“I am holding. I’ve held on to everything until I’ve just a vestige of 
dignity left. And that was a fig leaf. Hear me? Fig leaf. I’ll hold on. Who
knows what this is? Anyone know?”

“What for the love of the little Lord Jesus are you saying, Danger? Are 
you drunk? What happened? These people said you went mad in the taxi, said 
you were fainting.”

“They were mean to me. Mean, Mac. I’m disappointed in the rich. Lost 
faith.”

“Where are you?”

“In the center of the financial world.”

“Now Danger, can I even credit you with knowing what night this is?”

“Tomorrow is the saviour and my Christ I’ll be glad to see him.”

“Now where are you?”

“Haven’t I just told you I’m in the middle of the financial world? 
Haven’t I just told you that? I want you to come down here and see for 
yourself, Mac. Streets are empty and as they say, not a soul. And I want 
you to know how it feels to be here. You understand, Mac? And there’s a 
street called Cheapside. Now Cheapside.”

“Now Danger, would you ever shut your hole for a second. Mary is here. 
And Danger, a lovelier girl never moved where whores fear to tread.”

“Mac stop telling me lies. You’re a great one for the lies to a poor 
unfortunate like me who has drink taken and’s confused and upset over 
recent richness. I won’t believe because seeing is and I feel the hoax is 
in it to get me in the clutches of the party.”

“Now Danger, the general feeling here is that you’re mad. And I think the
nervous tension caused by quids has you afoul. But the American girl 
thought you were fascinating. Never met anyone like you before and she’s 
worried lest you’re molested in the streets. But Mr. Hunderington claims 
you were rude. Mr. Hunderington is Lord Squeak, heir to several pig sties 
in Kent. He says you were insulting, however. Percy turned on him and said 
he’d push his face in the caviar if he heard another word against you. I 
think we are keeping the British in their place tonight. This party is in 
your honor.”

“Are things, then, coming to a head, Mac?”

“To a head, Danger. The size of a mountain.”

“Sound the tune of reconciliation to Mary. So’s I can give her the 
chastising of her life.”

“I’ll have the horsewhip ready. Now kneel down in that booth while I give
ye me special yule blessing. Get down in that booth. I know you’re 
standing, you dirty ould cheat. Get down. For Jesus, what are you doing, 
ripping the phone out? Repeat after me, the Lord is my shepherd as I am one
of his sheared sheep.”

“The Lord is my shepherd as I am one of his sheared sheep.”

“Now get over here fast and I’ll pave the way right into Mary’s womb for 
ye. And you might consider this American girl. She says you’re exciting.”

“Mac, I’ve decided that I’m a titillator for sure. I’ll be there. I 
insist upon the carpet.”

He waited by the road, wet, shiny and black. A taxi roaring by. Wave it 
down. To the Red Lion Square. Fast.

Dangerfield steps out in front of a Georgian house. Not a sign of lights 
or sin or anything. Up the stone steps. And pound this knocker. Good piece 
of brass.

The large green door swings open and a great din. Take my hat and cane. 
Lovely staircase, wide and winding. Announcing me. Sebastian Balfe 
Dangerfield.

MacDoon hurrying over and the sound of Percy Clocklan’s laughter. Gay 
chandeliers. I tell you I see old masters on the walls and tables squealing
with repast.

“This way Danger, she’s waiting in the library. You’re looking well. 
She’s expecting the rags and not the riches. And I’ll have a bottle of 
champagne sent in to cool off your hot hearts. If things don’t go well I’ll
serve up the Yank to you, she’s panting and can’t wait to tell you how 
wonderful you are.”

“Mac, thanks from the bottom of. The banks have put a fervor in me.”

The rugs were deep. A room vast and dreary. Mary’s black hair over the 
top of the chair. Turning the pages of a magazine.

“How are you, Mary?”

“I thought your friend Mac was codding me that you would come.”

“In the flesh. I hear that you’ve been posing?”

“What of it?”

“I don’t like it.”

“Well it’s none of your business. I suppose you’ve forgotten what you 
said to me that night. You called me a whore. Told me to fuck myself and go
to hell.”

“Look here, Mary. I’m a little weak. I’m not up to it. That kind of talk 
will make me have a relapse. You look lovely tonight.”

“O it’s soft talk.”

“It’s the truth.”

“And are all the other things you called me the truth too? Am I to forget
those?”

