I'm Only Crying
Brian looks to the barman and raises his glass. He’s already pouring a pint for somebody else, and his eyes are scanning the bar, but still, he stoutly ignores Brian.
‘One for the road?’ he shouts.
The barman shakes his head and continues pouring the pint until it reaches the correct level, then he puts it behind the taps to settle. He slaps a couple of beermats onto the counter in front of a customer and hands him a shot of whiskey.
The bar is heaving. People push in from the front door. Bundled in heavy coats, they squeeze through the crowd to gather at the other end of the counter. Their loud laughter grabs his attention, as they pile their coats onto a chair. They glitter as they move, like a snake that’s shedding its old skin. A bunch of twenty somethings, fresh out of college - full of enthusiasm and eco-babble. Graduate degrees and electric cars colour every word of the conversation as it wafts towards him across the bar.
That dress!
It’s recycled polyester.
Their tone grates on Brian. He wants to go over and poke his finger in somebody’s chest, step into their space, divide them into their individual glittery pieces, and see their light fade under his scrutiny. Lower their market value, like a great diamond cut into tiny stones. Wipe those slippery grins off their faces.
‘Come on,’ Mikey’s voice is gentle, trying to distract him, knowing he wasn’t built for that kind of confrontation. ‘Let’s go.’
‘There’s time for one more,’ Brian says.
‘Not in my bar,’ Frank Morland’s rough voice appears at his ear as he plants empty glasses onto the counter. He stands a little too close to Brian, hiding the new kids from him. The edge of the bar digs into his bony spine as he leans away from him. Morland had garlic for lunch, he’s spitting vapours into his face.
‘You’ve been here long enough.’
‘Sick of them anyhow,’ Brian says, pointing across the bar.
It’s a great house. The floors and kitchen are all reclaimed timber.
He gathers his things; muttering to himself as he makes his way towards the door. ‘Who gives a toss about them and their reclaimed timbers? What’s wrong with a bit a lino?’ Head down he uses his elbows to force his way through the crowd.
Hey, the shoulder of a camel-coloured coat, frosted in raindrops pushes back.
‘What did you reclaim to make that?’ he shouts, smacking the wool covered arm with the back of his hand. Mikey keeps him moving.
Outside a soft mist is falling, and he leans into the doorway letting it blow against his face. A bus is coming down Rathmines road.
‘Time to go,’ Mikey smiles down at him, dropping a big hand on his shoulder.
Brian nods. They step onto the footpath. A group of damp legs balancing on high tapered heels, dance around them to enter the bar. He and Mikey cross the road and are at the stop as the bus pulls up. They stand at the back of the queue and wait.
They get on and the bus starts moving. Brian climbs the stairs and looks down the aisle of the upper deck. Rows of faces look past him. He feels nauseous and stumbles a little, reaching his hand for the back of the nearest seat. Mikey gives him a nudge. He turns towards the front.
‘There’s one there.’
Brian weaves his way to it, his hip bones knocking against the seats as the double decker increases its speed. He slides in by the window. Mikey is next to him, face turned away, avoiding any interaction. Brian hates it when he ignores him.
‘You could decorate a whole apartment from the charity shops along there,’ Brian points as they travel along Camden street. A sideways glance towards Mikey. Silence. ‘Wasteful shower throwing away good stuff.’
Traffic is heavy. His stomach lurches as the driver gets tightly in behind a cyclist, then stops rapidly. It moves again. Two people seem to disappear under the front of the vehicle as they break into a run to safely cross the street. He stretches his neck to see if they reach the pavement in one piece. Dublin bus playing Russian Roulette with pedestrians. Then he looks up. Three construction cranes fill the skyline. Could one of those fall on the bus? He ducks his head back.
‘I’ve started buying my books in there,’ he points to a bookshop. ‘They’ve got a dog. A terrier. Small one.’ No response. ‘He’s been in the papers.’
‘Who has?’
‘The dog.’
‘What?’
‘Doesn’t matter?’
Further along the street, a kid with his hood up runs along the footpath with a scruffy little pup. It prances about in front of him and then runs off the pavement into the bus lane. Brian gives a cry and leans forward, his right hand extended, fingers splayed. He touches the new do of the auld one in front, and she blows out her breath like a mare. He pulls his hand back rapidly. The kid scoops the dog into his arms, one paw down his back, its head in the boy’s hooded neck. They walk into a chipper.
Brian leans back. Mikey frowns at him and goes straight back to ignoring him. But Brian is in the mood to talk. People watch them sideways from across the aisle.
‘Ma never got our trips to Glasnevin. Did she? Roaming amongst gravestones. She hated getting on a bus. We couldn’t go in the car. Couldn’t listen to her, all the way there and back. Complaining about the traffic and not being able to find parking. Do you remember the night we watched Easy Rider with her? Is that what you do be doing on your graveyard trips? Getting stoned with your buddies amongst the angels and the Celtic crosses. Off easy riding, were you? Riding the hog. Rathmines to Glasnevin. What a trip!’
Peals of laughter echo in his head. ‘And her flicking her cigarette ash into the coal bucket.’ He takes a quick nip from the bottle inside his shopping bag. ‘Our Ma. You wouldn’t find another like her.’
The footpath is thronged with Saturday evening revellers heading for Temple Bar. At College Green the traffic lights turn red and the bus lurches to a stop. A swarm of pedestrians move forward. He can see the tops of their heads crossing below him. Trinity’s front gate teems with students and tourists intermingling by the statue of Edmund Burke. The area looks as though someone’s cracked open an ant hill and exposed the little critters to the light. The signal turns green. The road clears ahead, and they speed up a little.
