Banana Box Loyalties – Part III

I’m like the wife in the bible who got turnt inta salt for looking behind her. Except cause it’s not God but Da as told me not ta look, tisn’t salt I’ll be turnt inta but a lad bawling on the street from a fierce walloping for not following orders. Still, that’s better than having two ould fellas from the mental hospital reaching their boney-white hands ta grab me by the throat for strangling.

Anyway, Da’s here, so it’d be his fault if me and Davey was kilt be mentallers. Ma and God would be fierce mad with him.  Maybe I’d go straight ta heaven with God forgiving all me sins that I never confessed causa how I died: The crazy-eyed mentaller staring fierce mad at me; his hands, the colour of a salmon’s tummy, choke…choke…choking me from breathing!

But then Da is here ta protect us and he’s a Gard, so the mentallers couldn’t just grab me by the throat.

Ta not be thinking confusing scaredy thoughts, I take a huge slug a Leed lemonade from me bottle.

“Fer God’s sake,” Da pulls on me hand that he’s still holding from when I was glad he grabbed it as the mentallers walked past. 

“Will ya take it azy on that bottle, the next thing is it’ll all be gone an’ ya’ll be fussin’ ta go ta the toilet.”

He sorta spins me around in front a him be the hand; then lets go so he can wag his aiming finger at us.

I flick me eyes past his aiming-finger: Still no mentallers running with their hands out ta grab me throat.

“An’ there’ll be no goin’ in the bushes today,” he makes a cross face, his aiming finger wagging at Davey and me.

“I don’t care how bad ye hafta go, ye’ll hoult it in!” he twist nods his head ta let us know he’s fierce serious, “an’ there better not be a accident, not with the whole a Mayo and Sligo jammed inta Castlebar taday.”

I’m just glad me hand is free so I can run if the mentallers come back with their hands out for me throat.

We keep walking, but at Da’s slow step…step…step pace; my head keeps turning ta look behind.

McHale Park is much further away than I thought when Da stood up after the Sunday dinner and said we could go ta the Connacht Final, but we’d have ta walk:

“Sure, there’s men comin’ from the back end a nowhere ta this match an’ they’ll park wherever the ble…,” he nearly curses but doesn’t, “… there won’t be wan parking spot left in town.”

He closes his eyes, shakes his head. 

“The poor people above on Station Road won’t be able ta back outta their driveways, not even ta get ta the hospital.”

His eyes open, lines get made on his forehead telling me he’s getting cross. 

“I told the Superintendent’s office many’s a time, somewan up that way will die of a heart attack in their house cause Mayo’s playin’ an’ them country fellas park wherever the ….”

He closes his eyes again and shakes his head a bunch, so you know he’d be cursing if he was talking ta other Gards.

“But a course the Super has ta deal with t’G…A…A, an’ then every publican in town will have his till overflowin’ taday, so they’d squawk if we did anathin’ ta stop that, oh ‘tis all a racket, … everythin’ today’s a money racket!”  

I don’t even understand half a what he’s complaining about; he does be complaining on and on all the time.

Now that I’m so sweaty-tired from running back and forward doing pretend wan handed solos with a pretend ball, that I just wish he had driven no matter how hard it would be ta find parking.  Even he only drove as far as the Gard’s station, that’d be nearly halfway there. Country people – “buffs” me big brothers do call them – would be too ascared ta park within in the Gard’s station.  

All I can do ta stop being hot and tired is ta not run and breath in a heap a air without making noises that’d let Da know I overdone it. All parents, teachers and priests say overdoing things is bad, even though they overdo everything: Making us clean the house all day Saturday and a huge pile a homework after been given so Sunday is all busy with that except then the priest goes on and on at mass and instead a being sorry for Jesus with all the terrible things they done ta Him, I’m worrying about homework still ta be done.

At least after me and Da and Davy cross the bridge outside the Army Barracks then the big old stone wall Lord Lucan built ta keep Castlebar people outta his estate makes things nice and shady.  Then ta make it even nicer, a milk tanker lorry passes coming from the creamery making wind that’s luvly and cool.  Even on a Sunday the cows have ta be milked and farmers bring the churns ta the creamery. It’s a wonder God didn’t fix that cause sometimes I see a donkey and cart parked at eight o’clock mass on Sunday with empty milk churns in the back.  It’s not fair farmers get ta do regular stuff on Sundays and all we can do is only boring stuff or homework.  Ma won’t even let us play war on Sundays cause it’s “our Lord’s day of rest, he doesn’t want you out in the back yard with crooked stick machine gunning Gerries full a holes.”

The nuns own Lord Lucan’s old estate now and use it as a farm.  Cause Lord Lucan made lots a walls ta keep Castlebar people well back from his house, it gets awful confusing where the nuns farm ends and where the Bacon Factory begins.  Everywan in Castlebar that’s not a teacher or a Gard or owns a shop, works in either the Hat Factory or the Bacon Factory. 

