Masculine Protest

For months things had been getting worse between Mother and me. At the
time I was twelve, and we were living in Boharna, a small town twenty
miles from the city—Father, Mother, Martha, and I. Father worked in
the County Council and we didn’t see much of him. I suppose that threw
me more on Mother, but I could be perfectly happy sitting with her all
day if only she let me. She didn’t, though. She was always inventing
excuses to get rid of me, even giving me money to go to the pictures,
which she knew Father didn’t like because I wasn’t very bright at
school and he thought the pictures were bad for me.

I blamed a lot of it on Martha at first. Martha was sly, and she was
always trying to get inside me with Mother. She was always saving,
whereas I always found money burned a hole in my pocket, and it was
only to spite her that I kept a savings bank at all. As well as that,
she told Mother about all the scrapes I got into. They weren’t what
you’d really call scrapes. It was just that we had a gang in our
neighborhood, which was the classy one of the town, and we were always
having battles with the slummy kids from the other side of town who
wanted to play in our neighborhood. I was the Chief Gang Leader, and
it was my job to keep them from expanding beyond their own frontiers.

Martha let on not to understand why I should be Chief Gang Leader. She
let on not to know why we didn’t want the slum kids overrunning our
locality. Though she knew better than to tell Mother when I made
Viking raids on the housekeeping money, she was always at me in a low,
bloodcurdling voice, following me round like a witch. “You’ll be
caught yet, Denis Halligan. You’ll be caught. The police will be after
you. You took three shillings out of Mummy’s purse. God sees you!”
Sometimes she drove me so wild that I went mad and twisted her arm or
pulled her hair, and she went off screeching, and I got a licking.

I had managed to kid myself into the belief that one day Mother would
understand; one day she would wake up and see that the affection of
Dad and Martha was insincere; that the two of them had long ago ganged
up against her, and that I, the black sheep, was the one who really
loved her.

This revelation was due to take place in rather unusual circumstances.
We were all to be stranded in some dangerous desert, and Mother, with
her ankle broken, would tell us to leave her to her fate, the way they
did in storybooks. Dad and Martha, of course, would leave her, with
only a pretense of concern, but I, in my casual way, would simply fold
my hands about my knees and ask listlessly: “What use is life to me
without you?” Nothing more; I was against any false drama, any raising
of the voice. I had never been one for high-flown expressions like
Martha: just the lift of the shoulder, the way I pulled a grass-blade
to chew (it needn’t be a desert), and Mother would realize at last
that though I wasn’t demonstrative—just a plain, rough, willing chap—I
really had a heart of gold.

The trouble about Mother was that she had a genius for subjecting
hearts of gold to intolerable strain. It wasn’t that she was actively
unkind, for she thought far too much of the impression she wanted to
make to be anything like that. It was just that she didn’t care a
damn. She was always away from home. She visited friends in Galway,
Dublin, Birr, and Athlone, and all we ever got to see of her was the
flurry between one foray and the next, while she was packing and
unpacking.

Things came to a head when she told me she wouldn’t be at home for my
birthday. At the same time, always conscientious, she had arranged a
very nice treat for Martha and me. But the treat wasn’t the same thing
that I had been planning, when I proposed to bring a couple of fellows
along and show Mother off to them, and I began to bawl. The trouble
was that the moment I did, I seemed to have no reasons on my side. It
was always like that with Mother; she invariably had all the reasons
on her side, and made you feel contrary and a pig, but that was worse
instead of better. You felt then that she was taking advantage of
you. I sobbed and stamped and asked why she hadn’t done that to Martha
and why she was doing it to me. She looked at me coldly and said I was
a pretty picture and that I had no manliness. Of course, I saw she was
in the right about that too, and that there was no excuse for a fellow
of my age complaining against not being treated like his younger
sister, and that only made me madder still.

“Go on!” I screamed. “Who’s trying to stop you? All you want is people
to admire you.”

I knew when I had said it that it was awful, and expected her to give
me a clout, but she only drew herself up, looking twice as dignified
and beautiful.

“That is a contemptible remark, Denis,” she said in a biting
tone. “It’s one I wouldn’t have expected even from you.”

The way she said it made me feel like the scum of the earth. And then
she went off for the evening in a car with the Clarkes, leaving Martha
and me alone. Martha looked at me, half in pity, half in amusement.
She was never really disappointed in Mother, because she expected less
of her. Martha was born sly.

