Last Day in Dublin

The winter had dragged on and on. Then, one day summer suddenly arrived.
The sun burned over Dublin bringing back the heat, light and scents of summer.
Pascal could taste the dark smell of the road tar rising and he cursed his black winter
clothes. The dark attracted the heat and he craved fresh, white cotton like the
missionaries in Africa.

Pascal had the day off. He had arranged it to coincide with his birthday. He always liked
to be busy and despised idling, but today he turned fifty eight and he would celebrate.

He was cycling into town to have lunch in Wynn’s Hotel.

As he passed out though the main gates of the Christian Brothers residences, he
overheard the char woman talking to the gardener.
‘The heat’s killin’ me.’
He always liked Fairview and the open fields of the park where the boys played. He
thought of the makeshift dressing rooms in St Joseph’s secondary school where he taught
Latin and Irish. The smell of wintergreen and leather boots came to him and an
unsettling and unfulfilled longing.
In the distance, he could make out the the Bailey Bridge across the Tolka River.
Some rivers held secrets but the Tolka contained none, though Pascal.

He halted in the centre of the bridge and dismounted. He looked over the side. The tide
was low today and its bowels were open exposing the waste of the locality.
The Ballybough flats towered above. The open concrete balconies frightened him. How
were people expected to live up high like that in the bleak echoing darkness?
He stared at the rusty-coloured water spewing from drains that were dotted along the
green, slime-smeared concrete river banks. Below in the shallow waters were old prams,
a mattress, and the corpses of decaying dogs,
What fish could live here? Pascal thought. Could creatures be expected to dwell in this
pit?

Then for a fleeting moment, he imagined low forms of life coming into being in the
stagnant waters. The people of Ballybough being spawned out of its filthy pools.
Out of McCann’s public house, the pong of rotting beer and vomit splayed out at him
with rotting fingers.
Pascal longed for the cool, fresh air of Kerry coming in from the Atlantic. He brought to
mind the cool springing streams flowing down the mountainside.
On each side of the Ballybough Road small shabby shops huddled against each other. In
the middle was a shop with black and white triangles painted on the front. The lively
display only added to the drabness of those on either side.
As he passed into Summerhill, Pascal was sorry he had not taken the other route. Along
the North Strand he would have avoided the tall stone tenements.
Now he cowered from them, the open doors where human shapes lurked and stared from
and putrid hallways beneath storeys creaking with misery.
These tenements were once the homes of the wealthy merchants but were now crammed
with families, ten to a room. They bred, drank and died in them.

He shut his eyes and pedalled on. O’Connell Street stretched out before him. Beyond the
Pillar, in the distance, Pascal could make out the outline of another bridge- the widest in
the world.

He turned into Abbey Street and dismounted in front of the hotel. Wynn’s Hotel held a
special significance for Pascal. To him it was a shrine to the Republic and the war for
independence. The volunteers had their first meeting there in 1913 and a few years later
the same men would die for the cause after the Rising.

Pascal locked the bicycle against the lamppost. He stretched his spine and thought again
of the deformed life he had seen along Summerhill.
As he climbed the hotel steps, for a moment he felt pity for them. But quickly the feeling
withered within turning to disgust when he remembered how they spat on the heroes of
1916 because some of them had someone in the British army.

It was cool in the lobby and the air was fresh. Many of the hotels guest would be from
the country, farmers and their wives up on shopping trips or business and American
priests telling the staff stories about Boston or Texas.

‘Good morning Brother’

A small man in a uniform walked towards him.
‘Are you lunching?’ / ‘
The man led Pascal into the dining room and a woman showed him to a table by the
window.
She was stooped with a servile air.
He noticed the white powder covering her cheeks. On her lined lips was a smudge of red
lipstick. She looked like an old mother after a lifetime of sacrifices.
‘We have corned beef special today or roasted chicken.’ She sounded apologetic, meek.
‘I’ll see the menu’. Pascal spoke deeply and with authority.
The woman placed a blue menu on the table in front of him and shuffled away.

