Rory & Ita by Roddy Doyle
‘In your letter Ellie you say you were knocked about a bit, how come, in moving about. Cornelia is working – typist and stenographer. Jack is away. Cornelia and Euphemia, we seem quite lonesome today, I cleaned my desk and found your last letter Mary and I received Holy Communion this morning. We often hear from Emily. I and aunt Mary just send her 1 Pound each – she never complains, but says only for us would have to put the children away. she certainly seems very grateful, in a few years the children will be able to help her a little. You asked how Joes boy was. I believe Ellie there is no improvement. I am glad to learn you have your own home – that’s Brighton Gardens. Maybe the letters had been sent to the wrong address – it adds so much to life, give our love to Jim, thank you for the invatation to Ireland, some day, if we live, in many years to come we might possibly pay you a visit. but not for a long while yet as our children are so young, would wonderfully like to, write soon, always glad to hear from you, with love and best wishes from all to all your sister and brother – Mary and John.
‘Connie, Jack and Bob lived in Hempstead. My other cousin, Phemie – Mrs Seaman – lived further up Long Island, in Stoney Brook, which looked like a Hollywood-style village. Her kindergarten lessons in deportment hadn’t been wasted on her; she was a tall, slim woman who held herself very well. We were shown the greatest love and affection. We were wined and dined* and, I’d swear, if the fatted calf had appeared, he would have ended up in the oven. I felt that the void created by my mother’s death had almost been filled. I didn’t feel like I was going home, meeting these people, but I suppose I was closing a chapter. The one unfortunate part of it was that my mother’s sisters, Mary, Connie’s mother, and Emily, who had been living in Arklow,† had died only a few years previously. If I’d just been that little bit sooner, I could have met them. And Mary had actually visited Emily in Arklow. So that was a pity. But, at least, I got my own generation.
‘I came home to Ireland in a high state of delight. While nothing could make up for the loss of my mother, I felt I knew the type of person she’d been, as mirrored by all her relations. From that time on, we corresponded regularly. Connie wrote long, newsy, witty letters – Dearest Ita – my lovely cousin – and I answered in my own style. Jack visited us on three occasions. Bob and his wife, Jean, came over. Aunt Emily’s granddaughter, Breda Key, who lives in Toronto, also visited us a few times.’
The fifth letter is dated February 14th, 1929, exactly eight years after the first. It is handwritten, in black ink, on John Beekman’s own headed notepaper; ‘John J. Beekman’. The words ‘You Always Need Insurance’ are above the name, and ‘estb. 1908’ below it. There is a phone number, ‘Phone 2693-W’, in the top left-hand corner. Four services are listed below the name, two on each side of the paper; ‘Fire and Auto Insurance’ and ‘Real Estate’ on the left; ‘Mortgage Loans’ and ‘Notary Public’ on the right. There is no address. The day and month are handwritten. The first three numbers of the year – 192 – are printed; the ‘9’ is done by hand. ‘Dearest Sister Ellie – Was mighty glad to hear from you and learn you were all in good health, after all, that is the greatest blessing as far as worldly blessings go.
‘You spoke of the flu, well Mary had it and Pneumonia was real bad, but was spared to us Thank God, she is mending but her heart is yet weak and will be for some time – my mother died a month later, of pneumonia – it’s been an extremely mild winter here. but I see Europe is under a severe cold climate at present. The coldest in years. well Lent started yesterday, so fish will come in to its own, not so well liked as meat.
‘Jack was very funny. I remember thinking of my brother Joe; he was a very funny, witty man, and I’d often wondered where he got it from. And, having met Jack, I realised: a kindred spirit, and a lover of the gee-gees, like Joe. And I thought to myself, what a pity they didn’t know each other when Joe was in America. One of the times when Jack was over here, and I was working, Rory brought him to the zoo. And they were roaming around; it was a lovely, sunny day. There was a big gorilla lying in a corner, stretched out, with his stomach up to the sun, and Jack said, “I guess that guy has it made.”* He was full of these sayings; they tripped off his tongue – although he was a very serious-looking man. And Connie wrote very witty letters. Unfortunately, I didn’t keep them all; there wouldn’t be room in the house, because she was a great writer of letters. Bob was into music in a big way. He was a great admirer of Hank Williams. And, of course, Irish music; he followed that all over the place. The others really didn’t. They were happy enough that they were Irish, but they weren’t Irish, Irish, Irish.