‘What did I tell you?” she said, though she hadn’t told me anything.

“Go on!” I said in a thick voice. “You sucker!” Then I went upstairs
and bawled and used all the dirty words I knew. I knew now it was all
over between Mother and me; that no circumstances would ever occur
which would show how much I loved her, because after what had happened
I could not live in the same house with her again. For quite a while I
thought about suicide, but I put that on one side, because the only
way I could contemplate committing suicide was by shooting, and my air
pistol was not strong enough for that. I took out my post-office
book. I had four pounds fifteen in the bank. As I’ve said, it was
purely out of spite against Martha, but that made no difference
now. It was enough to keep me for a month or so till I found some
corner where people wanted me; a plain rough-spoken chap who only
needed a little affection. I was afraid of nothing in the way of
work. I was strong and energetic. At the worst, I could always make
for Dublin, where my grandfather and Auntie May lived. I knew they
would be glad to help me, because they thought that Dad had married
the wrong woman and never pretended to like Mother. When Mother had
told me this I was furious, but now I saw that they were probably
cleverer than I was. It would give me great satisfaction to reach
their door and tell Auntie May in my plain straightforward way: “You
were right and I was wrong.” For the last time I looked round my
bedroom and burst into fresh tears. There is something heartrending
about leaving for the last time a place where you have spent so much
of your life. Then, trying to steady myself, I grabbed a little holy
picture from the mantelpiece and a favorite storybook from the
bookshelf and ran downstairs. Martha heard me taking out my bike and
came to see. It had a dynamo lamp and a three-speed gear; a smashing
bike!

“Where are you off to?” she asked.

“Never mind!” I said as I cycled off.

I had no particular feelings about seeing Martha for the last time.

Then I had my first shock, because as I cycled into Main Street I saw
that all the shops were shuttered for the weekly half-holiday and I
knew the Post Office would be shut too and I could not draw out my
savings. It was the first time I felt what people so often feel in
after life, that Fate has made a plaything of you. Why should I have
had my final quarrel with Mother on the one day in the week when I
could not get away from her? If that wasn’t Fate, what was? And I knew
my own weakness of character better than anyone. I knew that if I put
it off until next day, the sight of Mother would be sufficient to set
me servilely seeking for pardon. Even setting off across Ireland
without a penny would be better than that.

Then I had what I thought was an inspiration. The city was only twenty
miles away, and the General Post Office was bound to be open. I had
calculated my time to and from school at twelve miles an hour; even
allowing for the distance, it wouldn’t take me more than two hours. As
well as that, I had been to the city for the Christmas shopping, so I
knew the look of it. I could get my money and stay in a hotel or have
tea and then set off for Dublin. I liked that idea. Cycling all the
way up through Ireland in the dark, through sleeping towns and
villages; seeing the dawn break over Dublin as I cycled down the
slopes of the Dublin mountains; arriving at Auntie May’s door in the
Shelbourne Road when she was lighting the fire—that would be
smashing. I could imagine how she would greet me—“Child of grace,
where did you come from?” “Ah, just cycled.” My natural modesty always
came out in those daydreams of mind, for I never, under any
circumstances, made a fuss. Absolutely smashing!

All the same, it was no joke, a trip like that. I cycled slowly and
undecidedly out the familiar main road where we walked on Sunday, past
the little suburban houses. It was queer how hard it was to break away
from places and people and things you knew. I thought of letting it go
and of doing the best I could to patch it up with Mother. I thought of
the gang and at that a real lump rose in my throat. Tomorrow night,
when my absence was noticed, there would be a new Chief Gang Leader;
somebody like Eddie Humphreys who would be so prim and cautious that
he would be afraid to engage the enemy which threatened us on every
side. In that moment of weakness I nearly turned back. At the same
moment it brought me renewed decision, for I knew that I had not been
chosen Chief Gang Leader because I was a little sissy like Eddie
Humphreys but because I was afraid of nothing.

At one moment my feet had nearly stopped pedalling; at the next I was
pedalling for all I was worth. It was as sudden as that, like the
moment when you find yourself out of your depth and two inclinations
struggle in you—to swim like hell back to the shallows or strike out
boldly for the other side. Up to that I had thought mainly of what was
behind me; now I thought only of what was ahead of me, and it was
frightening enough. I was aware of great distances, of big cloud
masses on the horizon, of the fragility of my tires compared with the
rough surface of the road, and I thought only of the two-hour journey
ahead of me. The romantic picture of myself cycling across Ireland in
the dark disappeared. I should be quite content to get the first stage
over me.

