OLD FELLOWS

Tell your mother I’ll be home in five minutes. Five minutes, remember
that! Tell me how many seconds in five minutes and I’ll give you a
penny. You can’t? What sort of schooling do ye get nowadays? Three
hundred, of course. There’s the penny, and tell your mother I’ll be home
in exactly three hundred seconds.

Poor kid! They hate being kept waiting. I was the same myself. I
remember when I was his age my old man—God rest him!—used to take me to
the seaside of an odd Sunday, and always the same place—the best scenery
and the best air; so he said. Well, ’twas a nightmare to me, a real
horror. No, mind you, no! ’Twasn’t drink so much at all. Wait now and
I’ll tell you.

Sunday morning the bells would be ringing for Mass and the father before
the mirror over the fireplace, dragging at the old dickey, and the
mother standing on a low stool in front of him, trying to fasten the
studs.

“Go easy now,” she’d say. “Ah, go easy, can’t you?” and he with his head
down, shivering and rearing like a bucking broncho. “God Almighty, give
me patience!”  he’d say between his teeth. “Give me patience, sweet God,
before I tear the bloody house asunder!” And to see him after, going to
Mass, you wouldn’t think butter would melt in the old devil’s mouth.

After Mass, while we were standing under the trees on the river-bank,
J. J. would come along. J. J. and the father were lifelong friends. He
was a melancholy, reedy man with a long sallow face and big hollows
under the cheeks, and whenever he had his mind on something, he sucked
in the two cheeks till his whole face caved in like a sandpit. And as we
sauntered along down a side street, J. J. would stop and look round and
whisper something to my da. Then he rapped with his knuckles on a door
and turned round and winked. After a minute he’d bend down and look in
through the keyhole and whisper in; something very consoling to judge by
the face he put on.  Then my da would suddenly toss his head.

“Two minutes now,” he’d say briskly, raising two fingers to show what he
meant. Then he’d dive down into his trousers pockets and out would come
a penny.

“There’s a penny for you now,” he’d say. “Mind and be a good boy.”

I remember one Sunday in particular when the two of them left me like
that. I looked round and saw a little girl standing on the kerb. She was
wearing a frilly white hat and a white satiny dress. The same day—I
remember it well—I had on a brand-new sailor suit. She was a beautiful
child; upon my word, a beautiful child! And whatever way it happened, I
smiled at her. Mind you, I meant no harm. It was pure good-nature. I was
always like that, wanting to make friends. But lo and behold, she drew
herself up, withered me with a look and then walked past me up the
pavement.

That stare knocked me flat. It knocked me kicking.  That’s the sort I am
by nature, expecting everyone to be friendly. I was stunned. I didn’t
know which way to look. Then my da came out with his face all shiny,
shaking out the big silk handkerchief he carried up his sleeve and
wiping his moustache. He must have seen something ailed me, for he began
to laugh and tell me all about the grand times we were going to have at
the seaside. But that was all propaganda, for before ever we reached the
boat he had another call.

“Two minutes,” he says with his rogue’s smile and the two fingers
up. “Be a good boy now.” And he tipped me a second penny.

Then we got on the boat and the band was playing on deck and the
hillsides with all the big houses and gardens were dropping behind. And
who do you think I saw, coming up the side of the deck towards us, only
the little girl that gave me the cold shoulder. Her father was along
with her, a little fat, red-faced man with a big black beard and a
bowler hat, and under his arm he carried a boat with masts and
sails. When my da spotted him he threw back his head and laughed.

“Well, my old flower,” he said with his rogue’s smile, “so ’tis here I
find you?”

“The last place I expected to see you,” says the fat man none too
pleasantly.

“Back to the old ship?” said my da, winking at J. J.

“Meaning what exactly?” asked the fat man, twirling his beard in his
fingers.

“My goodness,” says my da, letting on to be surprised, “didn’t you say
’twas aboard a paddle steamer in Cork Harbour you did your sailoring?”

“Ever in Odessa?” says the fat man.

“I had a cousin there,” says my da, kidding him. “One of the big-wigs, I
believe.”

“You hadn’t a cousin in Valparaiso by any chance?”  asks the fat man.

“Well, no, now,” says my da regretfully. “That cousin died young of a
Maltese fever he contracted while he was with Nansen at the North Pole.”

“Malta, Madeira, Toulouse, Genoa and Casablanca,” says the fat man. “Ye
know nothing only all the old guff ye have.”

By this time there was no holding them. The fat man was a sailor, and
whatever the reason was, my da was death on sailors. They went into the
saloon, and all the way down the river they never as much as shoved
their noses out. When I looked in, half the bar was stuck in the
argument; some in favour of the sea and some against it; some saying
sailors made the best husbands and others that only a fool would marry
one.

“They see the world anyway,” says the sailor.

“Do they?” said my da very quietly, bowing his head and raising his
eyebrows. “What do they see of it?”

“Malta,” said the sailor, “where the heat of the day drives off the cold
of the night.”