“For the moment. This is the eve.”

“I guess you’re holy now.”

“Not holy, but I’ve taken the eve into consideration.”

“Why didn’t you arrange to see me or something?”

“Needed a little time to think things over. I feel much better now. Don’t
I look better?”

“You may have fine clothes but you’ve got bags under your eyes. And there
was a fuss here over what you said to that American girl in the taxi. I’m 
inclined to think you were rude. Exactly as you were with me.”

“Cut it out. I’m not going to stand for this kind of talk. For the infant
lesus will you stop it.”

“No.”

“Well god damn it, another word out of you and I’ll bat you in the bloody
face and fix this damn film contract as well.”

“You’re the one who ought to shut up and get a wallop in the face. I 
don’t want to have anything to do with the films but I thought if I could 
get some money I could help us. I’d do anything to help and you talk to me 
like this. Well bugger you, you damn bastard. I can tell you off too.”

Sebastian’s arm whistled through the air. The flat of his palm cracked 
against the side of her face and Mary sat stunned. He slapped her again.

“I’m going to kick the living shit out of you. Do you hear me?”

Her arms raised to ward off the blows. Mary and chair fell backwards. 
Dangerfield tripping over a table on top of her.

“You won’t do anything to me. You can hit and hit me and I don’t care. I 
don’t care what you do but you’re a bastard and will always be a bastard, 
always and always.”

There was a silence catching breaths and a discreet knock on the door. 
The door opening tentatively.

“Pardon me sir, but shall I leave the champagne here?”

“Do, please.”

The door closing quietly. Sound of pumping chests. Sebastian gripping her
tightly by the wrists to hold the flailing nails down. Ribbons of sting. 
Mary glaring into his eyes. Her white wrists and fingers. She is a slimmer 
soft thing, where she was so fat, so strong. O slim and soft for sure.

“Get up.”

“No.”

“I said get up.”

“No.”

“Get up or I swear to Christ I’ll drive your face through the floor. When
I tell you to get up, get up.”

“You dirty bastard. I still say bugger you and I’ll do what I want.”

Mary slung back on her straight arms. White legs and knees. Pathos of her
pins. I can’t go on when all I really want is your white bare legs 
scissored around my throat, crushing out fond gasps. And I’m standing on a 
deep rug with books for a setting. And assault with the weapon of the flat 
hand.

“Up or I’ll use the boot.”

“I love you and look how you’ve treated me.”

“Up or the boot.”

“Why are you like this?”

“Now sit down. You’re going to get off this damn stage and out of these 
films.”

“Why shouldn’t I try. I wanted to make some money because you said you 
wouldn’t want me otherwise. You told me you’d push me out the window, tied 
my towel in knots and soaked my underwear in the basin and now I’ve got a 
chance to make something of myself and you don’t like it either.”

“I don’t like the stage in any form. It’s rot. I don’t like it. You’re 
coming back with me tonight.”

“That’s for me to say.”

“Now, Mary, come back quietly with me. And tomorrow we’ll go out 
together. Save this bottle of champagne for the morning. After the rasher 
and roll. Leave the stage and forget the films and we’ll live in some quiet
place.”

“It isn’t that I like it either with everyone trying to go to bed with 
me, men and women alike. But how can I be sure you’re not going to turn on 
me again. I won’t come back with you tonight. But I’ll tell you where I 
live and you can come and see me in the morning. Have you ever thought of 
me living alone and queer men calling me up on the phone and following me 
through the streets? Did that occur to you?”

“There’s been a special place for you in my thoughts, Mary. Very special 
place. Took me awhile to get over the shock. And I feel a little better 
now. Ready to go out in the world again. But there’s been the special place
for you. Am I forgiven?”

“I’ll see. Take me away from this party, and take me home.”

“Transgression. Been guilty of the transgression. You look lovier than 
I’ve ever seen you before. And there’s something I must tell Clocklan 
before we go. Pack up this champagne.”

In the drawing room there were the punch bowls and tables laden with 
lobster. Pretty blonde worried about me. See her breasts right through that
dress. MacDoon in a cluster of virgins, wand ready to bless, forgive or 
fertilize. And Clocklan with a nurse for sure again. Always with nurses. 
Always with blonde hair. His maid has black and I guess he thrives on 
variety. And over there are some elderly ones with diamonds on their chests
in lieu of the other things. Sometimes have a yen to get one of them in the
bed. Old age no object. Logs in the fire. I don’t believe in Christmas. A 
fraud. I know it’s a fraud. No one noticing me. Take care of that for sure.