Pascal glanced at the menu and dropped it on the table as he gazed around him.
Each table was occupied mainly by couples but directly behind him a group of men in
business suits noisily enjoying themselves.
Pascal picked up the menu again and began reading.
For the main course he would have the beef.
Pascal had a sweet tooth.
Jelly and custard, hot or cold. Please advise waitress.
Rhubarb Crumble
Gateaux
Fruit Salad
He chuckled to himself when he thought of hot ice cream. He would tell the other
brothers his little joke when he got back.
A sudden wave of sadness and despair washed over him.
The menu was old and tattered. Once it had been new, just off the presses but now it was
old and grey.
He composed himself and promised that for the rest of the day he would think only of
nice things.
The power of the sad feeling surprised him it was so deep and unexpected. It came from
nowhere. Pascal looked ahead of him and sighed.

A loud voice rang out clearly.

‘A monster of a yoke, He slip-streamed me outside Naas on it.’
The loud talk was coming from the table behind him. The speaker was the centre of
attention and the laughter of his companions filled the room.
‘Barney? You’re not serious! I didn’t think he had it in him!’
Pascal realised that if he pretended to look to his right he could make out most of the
table behind him. He began to reposition his knife further to the right on the snow white
linen tablecloth. He rubbed the palm of his hand over a crease from the fold and turned
silently in his chair.
Pascal could clearly make out the man who was at the centre of the party. The others
were all directing their commentary to him. They were trying to impress him. He was
clearly the leader of the pack.
He was a big man. His body strained inside a blue shiny suit. The collar of his shirt was
open and a big round neck flowed out from it. His name was Patsy.
‘Is that right, Patsy?’ the others would say from time to time as if to encourage him.
Pascal made out that Patsy was a grounds contractor and most of his talk was about plant
and machinery. He also understood that Patsy had an aeroplane.
A waiter came to their table with a huge tray of bottles and glasses.
‘I flew over to Birmingham from Rathcoole in the morning and then back in the one day.
I spent most of the day drinking in the hotel. I had a big land the next day when the
Guards showed up and took the wings of the plane,’
‘Why’d they do that Patsy? Someone asked.
‘Because I hadn’t a licence for it’
Pascal mused over what he was hearing. Patsy had somehow acquired a plane but had
not bothered to apply for a licence or get permission to fly it. He knew nothing of flight
charts and had followed the outline of a road that he estimated would lead him to
Birmingham once he had crossed the Irish Sea.

He then flew back from England drunk following landmarks that he had identified on the
way over.

‘Well Father? Sorry, Brother.’

The little woman spoke to Pascal.
‘....sorry Brother, what would you like?’
‘I’ll have the beef.’
She nodded her head to convey that he had made the right decision.