For the last ten miles I wasn’t even tempted to look at the scenery. I
was doubled over the handlebars. Things just happened; the road bent
away under me; wide green rivers rose up and slipped away again under
me, castles soared from the roadside with great arches blocked out in
masses of shadow.

Then at last the little rocky fields closed behind me like a book, and
the blessed electric-light poles escorted me up the last hill, and I
floated proudly down between comfortable villas with long gardens till
I reached the bridge. The city was stretched out on the other side of
the river, shining in the evening light, and my heart rose at the
thought that I had at least shown Mother whether or not I had
manliness. I dismounted from my bicycle and pushed it along the Main
Street, looking at the shops. They were far more interesting than the
shops at home, and the people looked better too.

I found the Post Office in a side street and went up to the counter
with my savings-bank book.

“I want to draw out my money,” I said.

The clerk looked at the clock.

“You can’t do that, sonny,” he said. “The savings-bank counter is
shut.”

“When will it open again?” I asked.

“Not till tomorrow. Any time after nine.”

“But can’t I get it now?”

“No. The clerk is gone home now.”

I slouched out of the Post Office with despair in my heart. I took my
bicycle and pushed it wearily back to the Main Street. The crowds were
still going by, but now it looked long and wide and lonesome, for I
had no money and I didn’t know a soul. Without a meal and a rest, I
could not even set out for Dublin, if I had the heart, which I knew I
hadn’t. Nor could I even return home, for it was already late and I
was dropping with weariness. One side of the Main Street was in
shadow; the shadow seemed to spread with extraordinary rapidity, and
you felt that the city was being quenched as with snuffers.

It was only then that I thought of Father. It was funny that I had not
thought of him before, even when thinking of Grandfather and Auntie
May. I had thought of these as allies against Mother, but I hadn’t
even considered him as an ally. Now as I thought of him, everything
about him seemed different. It wasn’t only the hunger and panic. It
was something new for me. It was almost love. With fresh energy I
pushed my bicycle back to the Post Office, left it outside the door
where I could see it, and went up to the clerk I had already spoken
to.

“Could I make a telephone call?” I asked.

“You could to be sure,” he said. “Have you the money?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, you can’t make a call without the money. Where is it to?”

“Boharna,”’ I said.

At once his face took on a severe expression.

“That’s one and threepence,” he said.

“And I can’t ring unless I have the money?”

“Begor, you can’t. I couldn’t ring myself without that.”

I went out and took my bicycle again. This time I could see no way
out. I dawdled along the street, leaving my bicycle by the curb and
gazing in shop windows. In one I found a mirror in which I could see
myself full-length. I looked old and heartbroken. It was just like a
picture of a child without a home, and I blinked away my tears.

Then, as I approached a public-house, I saw a barman in shirtsleeves
standing by the door. I remembered that I had seen him already on my
way down and that he had looked at me. He nodded and smiled and I
stopped. I was glad of anyone making a friendly gesture in that
strange place.

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I wanted to make a phone call.”

“You’re not from these parts?”

“No,” I said. “I’m from Boharna.”

“Are you, begor?” he said. ‘Was it on the bus you came?”

“No,” I repied modestly. “I biked it.”

“Biked it?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a hell of a distance,” he said.

“It is long,” I agreed.

“What did you come all that way for?” he asked in surprise.

“Ah, I was running away from home,” I said despondently.

“You were what?” he asked in astonishment. “You’re not serious.”

“But I am,” I said, very close to tears. “I did my best, but then I
couldn’t stick it any longer and I cleared out.” I turned my head away
because this time I was really crying.

“Oh, begor, I know what ’tis like,” he said in a friendlier tone. “I
did it myself.”

“Did you?” I asked eagerly, forgetting my grief. This, I felt, was the
very man I wanted to meet.

“Ah, indeed I did. I did it three times what’s more. By that time they
were getting fed up with me. Anyway, they say practice makes perfect.
Tell me, is it your old fellow?”

“No,” I said with a sigh. “My mother.”

“Ah, do you tell me so? That’s worse again. ’Tis bad enough to have
the old man at you, but ’tis the devil entirely when the mother is
against you. What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I wanted to get to Dublin, but the savings
bank is shut, and all my money is in it.”