The Hat Factory has a siren on top a its huge-tall chimney that goes off twice in the morning.  The first siren warns the workers ta start getting ta work, and the second wan tells them it’s time ta start making hats.  When the second siren goes off, Ma starts hurrying all a us ta get our schoolbags, shooing us out the front door ta walk ta school. I’m always ready cause I’m up so early I’ve already been ta eight o’clock mass with Ma. I like going ta school early anyways so I can play in the yard before school starts.  That way going in ta be bossed around all morning by the teacher isn’t so bad.  But me brothers and sisters do get all cranky when Ma starts hurrying at the second siren.  The big lads do everything slower the more hurrying she wants.  The girls have ta walk much further than us, so when the first siren goes, Ma’s already onta them ta hurry.

The Bacon Factory kills pigs and turns them inta rashers and sausages or massive lumps a boiling bacon that Ma has ta leave soaking overnight in the biggest pot just so you can eat it without the salt stinging the tiny cuts on your lips made be the windy rain.  The day the Bacon Factory men is putting the salt inta the dead pigs’ bodies, the smell all around Castlebar does be fierce.  But that bad smell is worth it for wan day ta get luvly rashers.

 With all this hotness and Da’s slow-walking and mentallers nearly grabbing me throat, I took that many slugs a Leed I only have a wee bit left at the bottom a the bottle be the time we get the massive crowd trying ta get inta McHale Park. 

Everywan in Mayo, except for all women and girls, is here ta see our team beat Sligo and win the Connacht Final.  We nearly won last week on their pitch above in Sligo with all their supporters waving black and white flags yelling for them ta win.

Today we’ll beat them for sure with all a us yelling when to kick pints.

In the massive crowd outside McHale Park there’s a bunch a Sligo teenagers wearing the same type a hats as ould farmers wear, except these wans aren’t tweedy.  The teenagers’ hats is made a black-felt and say I’M ONLY HERE FOR THE BEER in white letters across the front. They’re fierce bratty altagether, probly cause their das and mas is back in Sligo and can’t see all the trouble they’re making.  Like they make this wan Castlebar man fierce angry by pushing past him real rough so they get ta the gates before him even though they arrived after he did.  This Castlebar man’s a short-fat-Brylcreemed men in a dark blue suit and tie that I do always see sitting way up front at mass going at his own speed instead a the priest’s speed.

The Sligo brats must think they’re way more important than us, cause they don’t seem ta care how mad anywan gets with all their pushing past. This fat-Brylcreemed man gets ferocious mad, but in just a couple a minutes, the teenagers are already so far ahead a us all in the crowd, there’s nuthin he can do.  He keeps turning his shiny-Brylcreemed head around, making little white lines in the pinkish-red fatness a his neck, as he stares at all the other Mayo men in suits around us.  When no wan says nuthin ta help him, he smushes his lips together so hard they do go a wee bit white at the edges. 

I could throw me Leed bottle at them Sligo brats the way Manchester United hooligans do be always doing on the News.

They’d be sorry then for being bratty. 

A course I couldn’t do that with Da holding me hand. 

And what if, on accident, I hit somebody we see at mass on the head? 

Then I’d be kilt!

After the I’M ONLY HERE FOR THE BEER brats is gone so far away through the massive crowd that not even the grownups can see enough a them ta be mad, everything turns back boring slow moving.  The men’s dark suit pants get a wee bit foldy behind their knees as they barely lift their shiny black shoes off the hot tarmac ta shuffle forward a half step forward.

The hotness gets hotter.

I have only a wee drop a Leed left at the bottom a the bottle. I’m afraid ta finish it in case all the hot sunnyness keeps making me thirsty. Da told us leaving the house there’ll be nuthin bought inside a McHale Park; the hawkers in there do overcharge too much.  He already bought three bottles Leed, wan for him, wan for Davey, who still has plenty, and wan for me. Together they all cost twenty wan P in a regular shop. That’s seven pence each – two pence more than me and Davey get as pocket money. For a bottle a Leed inside McHale Park, the hawkers’d probably charge two weeks pocket money.

Me other problem is that I needa go ta the toilet. Da doesn’t want us needing ta go, causa the town is packed and you can’t be taking your willy out with everywan looking.

But I needa go bad.

It’s probly all the lemonade I drunk, even though usually it takes time ta get through your stomach ta your willy.  But maybe it was the fat-Brylcreemed man getting all angry with the I’M ONLY HERE FOR THE BEER bratty teenagers. 

See, anytime there’s trouble, I needa go.  Like at a school, if Brother Ailbe comes ta our class ta give wan a the messer lads a rake a slaps, even though I’m not getting slapped, I still needa go ta the toilet.

