Bag of Jewellery Dublin

Cars occupied the space reserved for the bus. Luke had stepped down from the pavement and was standing between fenders, steam pumping out of his nostrils. Would she take to sleeping in the middle of the bed after he was gone, he wondered.
      He leaned forwards, both hands flat on the car bonnet like he had the Grim Reaper trapped under it. He was a small man, and now he had a stoop. Gravity had shrunk his spine.
      Two overcoats, one worn under the other, that was the price he had to pay for being out in the streets on a bitterly cold day. Evidently, this supplementary weight ensured that the Grim Reaper remained trapped under the bonnet until the bus came.
      He would have to get a bicycle, he decided. Not to ride, but to help him walk. You could wheel a bicycle most places. With legs as weak as they were he could not comprehend his feeling younger than his years. Feeling younger than your years served no purpose he could identify, save to keep death a surprise. The bicycle would come as a surprise to her, his wife. And what of it? She liked to boast about growing up in a house where everything had to be on wheels--the kitchen table, the bath . . .
      "We should have walked," he said looking down at his hands spread on the warm tin. When was the last time they were in a car together? The previous summer. Coming back from Brittas Bay with their daughter, her husband and their children. It was dark. The wind was up. The children whined. The moon swung back and forth over the road they travelled. It was cold that night in spite of the crush in the back seat. There was a draught from his window. May felt it too, he was sure. She had poor circulation in her legs. Her legs were stiff. She was suffering now standing at this bus stop. It had been cold on the beach but it shouldn't have been cold in a modern car. May should have said something. He should have spoken out. Moreover, he should have gone to visit Johnny Mullens in hospital that Sunday instead.
      "Is that Paddy Dumphy over there?" Luke asked his wife. It looked like Paddy Dumphy.
      "No," May replied emphatically, "it's not Paddy Dumphy."
      "What number is that bus coming?" he asked.
      "It's not our bus," she said, "you needn't worry."
      "We should have walked," he said.
      They were going to visit his brother and family. May was insisting on the visit in spite of his spoiling and his baiting. Luke had pointed out that this was the same brother who, all those years ago, had advised against their marriage on account of her ill health. May had been consumptive. Consumption was a young person's disease. The streets of Dublin had been full of people in their twenties dying on their feet, herself included.
      "He's still ashamed to have you in the family," Luke insisted.
      All those years ago May had refused to go to the sanatorium. She had pulled through by herself. Her love for Luke, her desire to marry the man, had made that possible. "Personally, I thought you might be the sort to get well," he had told her on their wedding day. He never did catch the disease himself. Here they were, forty years later, waiting for a bus in the cold.
      "I'm sure that was Paddy Dumphy," he said. "I'll never know, will I?"
      "We're late," said May.
      "We should have walked," he said again, but she let it pass. There was no way they could have walked. It was much too far for someone in his condition. Johnny Mullens could have walked the distance as late as last week. Poor Johnny.
      "Poor Johnny Mullens," Luke said, thinking about Johnny and himself.
      "Oh, now." May managed to sound sceptical.
      "God rest him," Luke insisted.
      "God rest him," she agreed.
      He left it at that.
      The man Luke thought was Paddy Dumphy was now standing in the lane across the street. He had a cylinder of gas standing beside him together with a youngfella who was holding two carrier bags. Luke and May observed a relay of youngfellas hand over money and get their quota of children's gas balloons inflated.
      "It's a disgrace," said May, "making a fortune out of the children."
      "A disgrace," echoed Luke, "the price they charge."
      "You can't refuse a child a balloon at Christmas. They know it and they rub it in. It's hookery."
      "You need a hawker's license for that carry on."
      "Don't try to tell me he has a hawker's license. We should call the guards."
      "Never mind the guards. It's a bus we want. The famous number whatever it is."
      She let that comment pass. They looked down the street in anticipation of a bus. None was to be seen. Luke again looked to the man with the cylinder of gas.
      "Are you sure that isn't Paddy Dumphy?" he asked.
      "Why don't you go over and ask him?" May snapped.
     

That put an end to it.
      The bus came.
      On the bus Luke again attempted to discredit his brother. His brother's wife was also targeted.
      "Fancy him asking me to buy a Christmas tree and hawk it out there on the bus. What does he take me for? What's wrong with her going out and buying a tree? She's in the Friends of the Sailor. She's well able."
      "Your brother isn't well. She has her hands full looking after him."
      "He won't get out of that chair. I know that. Christmas tree or no Christmas tree."
      "You can't have children coming to the house and not have a tree. You know he dotes on his grandchildren."
      "Dyin' on me feet, I am, and he wants me to lug a tree out there on the bus. We'd be a laughing stock."
      "Your own brother, and you won't lift a finger."
      "I'd never see the money."
      "You're a disgrace, so you are."
      "She went out and got a tree, didn't she?"
      "No thanks to you."
      "God help any sailor who has her for a companion."
      "What are you talking about? She gave that up long ago."