“That’s tough luck. Sure, you can’t get anywhere without money. I’m
afraid you’ll have to go back and put up with it for another while.”

“But I can’t,” I said. “’Tis twenty miles.”

“’Tis all of that, begor. You couldn’t go on the bus?”

“I can’t. I haven’t the money. That’s what I asked them in the Post
Office, to let me ring up Daddy, but they wouldn’t.”

“Where’s your daddy?” he asked, and when I told him: “Ah, we’ll try
and get him for you anyway. Come on in.”

There was a phone in the corner, and he rang up and asked for
Daddy. Then he gave me a big smile and handed me the receiver. I heard
Daddy’s voice and I nearly wept with delight.

“Hullo, son,” he said in astonishment. “Where on earth are you?”

“In the city, Daddy,” I said modestly—even then I couldn’t bring
myself to make a lot of it, the way another fellow would.

“The city?” he repeated incredulously. “What took you there?”

“I ran away from home, Dad,” I said, trying to make it sound as casual
as possible.

“Oh!” he exclaimed and there was a moment’s pause. I was afraid he was
going to get angry, but his tone remained the same. “Had a row?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“And how did you get there?”

“On the bike.”

“All the way? But you must be dead.”

“Just a bit tired,” I said modestly.

“Tell me, did you even get a meal?”

“No, Dad. The savings bank was shut.”

“Ah, blazes!” he said softly. “Of course, it’s the half-day. And what
are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know, Dad. I thought you might tell me.”

“Well, what about coming home?” he said, beginning to laugh.

“I don’t mind, Dad. Whatever you say.”

“Hold on now till I see what the buses are like. ... Hullo! You can
get one in forty minutes’ time—seven ten. Tell the conductor I’ll be
meeting you and I’ll pay your fare. Will that be all right?”

“That’s grand, Dad,” I said, feeling that the world was almost right
again.

When I finished, the barman was waiting for me with his coat on. He
had got another man to look after the bar for him.

“Now, you’d better come and have a cup of tea with me before your bus
goes,” he said. “The old bike will be safe outside.”

He took me to a café, and I ate cake after cake and drank tea and he
told me about how he’d run away himself. You could see he was a real
hard case, worse even than I was. The first time, he’d pinched a
bicycle and cycled all the way to Dublin, sleeping in barns and
deserted cottages. The police had brought him home and his father had
belted hell out of him. They caught him again the second time, but the
third time he’d joined the army and not returned home for years.

He put me and my bicycle on the bus and paid my fare. He made me
promise to tell Dad that he’d done it and that Dad owed me the
money. He said in this world you had to stand up for your rights. He
was a rough chap, but you could see he had a good heart. It struck me
that maybe only rough chaps had hearts as good as that.

Dad was waiting for me at the bus stop, and he looked at me and
laughed.

“Well, the gouger!” he said. “Who ever would think that the son of a
good-living, upright man like me would turn into a common tramp.”

All the same I could see he was pleased, and as he pushed my bike down
the street he made me tell him all about my experiences. He laughed
over the barman and promised to give me the fare. Then, seeing him so
friendly, I asked the question that had been on my mind the whole way
back on the bus.

“Mummy back yet, Dad?”

“No, son,” he said. “Not yet. She probably won’t be in till late.”

What I was really asking him, of course, was “Does she know?” and now
I was torn by the desire to ask him not to tell her, but it choked
me. It would have seemed too much like trying to gang up against
her. But he seemed to know what I was thinking, for he added with a
sort of careful casualness that he had sent Martha to the pictures. I
guessed that that was to get her out of the way so that she couldn’t
bring the story to Mother, and when we had supper together and washed
up afterwards, I knew I was right.

Mother came in before we went to bed, and Father talked to her just as
though nothing had happened. He was a little bit more forthcoming than
usual, but that was the only indication he gave, and I was fascinated,
watching him create an understanding between us. It was an
understanding in more ways than one, because it dawned on me gradually
that, like myself and the barman, Dad too had once run away from home,
and for some reason—perhaps because the bank was shut or because he
was hungry, tired, and lonely—he had come back. People mostly came
back, but their protest remained to distinguish them from all the
others who had never run away. It was the real sign of their manhood.

I never ran away after that. I never felt I needed to.


108
(1952)