‘Eighteen pounds for a service! I told him to go and have a shite for himself. Eighteen
pounds!
Pascal stiffened at the language but was distracted by the way the man Patsy said ‘Eigh
heen’. Pascal wanted to correct him.
‘Go and have a shite for yourself, I said to him! Patsy’s fellow diners howled and
bellowed again.
‘That one there, I’ll try a drop of that one now.’
‘The Paddy or the Power?’
‘The Power, the wine’s nice but there’s not much cut in it.’
Pascal could smell the strong spirit of the alcohol. He began to feel irritated and
disapproving. Was this the new modern Ireland? The industrial Age?
Lemass? The ideas went over in his mind. Since he was in the brothers it was
something he had to think about. It was one thing beating it into the children everything
about God, the new Ireland, the new country but in the end it was what was in the shops
and the factories.
He saw it at home in Kerry where people were leaving the land and working in the towns.
The self-sufficient country life of the churn and the spinning wheel, the darning sheep
shearing was going.
Behind him the laughter and shouting had risen to a deafening level. Pascal glanced
around the room. The other diners were staring into their plates avoiding the table with
the rowdy men.
It was only because they were in suits and had the look of respectability that they were
being tolerated. Tinkers would be out the door.
The woman returned and placed a plate in front of Pascal.
‘Mind it, it’s hot.’
Steam was rising from the plate.
‘The guards said I hadn’t got a licence and came and took the wings off the plane. I said I
was a business man in the community giving employment and paying taxes, how was I to
work without transport?’
‘The public servants don’t understand one iota about running a business.’
Pascal finished his food and pushed the plate away from him. The woman was beside
him saying something. He couldn’t hear her above the racket that was now coming from
the other table. He frowned and asked her to say it again.
Pascal was now so concerned with the boisterousness behind him that he turned around
and stared directly at them.
None of them noticed him. They were now discussing politics. They were Fine Gael.
‘There’s only the jelly left.’ The little woman said again.
‘Just bring the bill and a cup of tea, thank you.’
The big rotating blade of the overhead fan did nothing to cool the air. With the hot
dinner inside him, Pascal was sweating in the unbearable heat.
‘Here! Grab a hold of this!’ Said Patsy rising in the chair.
’
Pascal turned his head slightly to watch Patsy extending his little finger.
‘Here, pull this! Go on!’
One of the men reached forward and took hold of his finger.
‘Squeeze it! Tighter!”
The man leaned back pulling the finger straining with effort.
‘Bombs away!’ shouted Patsy as he let off a a huge fart.

Pascal turned away in disgust and caught the noticed a man in a black suit staring at the
unruly table. The man clicked his fingers and summoned a waiter. Pascal was relieved.
This was obviously the manager about to bring some order to bear. Instead, above the din
he heard the man say to the waiter:
‘’Make sure they all have enough drink.’
As the waiter passed, Pascal was about to reach out and complain.
Pascal’s shirt was sticking to his back. He removed his jacket and noticed that it was
wet. He touched his brow and his hand found it to be drenched in sweat.
He didn’t finish the tea. The men were now smoking vile-smelling cigars and were
singing.
‘It’s all on your leg –
Gick, Gick,
Gick, Gick

Pascal stood up and swayed. He felt a lightness in his head and a total loss of feeling
throughout his body. He was suddenly consumed with fear. He was toppling, ready to
crash and go flying onto the table. He felt his arms shoot out from him like balancing
wings to keep him upright. The weight returned to his feet and his head cleared.

Pascal steadies himself holding the back of the chair and opened his eyes.

All the men at the table were silent, staring at him. Pascal touched his collar. The big
man Patsy’s eyes were locked down in shameful silence.

Pictures moved through his mind. Pearse and Plunkett - I see his blood upon the rose.
The purity of the new Ireland, the blood renewed. Pascal looked across the table at the
scorched, wine stained table cloth and the bottles and glasses, He then moved on, toward
the exit.
Pascal paid the bill and went outside. As he unlocked his bicycle the heat from the sun
was burning his back. What was wrong with the weather? This was unnatural to have
weather like this at the end of March. Pascal wanted to get out of the burning city as fast
as he could.

He would go to Dollymount for a swim. But he had no swimming togs with him.

It would have to be Clery’s. Guiney’s was a good shop but it didn’t have the quality of
Clery’s.

He locked the bicycle in Sackville Place and entered the elegant building. He would not
ask where to find them as this would be undignified. He wouldn’t go up to a complete
stranger and say he was looking for something as personal as togs.

The swimming trunks would be in the Gents department. and he knew that this was
located in the far right-hand corner on the ground floor. He walked along the creaking
timber floor glancing at the glass-topped cabinet counters. Behind each one were well-
fed country people eager to help and please.

The Clery’s management knew what they were doing when they recruited from outside
the capital thought Pascal. The country stock ensured a better class of staff. They would
be sure to be trust-worthy and respectable. Pascal remembered the evening he stayed too
long in the restaurant and had to rush through the store as the doors had closed. As he
came down the stairs he noticed on each floor the staff were kneeling and saying the
rosary.