      "That sort never quits. Can't you see her drivin' youngfellas off the Russian oil tankers into the arms of Our Saviour?"
      "Some Christian you are, won't even lift the telephone to see if your own brother is alive or dead."
      "He'll outlive us all."
      May unwrapped the boiled sweet she had been saving for the bus journey, and put it in her mouth. "I'm sure it's a lovely tree. I'm sure she did a good job decorating it."
      "Oh he'd leave it to her allright. Didn't he abandon his family for five years? Didn't he leave them high and dry while he acted the swank in London and sent back money for the children's birthdays and for the holy communion outfits? Now there's a Christian for ya. He isn't fit to decorate a Christmas tree." "Have you nothing good to say about anybody?"
      "Poor Johnny deserved better. He died in the zoo. Can you credit that? He was taking his grandchildren around the zoo."
      Luke didn't want to say more. May knew he was genuinely upset over Johnny Mullens. She attempted to acknowledge the loss.
      "It must have been awful for the children," she said.
      "You wouldn't have a chance in the zoo," Luke declared.
     

"Were you showing your jewellery to those kids again?" Luke asked accusingly.
      "Never you mind," May countered.
      "I told you about that." He managed to make this reprimand sound like an acknowledgement of benevolence. He was annoyed with her, however. She was smug because she had enjoyed herself and the visit had passed off without major incident. The brother had made an effort. His wife had proved less willing in that department, but she had resisted the temptation to cause trouble. On this occasion she had presented Luke with the easier target.
      "Did you hear her--'your plant is dying.'--It's your plant, says I. 'I gave it to you.' 'Well, it's dying,' says she. 'There wasn't enough earth in the pot.' Earth! If it's earth she wants, I'll give her earth."
      "I said there wasn't enough in the pot meself," said May firmly.
      "According to her that's my fault," Luke countered.
      "You weren't looking at what you were buying."
      "She doesn't deserve a plant."
      "I can't remember the last time I got a plant."
      "God love ya."
      " 'I had to re-pot it,' says she. The cheek of her. Trying to get me monkey up, she was."
      "That wouldn't be hard."
      "Oh the voice of an expert. She got no satisfaction out of me--nor him, the lug, sittin' in his chair. A bloody tree they wanted this time!"
      "You should hear yourself."
      "I'm glad to get out of there," Luke declared. "Me ears are ringin'. I need to sit quiet for a while. Will we go in here?"
      He took her silence for tacit agreement. She let it pass. She followed him into the public house. Everything about his brother's local public house reminded Luke of his brother. Another token of disapproval was called for.
      "Bit of a kip wouldn't you say?" he said once they had crossed the threshold. They both had been in here before and he had said the same thing. "What'll you have?"
      She asked for a gin and tonic, with ice and a slice of lemon. Luke went to the bar and ordered. The gin and tonic arrived without the lemon. He again asked for a slice of lemon.
      "This isn't a fruit shop," he was told, "there's no lemons here."
      Here was a reply Luke could savour. There was capital to be made out of such a remark.
      He handed May her drink. "Get that down you, 'cause we're leavin'. Nobody's got a civil tongue in his head around here."
      May scoffed. "Where's me lemon? I asked for lemon."
      "Lemon? Lemon is it? There's no lemons out here. Oh he's in his element here, that brother of mine. He has his own children destroyed with his meddlin' and his selfishness . . . and those kids you're so fond of showing your finery to probably never see a bit of fruit from one end of the year to the other. None of that lot knows anything about bringing up kids."
      "Oh, and you're the expert?"
      "Sure, you only have to look at them. Their skin is grey. A child should have a bit of colour in his cheeks, for God's sake."
      "What do you know?"
      "Christmas how are ya," he said, looking at the bar. "He's in his element here allright. Are you drinking that or not?"
      The wind was up. It had been increasing steadily throughout the day. It was colder now that it was dark. Too cold to wait at a bus stop. Luke insisted she stand inside while he hailed a taxi. To please him-in-his-two-coats, she waited inside.
      In the taxi Luke took a strong interest in what movement there was on the streets through which they passed.
      "Did you read that in the paper--about the youngfella having his nose clipped off his face by a gang of hooligans? That was out here."
      May had read the article. The incident had occurred on the other side of the city, in a street not far from where they lived. She let it pass.
      "Let's not go home yet," she said, "not directly."
      They were together again in the back seat of a car, this time paying for heat. The fare was something they could ill-afford. May insisted on paying the fare herself. To please her-with-her-bag-of-jewellery, he let her pay. There was not much light in the back of the car. She opened the bag wide.
      "Careful," he said with a little nod.
      They had stopped at a late-night grill bar. May paid the fare and gave a generous tip.
      "There's Paddy Dumphy," May announced, peering through the window before entering. "Look at the trousers on him," she commented disdainfully.