‘Do you see the way they put the paper yoke around that building over there?’
Mikey shrugs.
‘It’s wrapping. They’re working away behind that. The builders. It’s a hotel.’
Mikey grunts.
Again, the bus jolts to a halt. ‘They’re making some hames of it aren’t they. With the roadworks. Always stopping and starting.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘They’re fixing the footpaths. There,’ he points. ‘Road works.’
‘Right.’
A cluster of gardai stop traffic as they take the corner of O’Connell Street. They wave the bus on and it makes its way up the hill past the Rotunda and Parnell Square.
‘Always thought that was a funny place to build a church, in the middle of the road, but I suppose they built the roads around the church. Deconsecrated it is since the sixties. The Black Church they call it. Offices now. They say, at midnight, if you run around it three times, the devil might appear and steal your soul.’
‘Is that why it’s called the Black Church?’ Mikey asks. Brian shakes his head. History goes in one of Mikey’s ears and straight out the other.
‘No. The stone turns black when it rains. Like those secret poems we read about in Boston. Do you remember? They were written on footpaths. Only in rain, they said, because then the footpaths would turn black. When it’s wet. Well, that’s not the same thing as the church, there’s no secret writing on that…but you know what I mean… I’d like to see them poems, someday,’ Brian is using a tissue to direct a bee towards the open window.
‘Maybe you will someday.’
‘No…’ he shakes his head. ‘…too late.’ The bee quivers its furry body, panting from the exertion of avoiding him and his tissue. He decides to leave it alone or his quaking hands will get him stung.
‘We’re here,’ Mikey stands up.
People crush in front of Brian as he tries to follow. A man stands back onto his toes to let two girls out of their seats. Brian yelps in pain and pokes his shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s scared he won’t have enough time to get off the bus before it drives away. When the crowd moves, he rushes forward and trips on the stairs, falling against the wall with a bang. People stare.
On the path opposite, he sees Mikey by the graveyard entrance. He’s standing between two stone pillars topped by iron Celtic crosses. The wrought iron gates are wide open revealing the maw of life beyond.
‘We can do a tour of the graveyard if you have time,’ Brian says, as he reaches him. ‘I might train as a tour guide. You can tell me what you think of my patter.’
Like a slap to his face Mikey turns his back and walks away. Inside the gate, his brother stands like a human rendering of O’Connell’s tower, as usual the weight of the world is on his broad shoulders. Brian goes to his side and touches his elbow.
Mikey turns to the right and moves quickly away. Brian tries to keep up with his long strides. They pass De Valera’s grave and make their way along paved paths, turning tight corners, heading for a fluffy line of yew trees. There they turn right, cutting deeper into the graveyard. Mikey stops. Arms folded across his chest, Brian stands by his side, and his heart quickens.
A marble angel stands on the tomb next door to them. Her face: do celestial beings have a gender? is a beautifully chiselled expression of serenity. She faces outwards as though her eyes are watching himself and Mikey.
‘Maybe she moves about,’ Mikey says.
‘You’ll be saying she goes for a walk next.’
Mikey laughs.
The evening sun shines directly onto her white face, forming a glowing nimbus. It’s one of the most beautiful graves in the cemetery. A stark contrast to the planeness of theirs. A light wind blows a spattering of rain against his skin. Beyond, the evening sun sinks lower behind the trees. Shadows lengthen and quiver across the gravestones. Soon the angel will be hidden by the night.
Mikey’s stance is rigid. Head lowered he whispers to himself, as though he’s praying. Brian knows better, though he can’t catch a word he’s saying. Hands hanging by his side, his eyes rake the grave and the settling mound at its heart. The harsh Irish weather has greyed the surrounding kerb. It could do with a cleaning. He looks up at their headstone.
Mathew Power September 28th, 1922 - August 15th, 1995.
Beloved husband of Maura. Father to Brian and Michael.
Maura Power March 12th, 1924 - March 27th, 1999.
He won’t look at the blank space beneath.
‘When are you going to write my name there?’ Mikey asks.
Brian doesn’t answer.
‘It has to be done sometime,’ Mikey says.
‘Not yet.’
‘I want to be remembered.’
‘I remember you,’ Brian says, silent tears drip from his clenched jaw and he doesn’t bother to wipe them away. They land inside the open collar of his shirt as he walks away.
At the corner he looks back. Mikey has already dissolved into the deepening shadow beneath the trees. For a moment, a beam of light strikes the Angel’s face. She’s looking over at him now. Sniffling, and laughing he shuffles on. I’m alright Ma, I’m only crying. He sings out loudly across the graves, throwing his arm out for effect.
‘Alright Brian,’ a security guard walks towards him.
‘Grand.’
‘Keep it down so, and we’ll see you tomorrow.’
Brian salutes and walks towards the gate. There’s a bus due. He might have time for one on the way home.
Ellen McCarthy is a crime writer living in Waterford. Her books Guarding Maggie, Guilt Ridden and Silent Crossing are published in Ireland by Poolbeg Press. Recently her short fiction has appeared in The Riverbed Review. She holds an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Limerick and is currently working on her fourth novel. Ellen is a former member of the UL Tea Appreciation Society. She loves fancy teas: unless her writing isn’t going too well, then she drinks pots of coffee.
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