A course no wan can leave the classroom for no reason while Ailbe’s leather is swishing down through the air, slapping onta some poor lad’s reddening hand.  You can’t even move your hand ta get away from the swinging leather cause Ailbe holds your wrist in hurting white-hard grip. 

But a few minutes after Ailbe, all red-faced-angry, leaves the classroom, the teacher’ll let you cause by then they’re sorry for sending for Ailbe after seeing the leathered lad’s face wet with tears. Some lads, Bronx and Marty the Traveller, do be able ta hold in their tears. No matter how hard they get leathered, they just stare back inta Ailbe’s eyes that get crazier and crazier with anger cause he doesn’t see no tears.

In this massive crowd outside McHale Park, I can’t tell Da I needa go.  He’ll get mad saying he told me not ta drink all the Leed; that he won’t be buying no more minerals every again; cause it always ends up with more things he has ta do; now he has ta bring us ta that toilets when he should be sitting down enjoying the match.

But if I don’t tell him and I end wetting me short pants, that’ll be a million times worser.

What if wan a the lads seen me walking around in wet short pants in McHale Park? 

It’s bad enough that some mornings I wake up with wet pajamas.  On them mornings, Ma sighs a lot ta hide that she’s angry cause now she has ta go and set up the washing machine; making its hoses stay stuck onta the sink’s taps; then the drain, that Da says “acts the maggot” splashes outta the sink onto the scullery floor ta make more cleaning up. It takes Ma a bunch a time washing and rinsing my sheets and pajamas. First, she makes me pull everything off the bed, telling me ta make sure the eiderdown didn’t get wet. I have ta wait until after we get home from eight o’clock mass ta tell her I wet the bed, cause I couldn’t be waking all me brothers pulling the sheets off at half seven in the morning.  And what if some a my pee got on them – they’d kill me altagother!

I hate pulling the wet sheets off the bed, cause I’m even afraid of getting the cold wetness of pee on me own skin. Sometimes the eiderdown does be a wee bit wet; I don’t say nuthin about that ta no wan. The eiderdown is too thick ta be put inta the washing machine.  I don’t what Ma’d do about the pee on it.  Maybe she’d have ta buy a new wan, but that’d cost so much, I be in ferocious trouble with everywan cause there’d be no dessert for weeks.

When I get the cold wet sheets off the bed, I have ta prop the mattress up against me and Davey’s bunk beds for it ta dry. Causa the smell – that I don’t get but that everywan complains about even me sisters who only walk past the door ta our room – I have ta open the bedroom window.  The window is only tiny but still it somehow makes our bedroom fierce cold in the winter, making me brothers even madder.

At least the boy’s bedroom gets some hotness from the wall a the kitchen fireplace’s chimney that runs up ta the roof through our room.  The girls’ room doesn’t get no heat atallatall cause the sitting room fireplace, whose chimney runs through their room, is hardly never lit unless a priest comes ta talk ta Da or Granny and Aunty is visiting. Ma and Da’s room doesn’t have no way ta get heat atallatall. If the winter’s night is so cold the inside a the bedroom windows is making ice, then we use the Super Ser gas heater.  A Super Ser is like a fire you can move around that burns gas from a fat orange cylinder. Da and the big lads carry it upstairs ta the landing where Da lights it a few hours before everywan goes ta sleep. You couldn’t leave it burning all night in case it somehow started a fire and kilt the lot a us.

When I get home from school – I have ta come straight home on days I wet the bed – it’s my job ta make sure the sheets get in off the clothesline before a shower a rain wets them all over again. I don’t mind having ta come straight home without getting ta play with the lads cause bedwetting days is always not-normal days.  I have other not-normal days but I don’t know where they come from. I hate not-normal days cause I’m kinda-sorta sleepy all the time, wanting ta hide at the back a the wardrobe in our room and sleep. On not-normal days nuthin the lads say is funny; I can’t seem ta learn what the teacher makes us learn, so I get a few more wallops; then it feels like I’ll never get done with homework and finally get ta go ta bed cause I keep making mistakes that Ma finds, making her get even madder. 

Some days is normal, some is not-normal.

That’s just how I wake up.

When it’s not-normal it stays like that all day, maybe the next day too and the day after.  Then I wake up and it’s not there no more. But for a few mornings I’m ascared not-normal will come back.

When I wake up in cold, wet pajamas, the not-normalness starts from me staying in cold-wetness worrying about having ta tell Ma the bad news.  It’s not fair ta make all the work for her, but I don’t do it on purpose. I just forget ta stop drinking anything before I go ta bed.

None a the lads know about me wetting the bed. 

Ma never says nuthin.

Da never says nuthin.

No wan says nuthin outside the house.