The Stories of J.F. Powers (New York Review Books Classics) (68 page)

One evening, after doing a spot of plumbing—Ireland, the land of welcomes, is also the land of running toilets—he told Mama that hard though it was to go through life making repairs in other people’s houses and hotels, knowing that whatever you did you’d probably be doing again somewhere else, it was better than making repairs in your own home, knowing that
THIS IS IT
, that the repairs might well outlast you, or the dissolution of your household. This was one of the consolations of vagrancy that he hadn’t heard about until he heard it from his own lips, and he liked it very much. Mama took exception to it.

One evening he told her that he’d heard a man on the BBC, on
Woman’s Hour
, say that mobile families were superior families—and she took exception to it. He hadn’t been listening carefully until it was too late, so couldn’t give her the details, only remembered that mobile families were more . . . couldn’t remember exactly what, only that they were superior, that the man, who was the spokesman for some association or group that had carried out a survey and issued a report, had said that mobile families were more . . .

“
More mobile?
”

One of her conversational tricks.

One morning, about a week before Christmas, they had a letter from Mrs Maroon. She thanked them for sending on the mail, said that cabbages were very dear in London, and asked to be remembered, as her husband did, to the children and Happy. In a postscript, she said not to send on the mail for the time being, as she and her husband would be at the hotel shortly.

Mama and Daddy then had a lengthy discussion about “shortly,” about whether it only meant
soon
or could conceivably mean
briefly
.

That evening, the Maroons returned.

Happy was glad to see them, and others were, too. “How long you staying?” the older boy asked them right away—a good question, but lost in the excitement. “
Daddy
calls Happy
Slap
!” the youngest child informed them, and Mama quickly offered them tea.

With the proprietors in residence again, the hotel wasn’t what it had been for the tenants—their relationship to the dog, for instance, wasn’t the same. No, even though proprietors and tenants went their own way, ate at opposite ends of the dining room, and in the evening at different times (like first and second sittings at sea, parents with small children at the first), it wasn’t the same. And again, as before the proprietors left for London, there was a certain amount of overlap and flap in the kitchen. (Mama had once expected to have her very own.) Daddy was in trouble, too. After two days, he moved from the part of the hotel now occupied by the proprietors—lest his typing disturb them, his playing the radio during working hours scandalize them—to the part occupied by the tenants.

The next morning, in his new office, listening to
Music While You Work
on the BBC and reading the
Irish Times
before getting to grips with the light-hearted play (in which the campers were now Americans), he came upon an item of professional interest to him: “County councils and urban district councils throughout Ireland are awaiting the publication of a report prepared by the Government Commission on Itineracy.” Shouldn’t that be Itinerancy? “It is expected that the report will contain several broad proposals for integrating itinerants into the normal life of the community. Their presence has often caused friction, particularly in Limerick and Dublin suburbs, where residents claim that they indulge in fighting and leave a large amount of litter.” Yes, he’d seen some of it, and while the women, babes in arms, begged in the streets, the men, as somebody had said in a letter to the
Irish Times
, drank and played cards in a ditch. “During the winter, the tinkers usually camp at sites in these suburbs, or at sites in provincial towns, but some caravans stay on the road all the year round.” Nothing new here, nothing for him. “There are six main tinker tribes.” Oh? “The Stokeses, Joyces, MacDonaghs, Wards” . . . now,
wait
a minute . . . “and Redmonds.”

So the odds against him were greater than he’d thought.

He took the next train into Dublin, left the
Irish Times
on it, and gave the first tinker woman he met a coin, wanting and not wanting to know her name.

On the Quays, he found some secondhand paperbacks for the younger children, and was tempted by a copper-and-brass ship’s lamp, not a reproduction and not too big, to be auctioned that afternoon (“about half-four,” he was told). He bought a French paring knife for Mama in a restaurant-supply place—he liked doing business in such places.

