It was a typical January Friday at the bus station in Dublin - cold, grey and chaotic. Nothing on earth breeds confusion like the Irish transport system. The "bus depot", its name in English, is also known as "Busβras", its name in Gaelic. Every bus has two destinations, so that if you're travelling to Dundalk it's vital to know that it's also called Dun Dealgan. To add to the mayhem, some buses depart from inside the perimeter of the station and some depart from out on the road. No one is ever there to tell you because it is a state secret. When you do find your bus you can be certain the door will be closed and a crowd of forlorn people will have formed themselves into a queue.
I was heading to Derry, also known as Londonderry, where I was to conduct a weekend workshop on a play entitled William and Mary. It had been sent to me by a young Derry writer, Malachy Martin, whom I'd met at a writers'conference in Belfast. The protagonist of the piece was the Dutchman, William of Orange, a hate figure for so many Irish Catholics after his victory over James II at the Battle of the Boyne in 1690. I had been educated to hate William for the same reasons I'd been taught to hate Glasgow Rangers Football Club - they were blue, royalist, right-wing, bigoted, Protestant and triumphalist.
My anti-William bias was soon confounded. For starters, he was an only child and had no one to play with. Because he was a prince, he wasn't allowed to mix. Those around him were very concerned about his schooling and his strict religious education but they couldn't see that he needed friends more than anything else in his life. He needed to go to the beach and learn to swim and go on messages for his father like an ordinary child. Unfortunately, his father died while William was still in his mother's womb. As if he wasn't misfortunate enough, his mother died when he was eight years old and left him completely alone in the world. My brother, Frankie, died when he was ten and it nearly ripped our family apart. At least I had four other brothers and a sister to help me get over it. William had no one, neither family nor friend, and he was left to grow up completely and utterly on his own.
He grew up to be five feet five and a half but he had no complex about his height. He had his pick of any Princess in Europe, including the Dauphine of France, but he married his first cousin, Mary, against all comers. She was six inches taller than him, a fact that would have intimidated most men. William used to boast about his wife's height and in public they always walked hand in hand like true lovers. The fashion of the day for men was pomander wigs but William refused to wear one and instead grew his own hair down to his bum so that many of his contemporaries thought he looked like a woman. What they didn't know was that William, in private, dressed as a woman, too. How could I dislike this feminine, eccentric man with whom I shared such a vital statistic?
I was standing in the line to buy a bus ticket and thinking about William's femininity, when an image of Da came into my mind. I was four years old in my grandfather's house and everyone was laughing. Da came into the dining-room, dressed as a woman, kicking his feet in the air doing the "can-can". Aunties Anne, Lily and Marie, Da's three sisters, were hysterical and I was crying but they told me to shush, that it was only Da dressed up. I tried to stop and was wiping my tears away when Uncle Paddy followed Da into the room dressed like him and trying to kick his legs in the air, but he was laughing so much that he nearly fell over. We poured out on to Friary Avenue, a little street at the back of the Capuchin Friary where Grandad and Granny Sheridan lived, and I watched Da and Uncle Paddy arse their way down the avenue. I remembered Ma throwing her eyes to heaven and saying, "That's Da for you." All the kids chased after them as far as the pub and we watched them at the counter ordering drinks like two aul'wans.
Da brought us in to a special place called the snug that was full of gummy old women sipping balls of malt. He put six glasses and a large bottle of red lemonade on the table in front of us. When he poured it out, the froth came to the top and over the side and we licked it off with our tongues and some went up my nose and I sneezed. I didn't mind Da being a woman if it meant red lemonade every day.
Da dressed as a woman because he loved showing off. Every day from nine until five he sold train tickets in Amiens Street station. Three nights a week he calculated the payouts at the greyhound track in Shelbourne Park. There wasn't a lot of time for showing off in between, so when the opportunity presented itself, he took it. That was mainly at Christmas time, and it became Da's season for dressing up. And Uncle Paddy's, too.
I was delighted to make a connection between William and Da, even though they dressed up for very different reasons. It felt like a link between the past and the present and one that could be developed with the actors in the workshop. How many men would admit to having tried on women's underwear? How would the actors react if I told them they had to live as transvestites for a month? It was going to be a mischievous weekend. I couldn't wait to get there.
I purchased my ticket and found the Derry Express. The door of the bus was closed and a queue had formed. An elderly lady who looked like Popeye's partner, Olive Oyl, grabbed the sleeve of a grey-capped man who looked official. She wanted to know why the door of the bus was closed. He turned and listened to her in disbelief, then bent his face down close to hers. He pointed to his forehead.
-Informayshun. Do you see that written on my forehead? No, you don't because I'm not informayshun. Go to the desk if you want informayshun.
Meanwhile, a man in a cream shirt and black baggy trousers approached our bus. He had on a company tie that made him look as if he was attempting suicide by strangulation. In one hand he carried a black metal box and in the other he had a clipboard. A bunch of keys dangled from his belt and a cigarette of grey ash protruded from his lips. I'd have taken odds his mother christened him Bengy. He opened up a panel in the side of the bus and started to fling suitcases into the bowels with abandon. He was good-humoured and jolly and didn't seem to care that the crack at the top of his arse was open to public view. Bengy crawled in after one or two stubborn cases, thumped them lovingly with his fist and backed out again. When he stood up and looked around, the ash on his cigarette was still intact. All my life I've wondered how some men do that.