Pascal noticed the rows of suits and overcoats in the corner. Overhead, containers cut
through the air on their way to the cash office on the top floor.

‘Dia dhuit, a brathair’

A small man with grey hair and a long matching moustache was standing in his way.
Pascal bent down to him and whispered:

‘Swimming togs, large, black.’

The man nodded and took Pascal gently by the arm and guided him further into the
corner behind a rack of raincoats.

They stopped at a counter and the man went behind it. The man was whistling an air that
Pascal recognised as My Lagan Love. The deeper the man delved beneath the counter the
stronger and more tuneful the melody became.

‘Ah! Anois!’

The tune stopped as the man’s head reappeared. He had several togs clutched in his
hands and draped across his arm.
He opened out each pair and placed them on the counter. There were six in all. Four
were black and two navy.

‘They’re all a good size and will last.’

‘I’ll take these.’ Pascal picked up a black pair.

‘Where’ll I find a towel?’

‘That’s down in the household; I’ll get the young lad to run down for you. They’re just
two that’s right for swimming, five and nine and a more expensive one that’s seven and
eleven or thereabouts.’

‘How much are these?’

‘’Four and six.’
‘I’ll take the seven and eleven.’

Pascal held the brown paper bag under his arm and stepped into the street. The heat burnt
and blinded him. For a moment he couldn’t find his bicycle. On the corner of O’Connell
Street a crowd were gathered round a man who was lying on the ground having a fit. A
Saint John’s Ambulance man was trying to console him but the man was lashing out and
striking him. The city was going mad, thought Pascal.

He cycled back along the North Strand fearful of passing through Summerhill and
Ballybough ever again.
*
It became much cooler as he cycled along the narrow wooded bridge that connected
Clontarf to Bull Island.
Oilean and Tairbh he said to himself, the island of the bulls. Cluain Tairbh, the meadow
of the bulls. The Irish language had so much more beauty and meaning, thought Pascal.
He thought about the Battle of Clontarf in 1014 and the killing of Brian Boru. The past
was all around him.

Pascal sat looking out at Dublin. He was down from the changing shelter on the rocks.
Further down the boats at the Yacht Club gently bobbed on the calm sea. .

Pascal was burnt. His face was burning and the top of his head was sore. The winter was
surely gone and now he would be able to swim to his heart’s content all summer long.

Today had been the first day he had spent completely alone for as long as he could
remember. The day had afforded him time to think about himself. Something that had
been nagging him for some time had come to the fore during the day. He had repeatedly
cast the though from his mind when it had came before. But today, in the privacy of his
own company he faced up to it.
‘What is it Pascal?’
He heard a voice in his head ask the question. He slowly unravelled the answer to
himself. He spoke freely to himself and the rocks.
He was sick of the classrooms and sick to his back teeth or his duties and responsibilities.
When he was made head brother of the school his mother was delighted. She said she
could now die easy. Pascal was surprised by her reaction. He expected that she might
want to have lived longer. It was a bit like that with everyone, as soon as he was
appointed there was an immediate fuss and then the excitement died down as if it never
happened.

He could tolerate the level of responsibility that came with the job but he hated having to
be the man who was the last point of sanction when things got bad. He saw the boys
stiffen and try to avoid him when he passed them in the corridor. He symbolised
punishment and suffering.

When first he was a young Brother in Dublin, he was only a few years old than some of
the boys he taught. He had something in common with them and would stand with them
on Sundays under the Cusack Stand at Croke Park. He felt he was inspiring them, he
was young enough be of the same state of mind but had the authority to be respected and
even admired.

As the years passed, he saw the boys grow younger and he becoming more like the bald
and grey older men around him. When he became head, he saw that most of the brothers
under him now looked more like the boys than him.