“Anything else?” asked my da in a far-away voice, looking out the door.

“San Francisco,” said the sailor, “and the scent of the orange blossoms
in the moonlight.”

“Anything else?” asked my da, like a priest at confession.

“As much more as you fancy,” said the sailor.

“But do they see what’s under their very noses?” asked my da, leaping up
with his fists clenched and his eyes lighting. “Do they see the beauty
of that river outside that people come thousands of miles to see?”

I looked round, and there was the little girl at my elbow.

“°Tis all your fault,” says she.

“How is it my fault?” says I.

“You and your old fellow,” says she, “ye have my day ruined on me.”

And she walked away again with her head in the air.  I didn’t see her
again till we landed, and by that time her old fellow and mine had to be
separated. I saw the two of them go off along the sea road. We went in
the opposite direction. Suddenly my da stopped and raised his fists in
the air.

“I declare to my God,” he said venomously, “if there’s one class of man
I can’t stand, ’tis sailors.”

“Ah, they’re all old blow,” says J. J. peaceably enough.

“Blow?” says my da. “Who’s talking about blow? I wouldn’t mind how much
blow they had only for all the flaming lies they tell you. I’m going
back now,” says he beginning to stamp from one foot to the other, “and
I’ll tell _him_ a few lies.”

“Ah, don’t bother,” says J. J. He leaned his head over my da’s shoulder
with that sort of melancholy look he had and began to whisper in his ear
the way you’d whisper to a restive young horse, and my da sniffing and
nodding and rearing his head. Next minute up went the two fingers.

“Two minutes,” he said with his cute little smile. “Be a good boy now.”

He slipped me another copper, and I sat on the sea wall watching the
crowds, and wondering would we ever get out of the village. Beyond the
village were the cliffs, and little lanes winding in and out and up and
down past cottages built on them, and the band playing and the people
dancing. Then my heart gave a leap. Coming through the crowd I saw the
sailor and the little girl, swinging out of his arm. This time she was
carrying the boat. They stopped in front of the pub.

“Daddy,” I heard her say in that precise, ladylike little voice of hers,
“you promised to sail my boat for me.”

“In one second now,” says the sailor. “I have a certain thing to say to
a man in here.”

He went into the pub. The little girl turned on me with tears in her
eyes.

“T’is all your fault,” she said again.

I was sorry for her. Mind you, I was. That’s the sort I am, very
soft-hearted. Away with me into, the pub.  Her father was sitting on the
window-sill with the wire screen behind him and all the white yachts on
the shiny bay beyond. My da was walking up and down before him with his
head bent, like a tiger.

“Capwell?” I heard him say in a low, musical sort of voice.

“Capwell I said,” says the sailor, wiping his moustache.

“Evergreen?” asked my da.

“Evergreen,” said the sailor, nodding.

“The oldest stock in Cork?” said my da in a whisper.

“Back to the fifteenth century,” said the sailor.

My da looked at him with a smile gathering on his face as if he thought
the man must be joking. Then he shook his head and walked to the other
side of the bar as much as to say “This is beyond me.”

“The North side of the city,” said the sailor, getting heated, “what is
it only foreigners? People that came in from beyond the lamps a
generation ago. Tramps and fiddlers and pipers.”

“They had the intellect,” said my da quietly, putting one hand in his
trousers pocket and cocking his head at the sailor.

“Intellect?” said the sailor. “The North side?”

“’Twas always given up to them,” said my da with a sniff.

“That’s the first I heard of it,” said the sailor.

My da looked at him. He took the hand out of his pocket and began to do
sums on the palm of it with one finger.

“I’ll give you fair odds,” he said. “I’ll go back a hundred years. Tell
me the name of a single outstanding man that was born on the North side
of the city in that time.”

“Daddy,” said I, pulling him by the coat tails, “come on away.”

“Two minutes now,” he said with a laugh, and almost by second nature he
handed me another penny.

That was four I had. J. J. was a thoughtful poor soul and he followed me
out with two bottles of lemonade and a couple of packets of biscuits,
and after that the little girl and myself tried to sail the
boat. Whatever was wrong, it would only float on its side and the sails
got wringing wet, so we left it to dry and sat listening to the organ of
the merry-go-rounds from the other side of the harbour.

It wasn’t until late afternoon that the sailor came out.  My da was with
him, and there seemed to be only the breath of life between them. My da
was holding him by the lapel of the jacket and begging him to wait for
the boat, but the sailor said he gave his solemn word to the wife to
have the little girl home for bedtime. Then my da threw a long lingering
look at the sky, and seeing it so late, he slipped me another penny—that
was five—and went back to the pub till the siren blew for the boat.
They were hauling up the gangway when J. J. got him down.