      It was about eleven o'clock. The place was jammed with the young, with misfits, with the insensible. Paddy Dumphy was standing at the end of the counter waiting for his hot plate. When Luke called across the room Paddy lifted his cap on a fat, colourless face. His expression suggested he had been caught in some shameful act.
      "Are you sure it's him?" Luke asked out of the side of his mouth.
      "Face on him like a bar of soap," May observed without pity. "I'd know it anywhere."
      Luke remembered May's white face. "Don't buy the girl new clothes," the doctor had advised her family, it would only serve to make matters worse. It was God's will, the family had decided. Germs got a welcome in this city. After forty years May still believed it was a sin to admit to having had tuberculosis. She had survived in spite of the disease. Here they were, her showing off in her Sunday best, him chilled to the bone in his two overcoats.
      The couple pushed their way to Paddy. They exchanged greetings.
      "There's a gale for ya," exclaimed Luke with a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder.
      "Don't talk to me," retorted Paddy. "Destroyed, I am. The balloons was a dead loss today."
      "Balloons, you say?" Luke said, triumphantly engaging May's critical gaze.
      "I've been selling the gas balloons," Paddy explained.
      "There's no stopping you, Paddy Dumphy," Luke declared.
      "It was allright up until about two o'clock," Paddy said. "It was a dead loss when the wind got up."
      "You're looking well, all the same," said May. She made it sound like a surprise.
      "People have been saying that," Paddy replied uncomfortably.
      "The fresh air is no harm," May said matter-of-factly.
      "Aye, well . . ."
      "There's no stopping him," Luke said with an affirmative nod.
      There was a pause. May placed her order at the counter without consulting her husband. He followed suit.
      "You heard about Johnny Mullens?" Paddy asked respectfully.
      "I did," replied Luke in a solemn voice. "He died in the zoo. Can you credit that?"
      "Poor Johnny."
      "You wouldn't have a chance in the zoo."
      "It was his time to go. That was all. It doesn't matter where you are."
      "I seen him in the hospital some time back," Luke said filling the space with a lie, "after the last belt."
      "And how did he look?" Paddy asked.
      "Johnny never looked any different."
      "True . . ."
      "Was there many at the funeral?" May asked.
      "A great number," Paddy replied. Johnny's wife could take solace from that, he assured them.
      "We only heard yesterday," Luke interjected. Though Johnny Mullens had not been a close friend, Luke was heartily sorry.
      "God rest him," said May.
      "God rest him," agreed Paddy.
      There was another pause. They looked expectantly towards the kitchen.
      "We were out with the brother, God help him," said Luke.
      "And how is he?" Paddy asked.
      "Confined to a chair," Luke explained.
      "He didn't look at all well," May added.
      "I'm sorry to hear it," said Paddy sincerely, though he had never met Luke's brother.
      "Not that you'd want to go out of your house," Luke went on, "not out there. Nobody has a good word for you out there. And the violence . . ."
      Paddy asked where that might be. Luke gave his answer and followed with "He's stuck out there, in the middle of nowhere, stuck in his chair."
      "It's not safe," May added.
      "Did you read in the paper about the youngfella who had his nose clipped off by a gang of hooligans?" Luke asked.
      "I did," said Paddy. "And the police finding it and the surgeons sewing it back on. Can you believe that?"
      "That was out there," Luke said flatly.
      "There's no bread delivery out there anymore," May said.
      "That's the same all over," Paddy said.
      "I've been telling the brother and his wife they should get out of that place," Luke said. "Aren't they building houses for old people down on the docks? He should be on some sort of a list."
      "The milk'll be next," May said. "There'll be no milk delivered. Under siege, they are." She caught her husband staring at her inquiringly. She looked away, towards the kitchen door. "The service here is a disgrace," she declared.
      "She shows her jewellery to everyone," Luke told his friend. "That's the latest."
      "I do not," May retorted.
      "There's no telling her. It isn't safe to leave them at home, she says, so she carts them around in the handbag. She shows them to anybody who cares to look. Can you credit that?"
      "And what if I do?" asked May hotly.
      "Couldn't put them in the bank--ho no. Not that they're worth a fortune, mind."
      "Listen to the expert."
      "Let the kids have a good root in the bag, she did."
      "He's always complaining," May told Paddy in a purposefully tolerant voice.
      "For a woman that has a running dispute with every shop in the neighbourhood, she's awful quick to criticize. I wouldn't mind but there isn't a shop in the shaggin' city I can go into without there being something wrong with it."
      "Always complaining," May echoed.
      They were both looking at Paddy. For want of something helpful to say, he asked to see the jewellery.
      This grill bar was not a usual haunt for Paddy or for Luke and May. Both parties had come here having changed their minds about going home. They would not have met otherwise. Paddy would not have found himself lost for words. They had made much of their chance meeting. For the most part people changing their minds ensured the continuous programme of events. For better or for worse, what was left kept them strong.
      "I'm not perfect," Luke said.
      "You used to be," May replied. Turning to Paddy, she opened her handbag. She started by identifying those bits of jewellery her husband had given her.