He then had a pot of tea and two cherry buns at the nearest Bewley’s, selected a fruitcake, and, to pass the time until half-four, just wandered around, window-shopping and making a few small purchases: a couple of ornaments for their Christmas tree, which was now up in the lounge and rather bare; a tool, with a cloven end and an attractive hardwood handle, to remove carpet tacks and also suitable for upholstery work, should the need arise for him to do either; some brass screws that might come in handy and were, in any case, nice to have; a hardcover notebook (they did these very well in the British Isles) such as he already had several of, with inviting cream paper that he couldn’t bring himself to violate; more soft-lead (3B) pencils.

For some time, he stood looking in a seedsman’s window. Quite an idea, he thought, having a section of a real tree there so one could see the various kinds of branches, the various kinds of saws required to get at them, saws shown cutting into them, and one, an ordinary carpenter’s saw, shown cutting into a sign, just a plank, that asked the question “
WHY NOT HAVE THE SAW FOR THE JOB
?” Since on the property one might own someday there would be many trees, wood being the fuel of the future, and one would spend so much time up on an extension ladder (shown) doing surgery, and might otherwise fall and kill oneself, and with no insurance and six dependents, why not—except for the expense—have the saw for the job? (Beebee would.)

On the way back to the Quays, he booked two seats to a coming play, and because the tickets hadn’t been printed yet, and would be posted to him, he was asked to give his name and address (was suddenly sensitive about the former), and was told when he asked for a receipt, “Ah, that’s all right.” This he accepted, after a moment, remembering where he was (Ireland) and an attendant at this same theatre one night not undertaking to tap him on the shoulder when the time would come to leave (early, to catch the last train) but giving him his watch to hold. And also remembering the fruit huckster at the Curragh on Derby Day, short of change so early in the afternoon and on whose wares they’d lunched to economize, telling him to come back and pay later. And the bellboy at the old hotel in Dublin on their first visit to Ireland who, after making several trips up to their room to call them to the phone in the lobby (they were running an ad for a house), had politely declined to be tipped further for such service, which had continued. “Ah, that’s all right.” That was the beauty of, and the trouble with, Ireland.

He was early for the ship’s lamp, and thought the prices made by the lots before it rather low, but saw right away that this was not going to be the case with the lot he wanted—a familiar feeling at auctions. He came into the bidding at the first pause, and after the figure he’d had in mind had been passed, the maximum figure, which was subject to revision in the event, he was still in it. And money talks! He arranged to take the ship’s lamp with him, rather than come back for it the next day, saying he lived “down the country” and had to catch a train.

He returned to Ballydoo tired, took the short cut from the station, and entered the hotel by the rear, expecting to find Mama in the kitchen, but didn’t. He assumed that something was taking too long in the oven. He went upstairs, expecting to find her in their room having a glass of stout by the electric fire, and perhaps reading the
Daily Telegraph
, but found her lying on the bed, face down, in the cold and dark.

“What’s
wrong
?”

“Look in the lounge.”

“What d’ya mean?”

“
Look in the lounge
.”

He threw a blanket over her, and hurried downstairs.

The younger children were in the lounge, as he’d expected they would be, with the Christmas tree turned on, but somebody else was there, too: a woman—he’d seen her there before, three months before—knitting.

So Daddy, right away, got on the phone, and during the second sitting (there wasn’t a first one), with the help of the local tax-iman, who also did light hauling, they moved themselves and their effects, including groceries and Christmas tree, out of the hotel and into a house down the road. The agent was there, waiting for them with a temporary lease, which was signed by flashlight—the only hitch (a blow to Mama) was that the electricity was off in the house. But the agent had already called the Electricity Supply Board, and the teenagers, who had been dispatched to the shop that kept open, were soon back with a bundle of turf and a dozen candles. And a candle, as Daddy pointed out, gives a surprising amount of light for a candle. There was coal in the shed, enough for two or three days, also kindling, and the kitchen range only smoked at first. They had their meal of baked beans and scrambled eggs by candlelight in the kitchen. Then they had their dessert—the fruitcake from Bewley’s—by firelight in the parlor, some with tea, some with cocoa and wearing their pajamas, and talking about the ship’s lamp, which there hadn’t been time to examine until then.