It was late when we landed home and the full moon riding over the river,
a lovely, frosty, September night.  I was tired and hungry and blown up
with wind. We went up the hill in the moonlight and every few yards my
da stopped to lay down the law. By that time he was ready to argue with
anyone about anything. There were three old women sitting on the
cathedral steps, gossiping, and their shawls trailing down to the
pavement. It made me sick for home and a cup of hot cocoa and my own
warm bed. And there, standing at the street corner under a gas-lamp, I
saw a figure in white with a white hat on it. My heart nearly stopped
beating. I don’t know if J. J. saw the same thing, but all at once he
began to steer my da, drawing his attention to the cathedral.

“That’s a fine tower,” he said.

My da stopped and looked up at it and you could see he didn’t think much
of it.

“What’s fine about it?” he said. “I don’t see anything very fine about
it.”

“Ah, ’tis, man, ’tis,” says J. J. “That’s a great tower.”

“Now, I’m not much in favour of towers,” said my da, .  tossing his
head. “I don’t see what use are towers. I’d sooner a nice plain
limestone front with pillars.”

I tried to lug him along by the hand. He looked round and spotted the
white figure at the other side of the road.  Then he chuckled and put
his hand over his eyes, like a sailor on deck.

“Hard a-port, mate,” says he. “What do I see on my starboard bow?”

“Ah, nothing, man,” said J. J.

“Ah, what sort of bloody look-out man are you?” said my da. “Ahoy,
shipmate,” he calls across the road, “didn’t your old skipper go home
yet?”

“He did not,” said the little girl—it was the little girl, of
course—“and let you leave him alone.”

“The thundering ruffian!” said my da, delighted, and away he went across
the road like a greyhound. “What do he mean?” says he. “A sailorman from
the South side, drinking in my diocese? I’ll have him ejected.”

“Daddy,” says I with my heart in my boots, “come on home.”

“Two minutes,” he said with a chuckle, and he handed me a copper, the
sixth and the last. The little girl sprang at him. She scrawled him and
beat him about the legs but he only laughed at her, and when the door
opened he slipped in with a shout.

“Anyone here from Buenos Aires?”

J. J. sucked in his cheeks till he looked like a skeleton in the
moonlight and then he nodded his head sadly and went in after him. The
door was shut, the old boat was standing against the wall. The old women
got up and went shuffling off down a lane, and there we were with the
whole cathedral square to ourselves. We sat on the kerb and cried salt
tears. The little girl turned on me.

“What bad luck was on me,” she said, “to meet you this morning?”

“’Twas on me the bad luck was,” said I, “and your old fellow keeping my
old fellow out. I’d have him halfway home now only for ye.”

“Your old fellow is only a common labouring man,” she said, “and my
daddy says he’s ignorant and full of conceit.”

“And your old fellow is only a seaman,” said I, “and my father says all
seamen are liars.”

“How dare you!” she said. “My daddy is not a liar, and I hope he keeps
your old fellow all night now, just to piece you out for being saucy.”

“I don’t care,” said I, “I can go home when I like.”

“You’ll have to wait for your father,” she said.

“I needn’t,” said I.

“I dare you,” said she. “You and your sailor suit.”

I couldn’t let that pass, so I got up and took a few steps, to show
off. I thought she’d be afraid to stay behind alone. But she wasn’t, she
was too bitter, and I stopped.

“Coward!” she said venomously. “You’re afraid.”

“I’ll show you am I afraid,” said I, and away with me down the road, I
that was never out after dark before.  Every few yards I stopped, hoping
she’d call me back.  She never made a sound and every dark lane I came
to I shut my eyes, in dread of what I might see. There wasn’t a sound,
only steps going up this flight of cobbled steps or down that one, and
when I came to the foot of the long road home, and the first dark
archway with the moon shining through it, my courage gave out. I
couldn’t go on or go back. I was paralysed.

Then I saw a little huxter shop with a long flight of steps up to the
door, and iron railings all bent, and I crept up the steps for
company. I could see the basement below and the little window above with
bits of crinkly red paper, a couple of sweet-bottles and a few toys. And
then I saw something that raised my spirits. I counted my coppers again
before I went in and rattled on the counter. A little old Mother Hubbard
of a woman with a broken back came out, rubbing her hands in her apron.

“This and that, ma’am,” said I, mentioning what I wanted.

“Have you the sixpence?” she asked in a prickly voice.

I took out my pennies and laid them on the counter before her, and she
went to the window and brought me out my treasure. I went down the steps
and up the road home with my head in the air, whistling. I only wished
the little girl could see me now; she wouldn’t say I was a coward. Every
lane I passed, I stopped to look at the view. Lovely! Roofs and roofs
and roofs, rising up from the river and the moonlight over them all.

When my mother opened the door and saw me standing there she nearly
fainted. She never noticed what I had in my arms till I put it on the
mat before the fire to warm. ...

Now, didn’t I say already I’d be home in five minutes?  What way is this
to carry on? Not at all! ’Tisn’t five minutes at all yet. Run along home
now and tell your mother I’m on the way. ...

What was I saying? Oh, yes, about the dog. ’Twas a dog, of course, a
black woolly dog with two beads for eyes. I have to laugh whenever I
think of it.

Well, lads, finish these and have another. Miss Mac!