Breakfast on Pluto (11 page)

The silhouette of a silky man with a silk garrotte who smiles to the strains of a summer song as your last ebb of life chokes out? For heaven’s sake!

No, nothing only silence, and upon the walls a picture with the words
Chez Mous
, embroidered with blue entwining flowers.
This is our little home.
As family now it snoozes and over
all the night sky closes.

And Patrick in his dreams, he thinks: ‘I am so happy, and I thank God for giving me this, but most especially for my mammy.’

Why I had to go and do a stupid thing like blab it all to Louise instead of keeping it to myself like the most private, intimate secret that it was is still beyond me for she
didn’t have to know it, it wasn’t going to make the slightest difference to her, for up until then we’d been having the most fantastic time, we really had and if you’d said
to me that I was going to turn against her, never mind run out of the house shaking and shouting, absolutely high as a kite, I simply wouldn’t have been able to believe you.

Not that we weren’t capable of such high jinks in other ways, not half we weren’t, her coming in with that look in her eye and then crooking her finger until off I’d go like a
lamb, up on her knee then in shorts with her going: ‘Mr Wonderful’ and the glimmer of a tear in her eye as she ran her fingers through my hair. That, of course, was when it happened
– me letting it all slip, I mean. Allowing myself to get carried away as I thought of Eily in that dancehall long ago, the way Benny Lendrum had told me she’d been, with her gorgeous
bubble-cut hair, check blouse in yellow and capri pants in white, not a fellow in the place able to take his eyes off her. ‘The most beautiful girl in the town,’ Benny said. ‘The
one and only Eily Bergin – give your woman out of
South Pacific
a run for her money any day, they used to say!’

Which had really excited me when
he
said it for no one could say: ‘Oh, that’s just Braden again – making up stupid fantasies about his mother just because she was rode
by a priest and then dumped him on a step in a bloody Rinso box!’ That was one thing they couldn’t say for as I sat there on the summer seat on that day in 1965, I had heard the words
fall right from Benny’s lips, one by one watching them fall and sparkle there like gold.

‘Oh, Louise!’ I cried and threw my arms around her neck (delirious, which was how I let it slip). ‘How beautiful she was I just cannot begin to tell
you!’ as she said: ‘Hush!’ and stroked my neck – making me go on and on, of course! And tell her everything – everything!

‘Why did I have to say it, Terence! Why did I have to say it!’ I begged him to tell me over and over. But Terence just nodded and said: ‘Keep
going.’

What I wanted him to understand was that I did love Louise, not in a pure way maybe, but in one that was sort of special because she had been so good to me and me being Shaunie of course had
made me close as well (not to mention all the outfits she ran up for me – Audrey Hepburn, Dusty, Diana Ross – there isn’t even any point in going into the work she put into
those!) – but what she didn’t understand, why couldn’t she understand?, that there are certain things you do not do, should not do – even begin to think of doing them. How
could she not see that this was different to Shaunie and Dusty and everything else we’d done and that what I’d told her was mine and never meant to leave my lips. Why could she not see
that, Terence? I said. It was after I’d begun to explain all that to him he asked me was that the first time you felt whatever it is that holds you to the ground beginning to slip away? and I
said yes it was, for up until then I felt solid as a rock. Which was something I’d always wanted. To be able to say: ‘
This
is where I belong – right here in
this
place, blasted by wind and weather and never to be moved.’ Instead of the very opposite which was about to happen now.

When she came into the room first, I didn’t believe it was her. I felt my legs turning to string and I moved back against the wall in case I’d collapse. Then my
face flushed scarlet and I could feel the saliva in my mouth thickening up into something like jam. ‘Like me?’ she said, and began walking across the floor shaking invisible maraccas
and batting her lashes the way she did. All of a sudden it was as if I hadn’t washed in weeks as I thought: ‘Why did I tell her about Mammy? Why did I have to
tell
her?’

Whiskers used to have this habit of lighting cigarette papers and sending them flying up the flue to the light, to go spinning off across the stars as far as Pluto or wherever else they wanted
to go and that was what I felt like now as I watched the blur of yellow that was the check shirt and the beautifully starched white Capri pants as she ran her hands over them singing:
‘I’m gonna wash that man right outa my hair! I’m gonna wash that man right outa my hair!’

I might have been a ball of fluff blown harum-scarum by her breath as she moved in close still singing it, but would never have floated quite so far if she hadn’t uttered the words that
left her lips then when I said: ‘What are you doing? Louise, please – what are you doing?’ as she raked her fingers through her bubble curls and tossing her head back, cried:
‘At last I’ve come for him – my little Rinso baby!’