Within him lurked the young man full of dreams and hopes who now was being
suffocated by the mould and rust of age and responsibility. All day, in the heat of the city,
he felt that he had he had become Pascal Kelly again.

Pascal knew that he was engaging in meditation. He knew of the saints prayed, but also
that they contemplated deeply within themselves to discover hidden truths. Pascal’s
meditation was beyond prayer. Sitting alone on the rocks in the advancing twilight he
knew revelations would come to him.
Over last summer the big revelation and understanding was the death of his cultural and
spiritual identity. He was born with the new century and saw himself symbolising the
emergence of the Irish nation and the true church. Last summer he sat on the rocks and
the cold air blew into his heart crumbling these notions to dust.
Few people were holding on to these ideals any longer. The television and the full bellies
were the new values entering into the homes and firesides. He was once a Soldier of
Destiny but now was more like a victim of the past.

He took his towel and bag and walked across the path. Not as many rocks here and a
good bit of sand. He saw beyond Bull Island and Curley’s Hole, to Howth head directly
ahead joining itself to Sutton.

The sun tipped and turned grey. A slight gust of wind scattered a layer of sand.
He would go in again and swim to the island. He was surprised that he was the only one
on the wall. He stowed the bag and towel between rocks and crawled along the wall to
the further end where the water was deeper.

He dived in thorough the kelp that caressed his thighs as he touched the sandy bottom.
He surfaced a good length out and turned on his back to look at the wall.

A silver flash of the sun escaped through the grey clouds and held for a moment the water
and his arms in crystal clear detail. Then it darkened again and a breeze passed over him.
He turned and made strong over arm strokes to the island. His head fell and rose with the
movement.
Did it matter? He asked himself. The things he saw today. The gross, disgusting misery
of the inner city and the sickening appearance of the new Ireland mired in drink and
ignorance now holding court in Wynn;s Hotel. What did it matter to him?

It wasn’t his Ireland. It was another land, a land that he knew no more.

There was something wrong with his leg. It felt like a cramp growing and he felt the
churning whirlpool current strike him on his side. He lost his stroke and could see that he
was been pushed and dragged in a circular motion and he was now struggling to break
free from it and fighting for his breath.

His head went under and he struggled to bring it up and out but it was being sucked and
stuck. The water was coming through his nose and ears and he swallowed it as he gasped
for air. The current became faster and began dragging him in to its centre, devouring him
down into its centre. He lashed out to free himself. His right leg would not move. It had
seized on him and the pain weakened him.

He could not release his head and then the thought came to let it go and to offer himself
up to it and struggle no more. But he fought his way out of the current and found himself
coming out beyond the end of Bull Wall. If he could get to the Liffey side where the
water was shallow he would be safe.

He let the tide deliver him and at his back he saw the rocks darken as the sun sank away.
He pushed himself towards the rocks. He was now only feet away from the wall. But the
swell was growing stronger and it whipped against him and he swallowed something
solid with the salty water.

What was it?

The taste of something soft and dark ripped through his mouth. The taste was familiar,
but not fully known and recognised. It was something lying deep in his memory from the
time he was an infant. Deeper and deeper and again, almost fully known to him. The
reaction and the urge to cast it out made him gag and cough. It could not be brought out
as the water gushed in. The tide was washing it down. He must keep his mouth closed.

More came in through his nose, soft lumps of it. Where was the boundary between the
stench and the taste? He gagged again and as he did it became clear to him. His mouth
was full of the rotten waste of Dublin. He was choking on the excrement that had washed
out from the inner city. It would be the waste from the slums. He thought of the pure air
of Kerry and the clean Atlantic. His life was struggling away from him in the bowels and
sewers of the City.
The kelp was everywhere. It slacked across his face as his head lifted in the water.
What was it? Fucus?
Vesiculosus?
His hand was holding a rock near the steps. He was feet away from safety. His body was
weighed down by exhaustion, he tried to haul himself towards the steps but his body
dragged him back.

The sun tipped again and the light grew grey then black.