‘Aunt Mary and Aunt Emily will be with us tomorrow to spend the day. Never see Joe anymore, he is now on the N.Y. Street cars, not with Butler anymore. we used to see him frequently when he was with Butler, he came this direction with the truck often and would call in for a few minutes, but we haven’t saw him in over a year – I never found out who Joe was. He might have been my mother’s brother; his name was O’Brien. I didn’t ask enough when I had the chance – uncle Pat Hyland was confined to the bed several days with cold, and uncle Mike O’Brien wrenched his back. both are back at work. Aunt Mary has trouble with her back. not serious but enough to annoy her (Do you remember the time Aunt Mary and you gave Grandfathers trousers to the old woman for some apples?) I guess you and aunt Mary had some real great times well, Ellie, time goes bye fast, if we ever come to Ireland, (May be we will some day) we will sure call on you, We often hear from Emily. Aunt Mary and Emily uncle Pat sent her a pound each for X mas, and I sent her two since then, aunt Emily and I, each, sent her 1 pound, she must have it hard enough, God help her. it won’t be many years before her children are a help to her, then she will have it a bit better I hope, but you cant count so much on children, but then some of them might be good to her, I feel they will. I see you met aunt Emily’s old sweet heart. she married a brother of Uncle Pat’s wife. a very steady man. remember us to Jim, well, Ellie, I suppose you have a motor car, we get a lot of enjoyment with our small car, soon we will get the Spring, and pleasant days …
‘That meeting with my cousins happened over twenty years ago. Bob is the only remaining cousin. Connie died first, then Phemie, and her husband, Anson Seaman. Jack died on Christmas Eve, 2000, aged ninety. From the time we’d met him, Jack phoned every two or three weeks. Early last year, four of Bob Beekman’s children came out to us for lunch – an all-day lunch. I hoped that the three O’Brien sisters, Mary, Ellen and Emily, were looking down on us, along with all the other O’Briens who might have been related to me.
‘Easter comes early this year. Do you ever hear from Peter? write soon, we always like to hear from you and dont forget, if we ever go to Ireland, we will sure see you, and pay you a visit. we are expecting the Photos of the children, write soon, Mary and I go to the movies and Theatre once a week at least. we like shows, write soon, closing with love to all from your loving sister and brother, John and Mary.’
* Ita: ‘Why I worried about Pearl’s sensitivities, I do not know; on leaving Mount Jerome cemetery after the funeral of Uncle Bob Brennan, I clearly heard her say to my father, “Where’s your missus buried, Jim?”’
* Ita: ‘A few nights ago, it hit me: I remembered what was in the white paper – a child’s bright green, patent-leather handbag’ (April 2002).
* Ita: ‘Máire remembers them too.’
* The new Provisional Government took over the administration of the country on the 16th of January, 1922.
*‘As Terry crossed Beekman Street near Park Row two men jumped from a butcher’s cart and approached him. One knocked him down with a slung-shot, while the other snatched the satchel. Both then sprang into their vehicle and whipped up the horses, easily making their escape. In recent years this method of robbery has been used extensively by automobile bandits, and by the hi-jackers, who specialize in liquor’ (from The Gangs of New York by Herbert Asbury, 1927).
† Rory: ‘Over the years, I’d been aware of Ita’s feeling of, al
* Ita: ‘Unfortunately, I lost this letter, and this I bitterly regret.’
† Ita: ‘I’m Ita Bridget.’
* Today, Cobh, County Cork.
* Ita: ‘Connie told me that she remembered Great-Granny Hyland; this Jewish lady or gentleman called to the door, and said they were looking for a Jewish family that lived on the same street. And Great-Granny Hyland said she didn’t know any Jewish family but there were some sheenies up at the top of the street. Connie said that she wouldn’t have hurt anybody’s feelings, but she just didn’t know that the word meant Jewish; she’d been told that the people at the top of the street were sheenies. The same as she would probably have said that the people at the other end were Prods. One thing that Connie’s mother used to say, when she’d drink anything very hot, soup or something, was “Oh my God, that would scald a Protestant.” There was no harm in it; it was just a saying.’
* Vinegar Hill, scene of a battle in 1798; Enniscorthy, County Wexford.
*‘For nearly twenty years I lived at Barrytown on the east bank of the Hudson, upriver from the villages of Hyde Park, Rhinebeck, and Rhinecliff … The area entered our American history when the Dutch patrons, centred upon New Amsterdam, began to build neat stone houses north of their island city. Of the Dutch families, the grandest was called Beekman …The Dutch Roosevelts of Hyde Park were fifth cousins of President Theodore Roosevelt (of Long Island). They had also intermarried not only with the Beekmans but with the Delanos. In fact, for Franklin Delano Roosevelt, his Beekman heritage was a matter of great pride, rather like an Englishman with a connection to the Plantagenets, the one true, legitimate, if fallen, dynasty’ (from ‘Love on the Hudson’ by Gore Vidal, New York Review of Books, 5 May 1995).
* Rory: ‘On Saint Patrick’s night, we went to an Irish club. Everybody there was very welcoming; I couldn’t pay for a drink. Every time I tried, the bar staff said, “We don’t take confederate money here.” I liked Ita’s cousins; they were very easy people to like.’
† County Wicklow.
* Rory: ‘I can still hear him saying it.’
Afterword by Ita Doyle
The trouble with reminiscing is that, while events occur in chronological order, memories don’t. This applies particularly in old age, when one might remember an incident that happened seventy years ago, and yesterday’s dinner is a complete blank. Memories are triggered by sights and smells and sounds, and even certain gestures.
Blue taffeta for sale in Henry Street, and I remember the blue taffeta of my party dress when I was seven or eight. It was my birthday, and about ten little girls were gathered in our garden. We all had our party dresses. Mine had puff sleeves and three deep frills in the skirt. We were eating strawberries and ice-cream. The garden was small but strawberries and ice-cream were a rare treat; we could have been in the Garden of Eden.
