with blue batteries.
The men ate cold pork with their hands and explained that they had been reared in the two drawers of the dresser.
Ernie was reared in that drawer, and I was reared in this, said one brother. Isn’t that right, Ernie?
That’s right, Walter, said Ernie, but don’t be a silly-billy now.
They oiled the cabby car and gave us crab apples.
How far are you going today? Walter asked us.
We don’t know, I said.
Well you could go on that thing, if you were fit for it, to Clones, he explained.
Could you?
You could. You could. As a matter of fact, on a good day you might reach the sea. Isn’t that right, Ernie?
That’s right, said Ernie. Then he laid a damp hand on my arm. Did I see you talking to Mrs White down the line?
Yes, I said.
How does she do it? he said to himself. How does she do it? That’s what I’d like to know. Then he spun on his foot and looked towards Mrs White’s. Was there any mention of us?
No, I said.
No, Ernie repeated. Nothing?
She didn’t mention you.
I suppose she didn’t. He stood on the sleepers and contemplated her house. I suppose she didn’t.
The brothers gave us a push and we headed for Butlersbridge via Loreto. Each time we took the cabby car we ventured further. We sailed along to Kansas City, taking in Delaware along the way. We hit Tombstone. And Black Creek. And passed old railway houses and dilapidated farms. Your arms grew tired on the slopes. Snowball Walsh gave the orders. We pushed and pulled till we reached the crest, the last few inches were hell, then getting to the top we cheered and took off at a nice hectic rate past old crossings and hoardings, singing Davy, Davy Crockett, king of the wild frontier. White numbers tacked to trees flew by. We sat in a ditch eating wild strawberries and blowing cotton.
When we arrived to a bridge over which a road passed we pulled up smartly, then came to a stop under the cold damp arches. We listened for the approach of a car. We put our ears to the granite walls and heard rain steeping. Then, if there was nothing coming, we struck out into country and spread our wings.
*
Other times with the Cavan town crowd I’d go down to the haunted house at the nun’s lake. It was called Lavell’s. There was a noose still hanging in the barn, the skulls of cattle were thrown across the grounds and a small harmonium sat in a sunny room on the first storey. We sank onto the old rusty beds and unravelled fishing lines.
There were apple trees out the back and cutlery still in the kitchen drawers. There was a dresser of blue plates with an alarm clock tilted back on one leg. We washed the cutlery and old plates in the lake and set out places on the kitchen table. We lit rushes with petrol and sat them in large fruit cans. Then we ate our sandwiches.
The last man who’d lived there had killed himself. We frightened ourselves with stories about him. There were three suits hanging in the wardrobe, a case packed for going away and a hatbox filled with old bills. Someone had been in the First World War. His letters were stowed in an oilskin bag. We searched the rooms for a gun. We tapped the walls for hidden passages. Through the grounds elderly cows with large horns wandered. They fed unceasingly. The noise of their eating filled the dark house.
One day a farmer found us sitting in the barn taking turns with catapults to shoot down jam jars. In the orchard we had a fire burning rubbish.
I saw the smoke, he said.
Good day, I said.
Good day yourself, he answered. So what are you doing here?
We’re on holidays, said Matti Donnelly.
You are in my hat. Do you think I’m a gom? He entered the house. By God, he said, what’s been going on here?
The linoleum floor was swept, the delft laid out and the windows cleaned.
Well I’ll be damned.
He came out and sat on the collapsed wall.
Are yous thinking of stopping long? he asked and put a cigarette in his mouth.
We said nothing.
I just thought I’d ask, he added,
The men ate cold pork with their hands and explained that they had been reared in the two drawers of the dresser.
Ernie was reared in that drawer, and I was reared in this, said one brother. Isn’t that right, Ernie?
That’s right, Walter, said Ernie, but don’t be a silly-billy now.
They oiled the cabby car and gave us crab apples.
How far are you going today? Walter asked us.
We don’t know, I said.
Well you could go on that thing, if you were fit for it, to Clones, he explained.
Could you?
You could. You could. As a matter of fact, on a good day you might reach the sea. Isn’t that right, Ernie?
That’s right, said Ernie. Then he laid a damp hand on my arm. Did I see you talking to Mrs White down the line?
Yes, I said.
How does she do it? he said to himself. How does she do it? That’s what I’d like to know. Then he spun on his foot and looked towards Mrs White’s. Was there any mention of us?
No, I said.
No, Ernie repeated. Nothing?
She didn’t mention you.
I suppose she didn’t. He stood on the sleepers and contemplated her house. I suppose she didn’t.
The brothers gave us a push and we headed for Butlersbridge via Loreto. Each time we took the cabby car we ventured further. We sailed along to Kansas City, taking in Delaware along the way. We hit Tombstone. And Black Creek. And passed old railway houses and dilapidated farms. Your arms grew tired on the slopes. Snowball Walsh gave the orders. We pushed and pulled till we reached the crest, the last few inches were hell, then getting to the top we cheered and took off at a nice hectic rate past old crossings and hoardings, singing Davy, Davy Crockett, king of the wild frontier. White numbers tacked to trees flew by. We sat in a ditch eating wild strawberries and blowing cotton.
When we arrived to a bridge over which a road passed we pulled up smartly, then came to a stop under the cold damp arches. We listened for the approach of a car. We put our ears to the granite walls and heard rain steeping. Then, if there was nothing coming, we struck out into country and spread our wings.
*
Other times with the Cavan town crowd I’d go down to the haunted house at the nun’s lake. It was called Lavell’s. There was a noose still hanging in the barn, the skulls of cattle were thrown across the grounds and a small harmonium sat in a sunny room on the first storey. We sank onto the old rusty beds and unravelled fishing lines.
There were apple trees out the back and cutlery still in the kitchen drawers. There was a dresser of blue plates with an alarm clock tilted back on one leg. We washed the cutlery and old plates in the lake and set out places on the kitchen table. We lit rushes with petrol and sat them in large fruit cans. Then we ate our sandwiches.
The last man who’d lived there had killed himself. We frightened ourselves with stories about him. There were three suits hanging in the wardrobe, a case packed for going away and a hatbox filled with old bills. Someone had been in the First World War. His letters were stowed in an oilskin bag. We searched the rooms for a gun. We tapped the walls for hidden passages. Through the grounds elderly cows with large horns wandered. They fed unceasingly. The noise of their eating filled the dark house.
One day a farmer found us sitting in the barn taking turns with catapults to shoot down jam jars. In the orchard we had a fire burning rubbish.
I saw the smoke, he said.
Good day, I said.
Good day yourself, he answered. So what are you doing here?
We’re on holidays, said Matti Donnelly.
You are in my hat. Do you think I’m a gom? He entered the house. By God, he said, what’s been going on here?
The linoleum floor was swept, the delft laid out and the windows cleaned.
Well I’ll be damned.
He came out and sat on the collapsed wall.
Are yous thinking of stopping long? he asked and put a cigarette in his mouth.
We said nothing.
I just thought I’d ask, he added,
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