Sebastian sucking in his breath and roaring.

“Christmas is a fraud.”

Noise echoing away and smiles crossing the faces of MacDoon and Clocklan 
for they knew that this was honesty night for sure. Mary waiting inside the
door of the library for the worst.

“Christmas is a fraud. This room is filled with knaves and thieves. Jesus
was a Celt and Judas was British.”

There were grumbles shall I stop him, will we have him thrown out? 
Clocklan spoke up, if any man here so much as touches the fair hair of 
Dangerfield I will remove his jaw.

“Thank you, Percy. Now as you all know, Christmas is a fraud. Jesus was a
mick and Judas a lime. I am king beast. A big muscular Yank. Hear that? I 
know you would all like to beat me up. O there are a lot of them would like
to do that. But tonight I was in the Lombard Street to get the feel of 
investment. Now I have it from good sources that some of you own pig sties 
and I must confess that the rearing of pigs to me is extremely distasteful 
except at the breakfast table when it is tasteful. But I know you people 
have bacon hidden in your attics and beef and hides in the cellar and the 
best of clarets and brandies. But I’m a man for bedlam. What about bedlam? 
Do you ever relish the broken dish or twisted chandelier? I’m taking my 
host’s champagne home for the morning away from you horse lovers. Bye bye 
now. I know you have bacon in the attic and beef and hides in the cellar.”

Clocklan roaring with laughter and a tall man, the host, beaming with 
pleasure. O perhaps you can’t beat these British after all, because they 
not only have it both ways hut all ways. And there’s no beating that ever. 
And Percy I have just to whisper in your ear.

“Come closer, Percy. Listen. One night I was walking behind a lovely 
young girl with long golden hair and my heart beating with desire. She 
turned around and I saw her face. She was an old toothless hag.”

“Jesus, Sebastian, here’s another fiver.”

“Percy, I’ll use it to buy meself a set of silk undergarments.”

And as Dangerfield was coolly leaving the party, the butler came running 
after him bearing brandy and bacon. A bottle and a side. How can you beat 
them?

“Mary, isn’t this good of him?”

“You’re a terrible man.”

“They’ve left me holding the bag. Thank you.”

“Not at all, sir. The master was charmed by your little speech.”

“Eee.”

“I have a taxi for you, sir. I liked that very much, about Judas being 
British. Ha, it’s very good. Merry fraud, sir.”

“O. Aye.”

“You’re a terrible man, Sebastian.”

“Merry fraud.”

Entering the taxi. And standing at the door, MacDoon next to Clocklan. 
MacDoon eating an eclair. Clocklan’s hand engages with a haunch of nurse. 
His other with a cigar. And from the windows I see some of the elderly and 
the face of that blonde American girl. I think she must be crying. Are they
all weeping in there? O taxi man, away, away, away like a devil shooting 
between the stars. And don’t be making stops for traffic either.

Mary you’re beside me now. And I want to ride on the train to Dublin, 
along the cliffs and through the tunnels to Bray. When it’s raining. You’ve
got tiny ears. And I’ll take you to live in a house out Tooting Bee way 
with Clocklan’s quids near by for quick reference. I’ll buy a little mower 
to take outside to the lawn and give it a fast trim every Friday. Not much 
of a lawn because I don’t want to over do this exercise. Ten by ten. We’ll 
have a small sitting room with plants one of which will be a rubber plant. 
And during tea on gray afternoons I want you to read me stories of 
adventure.

“Why aren’t you like this more often, cuddly and cozy and things?”

“I’ve just been thinking of a little house for us.”

“And babies?”

“O aye.”

“You’ll give me a baby? I’d like to have one.”

“I’m not father proud but that’s one of the things I know I can do, Mary.
I’m your man.”

“And we’ll make one tomorrow on Christmas Day?”

“It’s Christmas now, Mary.”

“No. I want you to come to me. I’ve got a grill. And four eggs too. And 
we can have the champagne and brandy after.”

“I’m a shit, Mary.”

“No you’re not.”

“Touch of meanness in me.”

“I’ve got a present for you.”

“I’ve nothing for you.”

“You’ve got what I want.”

“Mary, really.”