I smell lavender and I remember my Aunt Una. She was beautiful, and she always smelled of lavender. My cousin Maeve told me that it wasn’t lavender water; it was her soap. A bar of lavender soap was one of the first things I bought when I started to work. I might never be as beautiful as Aunt Una but I would do my best to smell like her.
Last year, I saw an advertisement on the television for Bacardi Breezer. Gay young things twisted across the screen. The word ‘breezer’ was the trigger. I saw my brother, as a cheeky, bold little boy: ‘Julius Caesar let a breezer, Off the coast of France, Napoleon tried to do the same, And did it in his pants.’ This, to Joe, was the height of daring boldness.
The songs ‘The Boys of Wexford’ and ‘Boulavogue’, particularly if sung completely off-key, will for ever remind me of my father. He loved Wexford with an abiding love. I phoned my cousin Jim one day. He asked me to hold on for a few minutes, and I was delighted to hear ‘Boulavogue’ on the other end of the line. Let others stick to ‘Greensleeves’; Jim Bolger Senior would have approved of Jim Bolger Junior.
A few years ago, in December, President Clinton visited Ireland. Banner headlines boasted of the President’s third visit to us. But we were also told, for some strange reason, that he had only once visited the American state of Nebraska. ‘Nebraska’ was the key to the memory of my late brother-in-law, Jimmy Peoples, sitting in our kitchen, strumming Rory’s guitar and singing: ‘Take me back to old Nebraska, And if anyone should ask ya, I’ll be waiting where the cornfields grow, In a tumble-down old cottage, Where a humble bowl of porridge, Is the most delightful meal I know.’ He sang it so beautifully, and with such sincerity, that you would have sworn that he was born and reared in Nebraska.
It could be mid-June, in the sunshine, or any other time of year, and I get the whiff of cigar smoke. I am back in Terenure, in our sitting room, on Christmas Day, and my father is smoking his annual cigar. The cigar was taken carefully from his breast pocket, both ends were rolled carefully and gently between his fingers. The gold paper band was removed. When I was very young, I wore it as a ring. As one cigar per year did not merit the purchase of a cigar clipper, he used his small folding scissors. He opened it slowly, and snipped the top from the cigar. A match was lit, and placed to the cigar. And, with one or two puffs, the top glowed. My father lay back in his armchair, with an expression of all-this-and-heaven-too on his face. How I loved that smell, and still do.
Last Sunday, at Mass, the reader spoke of Jeremiah, the prophet. He lost me there. I was back in Kate Dempsey’s little cottage, outside Kilmuckridge, in Wexford. Kate is blowing the fire with her bellows. ‘Jeremiah, blow the fi-ah – puff, puff, puff.’ Over and over we say it, both laughing until the kettle boils and I am sitting down to my special tea.
Kate Dempsey helped my Aunt Bessie on two or three mornings each week. I would stand and wait at the back gate until I saw the little black figure make her way over the brow of the hill, and down through the fields, a short cut to the house. I always went to meet her. I first met her when I was ten. She seemed old then, but she seemed no older when I last saw her, at age twenty-five. I walked the fields with Kate when we brought in the cows. I helped her spread the washing on the hedges and lawn, to bleach. We went to the market in Kilmuckridge to sell the chickens. Bessie allotted me two chickens each year, for holiday pocket money, and Kate fought my corner for me. ‘There’s something wrong with that scales. You’re robbing the child. Ah, give her another few pence for sweets.’ Each year, I visited Kate for a ‘special’ tea. Scones with jam, apple tart and some ‘shop-bought’ cake. These were lowered. But best of all was the chat. I loved to hear the life-stories of the neighbours, the farms they occupied and, sometimes, the farms they should have occupied if the world had been fair. Kate told me of people who were long dead, and the places where some of them are said to appear, ‘God rest their souls.’ On my first visit to Kate’s cottage, she gave me a little dish made of a scalloped shell. I still have it. I loved Kate Dempsey and I still love her memory.
There are other memories, of course, that are not so pleasant. If at all possible, these are best forgotten. Bad memories, when dwelt on, can only make you bitter. Bitterness is no good for man or beast.
Of course, there are the memories I wish I had. Memories of the mother who died when I was three. All I can remember of her are hands, doing chores, turning the gramophone handle, holding me, and, finally, lying still and white. I have a photograph of her, but can never conjure up the living face. Memories of a baby who died after one day and one night. ‘You have a little angel in heaven,’ said a neighbour, by way of comfort. I wanted him out of heaven and tucked up in his pram.
C’est la vie.
RODDY DOYLE was born in Dublin in 1958. He is the author of six novels, The Commitments, The Snapper, The Van, Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha, The Woman Who Walked into Doors and A Star Called Henry. He won the Booker Prize in 1993 for Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha.
Copyright © Roddy Doyle 2002
Afterword copyright © Ita Doyle 2002
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Extract from ‘The Hallway’ by Dermot Healy. By kind permission of the author and The Gallery Press, Loughcrew, Oldcastle, County Meath, Ireland. From The Reed Bed (2001)