Mama explained its red and green windows and its internal parts—apparently all there except for the wick. Daddy was interested in the manufacturer’s name and address (Telford, Grier & Mackay, Ltd., 16 Carrick St., Glasgow), almost invisible from polishing. He pointed out that copper and brass (and silver) looked better when slightly tarnished, better still when seen, as now, by firelight. No, he didn’t know where the ship’s lamp’s
ship
was (the younger boy wanted to know), probably it
wasn’t
, and no, didn’t know what he was going to do with the ship’s lamp. Just liked it, just liked looking at it, he said, and, seeing that that wasn’t enough, said he might put it over the front door of the house they might have in America someday. They wouldn’t have to worry about it, he said—these old ship’s lamps were made to be out in all kinds of weather.

“Will we get to keep it, Daddy?” said the younger boy.

“Yes, of course.”

“Daddy, he means the house,” said one of the teenagers.

“Oh.”

“The house in America,” said the younger boy. “Will we get to keep
it
?”

“Yes, of course—when we get it.” And Daddy remembered the paperbacks—one of them, actually, and then the others—still in his coat. Taking a candle, he went to the cloakroom (good idea, having a cloakroom in a house), and while there, heard a knock at the front door—hoped it was the Electricity Supply Board. It was a man in blue, a gray-haired
garda
, who had believed the house to be vacant, he said, until he saw the wee light from the fireplace.

“We’re waiting for the E.S.B.”

“Ah. You and the family were at the hotel, sir.”

“We were, yes.”

“And now you’re here.”

“We are, yes.”

“And will you be here long, sir?”

“Six months. Have a six-month lease. May be here longer. Probably not. It’s hard to say. We never know.”

“Ah, indeed. We never know. Good night, sir.”

No, not the E.S.B., Daddy said, returning to the parlor, and gave the younger children the paperbacks, saying of one (
The Market: The Buying and Selling of Shares
, in which subject the older boy had shown an encouraging interest—Beebee’s influence?), “If you have any questions, ask Millions.” And noticed how quiet it was then, so quiet the turf could be heard burning, puffing.

“Beebee’s gone,” said the youngest child.

Daddy looked at the older boy.

“Sold Beebee.”

“Now,
wait
a minute.”

“A friend wanted to buy him. One of my friends.”

It was painful to hear the pride in the boy’s voice, in having friends, and Daddy knew what Mama was thinking, that this is what comes from being a mobile family. “
What
friend? What’s his
name
? Where’s he
live
? What
kind
of boy is he? Do
I
know him? It doesn’t matter. You can’t
sell
Beebee.”

“I can always buy him back. That’s part of the deal.”

“
You can’t sell Beebee
. Go get him.
Now
.”

“In the morning,” Mama said.

“No,
now
.”

“He’s got his pajamas on,” Mama said.

“He can take ’em off.”

Mama said nothing.

“O.K.,
I
’ll go.”

So Daddy went, and at the friend’s house, a cottage, did
not
say that the older boy missed his teddy bear, or that others did, but still told the truth. “Beebee was a gift from my mother”—his mother whose funeral he, in Ireland then, had been too broke to attend—“and I don’t think she’d like it if he left us.” The friend, his mother, his older sister, his two small brothers, they all seemed to understand. No trouble. Ten bob. And after a cup of tea, Daddy and Beebee—who looked the same, grumpy, stuffy, and still sure of himself—came home.

The electricity was on when they got there, the Christmas tree was going, and the younger children were in bed.

When Daddy put Beebee in with the older boy and said, “Good night, Millions,” there was a gurgle in the dark that made him wonder if he’d been taken.

“Where’s the money?”

“Spent it.”

“
What?
Already? All of it? On
what
?”

“Billiards.”

Mama and Daddy had work to do, but were tired, and spent the evening in the parlor before the fire (it and the tree gave enough light to talk by), with their drinks. There hadn’t been time until then for him to tell her what Mrs Maroon had said: that it hadn’t originally been the plan to open the hotel for the Christmas season, that unforeseen requests for bookings (she had thanked him again for sending on the mail) and the dearness of things in London had combined to change the plan, and that she and her husband had hesitated to inform the tenants, for fear of upsetting them.