“And we’ll have a baby.”

“Aye.”

“And you won’t tie my towel in knots again?”

“No knots ever again.”

“You look lovely in your suit and your hat and cane. That American girl 
was after you too, wasn’t she?”

“Just wanted a brother in a foreign land. When you’re Yank, Mary, only 
other Yanks are friends.”

“She didn’t mean anything she said. She was just after your dong. But 
it’s mine.”

“For sure, Mary.”

Crossing Earl’s Court and down the West Cromwell Road. Up over the bridge
and the wasteland of train tracks. Out there in the buildings I see dim 
lights on. Old brains slumbering. And on the roofs the chimney pots are 
awful twisted things. One of them with a fan squeaks in the Bovir Road. O 
for God’s sake let me feel your pretty little breast, Mary. Let me feel it.
Let me touch it. Saint Anthony guide. My hand. You’re an awful man, 
Sebastian but you’ll not get me hot. I know your tricks.

“Tell me what my present is, Mary.”

“I bought you a pair of woolly slippers.”

“Lovely, what color?”

“Brown so they won’t show the dirt.”

“I’ll wear them tomorrow.”

“And I’ve got new underwear and perfume called Jungle Desire and you’ll 
think I’m an animal or something.”

“I’ll bring me drums, Mary.”

A kiss goodbye. And back to the Bovir Road and up the stairs. Where I 
always feel I’m going to get a bust in the head from some prowler. Violence
is forever on my mind. Get the key in this damned evasive hole. I’ll run 
the hot water for a cheap sense of warmth and cheer the room a bit with 
some steam. A shilling in the meter for sure. Little comforts, little joys.
Pull back the bedspread, expose the sheets. And tuck my pillow up and lay 
me quietly there, ready for the white sky.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Night wakes up. Hear the wind is blowing hard. My bed has been so warm. 
Shut my window, curtains trembling. My dream was all lament. But the white 
thin skins of new potatoes washed up in the clay and marrows big as 
Zeppelins hiding in the leaves and tips of willow trees. I was wearing 
boots in a frog pond. At the end there was a horde coming across the fields
with hooks so I swam away to sea.

Rub the chill out of my hands, slap them for heat. I think a sup of my 
electric fire would be very cordial. Right, ripe, ready, quick like that. 
Hurry up the hot water to me in the pipes before I pull them out of the 
house altogether. To wash my face is a great relief and my teeth too. I’ll 
not wear this underwear but get into my suit nude. When I die I want to 
decompose in a barrel of porter and have it served in all the pubs in 
Dublin. I wonder would they know it was me?

It’s good to be up in the early morning, dressed and off on a journey 
walking. Did you say I tied your towel in knots, Mary? Did you say that? Is
it true? Tell me. Is it? That they bring children down upon us by the wrath
of God. For fucking.

Coming down the stairs guiding on the smooth banister, stopping in the 
hall to smell breakfast. Opening the door and coming out into the fierce 
wind where there is a weak sun in the sky. Turning up this road, a long 
empty gray. It’s cold around my throat. I think I’m weary of my terrifying 
heart. But not let the cold get to it now because I must keep it hot for 
hours yet. Now this bridge. Curving up over the trains and their tracks. 
The grass down there is black. From here I can see that massive roof. And 
Mary, I’m on my way. I never thought I would see elegance again, like the 
fit crack of my cane on this bridge. Sure it was good of Percy to see me 
right. How are you now, Mary? Still in the bed? Or up over me rashers? 
Toast too. Hot bowls of tea. This warehouse badly needing repair. I must 
stop and look through these busted grimy windows and see what is being 
stored away. The sun is weak, Mary. The city suffering from emptiness. Can 
they really all be in the houses? In there is Christmas and fire and the 
kids having a time with tinny toys. This is the strangest part of London 
being not one thing and certainly not another.

He was walking down the slope side of the bridge past this broken 
building, a straight dark figure and stranger. Come here till I tell you. 
Where is the sea high and the winds soft and moist and warm, sometimes 
stained with sun, with peace so wild for wishing where all is told and 
telling. On a winter night I heard horses on a country road, beating sparks
out of the stones. I knew they were running away and would be crossing the 
fields where the pounding would come up into my ears. And I said they are 
running out to death which is with some soul and their eyes are mad and 
teeth out.

God’s mercy

On the wild

Ginger Man.


THE END