Terence told me it all dated back to then. ‘You’ve never been quite with us since, have you?’ and in a way I have to agree. I tried to explain to him what it was like when me
and Charlie waltzed like we were two tiny birthday cake figures out in the cosmos, way out among the distant planets, ‘watching the earth down below’, except with the one difference
that it had been so beautiful – like it all belonged to you.

And now, here you were, rudderless, out there, not knowing where your arms or legs began, as you floated in a cosmos with no end.

‘Why else did you run out that night?’ Terence asked me. ‘Was there something else she said?’

That was why I was so heartbroken when Terence left without telling me. Because he knew my story inside out and understood why I broke down. As he did now. ‘Yes!’ I spluttered
through the tears. ‘She said “Breakfast”. She said: “Please stay for breakfast” or something stupid like that!’

I could see him looking at me so tenderly for a long time after that, then looking down at his notepad as he said softly: ‘You hate that word, don’t you?’

And I nodded. As he moved closer to me and put his strong hand in mine. Some people might think – like with Brendan Cleeve later on – that I am sort of a sex maniac because I say
things like that. Sex was the furthest thing from my mind when I thought of it, his hand being strong. It was like it was gripping me and saying: ‘You’re down here now – rock
solid! And this is where you are going to be strong! For this is where you’re going to stay from now on, Patrick! And that’s the way it’s going to be!’

It was as if I was looking through a skylight and out there in the stretched blackness there were thousands and thousands of weightless cigarette papers all going hither and thither except with
one big difference this time – I wasn’t one of them!

It was the most fantastic feeling I ever remember! Made even better by the fact that now Terence had his arm around me. Big oaken-armed Terence! Whose brown eyes twinkled as he said: ‘I
want to hear about him, the man who gave you life! The bastard you hate who dumped you on the step or started proceedings that led to it! We’ve got to hear, you hear me? We’ve got to
hear – so get out there – write write write and fucking write!’

Can you imagine another doctor swearing? But that was Terence! He gripped me in them oaken arms and fixed me with those twinkly eyes: ‘Will you?’ he said. ‘Will you?’

I thought I was skyward again!

‘Yes!’ I cried. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ and nearly knocked him down in the rush to pen yet another of my famous masterpieces!

by P. Braden, Ward 7

How difficult it is for the young seminarian getting to sleep at night! Particularly if you have been out on the playing field most of the day doing endless laps of the playing
field in the churning mud, not to mention God knows how many press-ups with Father Joe McGeaney shouting from the sideline like a madman: ‘Ah, will you for the love of God put your backs into
it! How in under God do ye expect to face St Malachy’s Magherafelt if that’s the best performance ye can come up with! It’s like watching a pack of old women! Football!
That’s not football! I could go down to Junior 1B right this very minute and pick a pair of young scabs that’d acquit themselves better than that! McAlinden! What do you call that! You
call that a free kick? Fit you better you’d pack your bags this very minute and clear off home to your father on the farm, for mucking out the byres is all you’ll ever be any good for,
as far as I can see!’ After which the team trainer would gather a ball of phlegm in his throat, roll it around in the nether regions of his tonsils for some seconds, then propel it with great
force so that it spun in the air before landing randomly on either a hoof-hole or tuft of grass directly in front of him, as he allowed himself a little smile, moving forward with his fingers
interlaced beneath his black soutane, his priestly duck-like bottom obtruding. Because he was joking, of course. Well, not exactly joking perhaps, but when he said that McAlinden was of little use
for anything but cleaning out the abodes of animals – that most certainly he did not mean. For, as he well knew, Pat Joe McAlinden was, if not the best and most consistent performer on the
school team, certainly the one he could least afford to do without. From the very start of the season, he had been an inspiration to the rest of the players. The man who had, almost
single-handedly, been responsible for their passage into the semi-finals of the Leinster Cup. Which, of course, was to be played this very Saturday! Was it any wonder they were nervous? The miracle
was that Father Joe didn’t shout louder at his star player! After all – you had to make sure they didn’t become too complacent, didn’t you? He had been training the seminary
football team long enough to know the pitfalls young men like McAlinden could stumble into. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen young protégés of his undermine their
brilliance through arrogance – refusing to pass the ball, attempting lyrical, complicated moves when all that was required was affirmative, unequivocal action. He wasn’t about to let
that happen, and if being hard on the boy was what was required, then so be it. And thus far, his tactics had worked like a dream for McAlinden. As Father Joe passed the goalposts and shaded his
eyes from the flashing sun to determine the position of the ball, he considered that if that student continued the way he was going, he might well yet be in line for a senior prefectship. As the
thought entered his mind, a little ripple of pride ran through the clergyman, for in fact it was fair to say that such an achievement, were it to become a reality, would be due in no small measure
to the firmness and far-sightedness of his tutelage. O, good man Donegan! Did you see that one? A high, lobbing ball that almost slipped out of the goalkeeper’s hands! What if they pulled off
one like that on Saturday! It would be good to see the face of Father Jack McManus then! Father Jack was the trainer of St Malachy’s, or St Mal’s as they were known more or less for the
duration of the competition. He’d have to shake Father Joe’s hand when it was all over but it would still kill him to say: ‘That high lobbing ball of young McDonagh’s was
the one that did for us! Well done, Father Joe and the Seminary! But dang blast ye anyway for putting an end to our chances!’

As he stood there beside the posts, Father Joe was atremble with excitement, lifting up his toes inside his mud-spotted black shoes and rocking back and forth on his heels at the same time.
‘Into the square!’ barked young Mike McQuillan as his voice rolled out across the field and the sodden ball came freefalling towards his outstretched arms. ‘What a powerful bunch
of men!’ thought the priest to himself. ‘As solid a team of dedicated lads as ever this college has seen pass through its portals!’ Which must have been true, for exactly when a
college team had made it so far in the Leinster championships, Father Joe certainly couldn’t remember. And had it worked wonders for seminary morale? It was amazing what success in the field
of sport could do for contemplative young men in terms of comradeship and spirit. It was as if the entire building was emitting a spiritual electric light that radiated throughout the dormant,
lassitudinous countryside. With each firm kick of the ball, a young man’s voice crying out: ‘We shall lead! We, the holy and dedicated young men of this seminary shall sally forth and
show you, solid, labouring peasant folk of our little county, the way to peace and love in the fellowship of The Sacred Heart!’ It was a long time since Father Joe had been so content. As he
stood there in the flapping wind, he whispered a silent prayer to St Joseph of Cupertino who, strictly speaking, was the patron saint of examinations, and did not concern himself with sport, but to
whom the priest had always had a special devotion, that they might achieve victory by a substantial margin this coming Saturday in Borris-in-Ossory football ground.

It was exactly this thought which was in the mind of nineteen-year-old-student and footballer Bernard McIvor of the townland of Drumaloon, Tyreelin, as he made his way towards the sideline now
that the final whistle had been blown, so many permutations and possibilities of the forthcoming game being played out in his imagination that it was almost exhausting. But, as his friend, Dermot
Faughnan observed in the showers as the spiky sprays of steam pelted all about them – leaping frantically off their gleaming flesh, ‘All we can do this Saturday, Bernard, is to give our
best and play our hearts out, isn’t it?’

‘It is indeed, Dermot,’ replied the student priest as he applied the soap to the underside of his private parts, instinctively turning his face away as he always did, lest somehow he
might instigate once more that gathering movement within those regions, which, in his own mind, he was wont to call the ‘bad thing’. And which the sport of football was absolutely
wonderful for, because when you were soaring high into the air to catch the laced-up leather orb which was often wet and soggy (but who cared!), you simply didn’t think of girls in diaphanous
dresses or even mature women in foundation garments who came visiting nocturnally to part their lips and say those things to you. Things that you didn’t want to hear. Things that they
pretended were quite innocent, of course. Like: ‘Hello, Bernard’ or ‘It’s quiet in here, isn’t it, Bernard? In this dormitory, I mean!’ Ever so foxily too, of
course, delivering it in such a seemingly innocuous way that you would never be able to say back to them: ‘You’d better stop this now! I know what you’re trying to do to me!
I
know what you’re trying to do to me. Miss! Or Mrs!’ Turn around and put the blame on you, if you see what I mean! Insisting: ‘What? But I didn’t say anything! What
I said was perfectly harmless, for heaven’s sake! You can’t turn around and blame me just because your tootle takes it upon itself to salute me the way it’s doing!’ Which
wasn’t a nice thing to do – well, not so much ‘not nice’, maybe – but definitely not fair. It wasn’t fair to say those things to Bernard when he was all alone in
bed and, what’s more, so utterly defenceless. It wasn’t as if it was the fullback of St Malachy’s he was facing or the so-called brilliant winger Matt McGlinchey! Them he could
face no bother! Pluck the ball off their toes and with it run like the wind! But, when someone stood before you, just standing there and going: ‘Hello, Bernard!’, what were you supposed
to do, particularly if a little breeze fluttered up the diaphanous material and made you see –
oh God! Oh! no! God help me! Oh Jesus Christ!’