Olive Oyl arrived back on the arm of a bus inspector and was escorted on to the bus ahead of everyone else. At that point, all decorum was abandoned. We hustled to get on to the bus like bees trying to enter a hive. Ten would-be passengers failed to make it and I tried not to look at their broken-hearted faces as they wandered aimlessly up and down the aisle looking for seats that weren't there. Out on the tarmac, it looked like an eviction scene. A dispossessed husband and wife were waving bus tickets with the authority of tenants holding a fully paid-up rent book. A bald gentleman with a serious beard, who looked like a visiting German poet, was quietly pleading in his native tongue that he had to board the bus. Back inside, Bengy of the cracked arse made an announcement.
-This bus terminates at Monaghan.
The explosion was immediate. People were on their feet shouting and Bengy was telling them to keep their hair on. Irate passengers wanted to know why they weren't on the Derry Express.
-Passengers for Derry change at Monaghan. If you stay on this bus you'll end up back in Dublin, do yous get me?
Outside, the war of words was raging. Three hundred and six years after the first Siege of Derry, the Busβras standoff was taking hold. Paralysis. Stasis. Immobility. A European dimension was brought by the German poet who was standing in front of the bus. Bengy turned over the engine and revved it up to show he wasn't going to be intimidated.
The German started to lose it when Bengy covered him in black smoke. He pulled at his beard in temper. Bengy put the bus in gear and eased it out of its bay. The German ran in front of the bus and Bengy slammed on the brakes. The Inspector came in front waving a white handkerchief of surrender. Bengy gushed open the air door and brought the stand-off to an end. The Inspector boarded the bus, followed by the German who turned out to be a Polish Catholic from Warsaw. He explained his origins by way of blessing himself hundreds of times and invoking the name of John Paul the Second. The Pole apologized for holding up our journey, performing an excellent mime that made it clear he had something in the hold, namely his bicycle. Bengy knew that enormous damage had been done to the tourist image of Ireland and he broke every rule under the sun by offering the Pole a seat on the floor by the steps which, after a minor protest, he accepted. Finally, the Derry Express, which wasn't an express and went to Monaghan, was on the road and heading in a northerly direction.
I was delighted to be on the road at last, making a pilgrimage to the last remaining walled city in Europe. I closed my eyes and dreamt about Da and William. Had the young Dutchman been a lodger in our house (we'd had over forty through the years), Da would undoubtedly have challenged him to a wrestling match. I was imagining them locked together on the floor and Ma stepping over them to pour out the tea when the Derry Express hit a pothole that shot us from our seats. My briefcase toppled out of the overhead rack and hit me on the face. There were minor calamities throughout the bus while Bengy of the cracked arse switched on the intercom and made an announcement.
-This is pothole country, for your safety, please remain seated.
The bus pulled into a car park in Monaghan. We filed off into a canteen where a long queue had formed. They'd run out of sandwiches just before we arrived and all available staff were now in the kitchen frantically putting butter on bread. I could hear the distinctive slap of cheese on bread from where I was standing. The sandwiches came out in a cortege to the counter and there was a further delay while girls in white coats put them into plastic containers and recorded their contents and sell-by dates on a label down the side. It was torture on a Biblical scale. We waited in silence while King Bengy of the cracked arse unwrapped his homemade crispy bacon sandwiches and plunged his molars in. And still we waited.
After all the shenanigans with the sandwiches, it turned out they were all the same - plain cheese on white bread with butter. I tried to explain to the girl the silliness of putting them in containers when they were all the same. She was having none of it.
-Blame Europe, it's them ones make us do it.
I took my plastic container of bread and cheese along with all the other helpless sheep and I searched for somewhere to chew the cud. The only chair left was at Bengy's table. I sat opposite him, took the manna from its tabernacle and stuffed it in my mouth. Bengy lit a cigarette and blew the smoke down my throat just as I swallowed the first mouthful. I went into a fit of coughing that brought the bread back up on to the plate.
-Awful fucking sandwiches, aren't they? he said.
I tried to catch my breath and stop spluttering. He offered me a cigarette. I waved him away.
-No smoking here from next month, he said. Soon we won't be able to piss. I blame Europe.
I recovered enough to speak. I confessed I'd quit smoking, in the vague hope that Bengy might take pity on me and put out his cigarette.
-I'd die if I had to quit smoking, he said, sure it's the only vice left now.
I looked at Bengy's angelic face, which was a perfect match for his arse. Two beautiful, pale orbs, the kind that inspired poetry.
-Who do you blame for the potholes? I said.
Bengy's face lit up, he blew smoke down the twin pipes of his nose, leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially.
-There wasn't a pothole in Ireland before we joined up with Europe.
I couldn't get my head around Bengy's logic. Every time I looked at him I saw a sign that read: No exposed arses - by order from Europe. When I finished my smoked cheese sandwich I said goodbye and headed out to find the bus that would take me to Derry.
We crossed the border at Aughnacloy and hit the smooth roads of Northern Ireland where potholes are virtually unknown. We made our way along country roads, past villages that had their kerbstones painted in red, white and blue for loyalty to the Crown, or green, white and orange for loyalty to the Irish Republic. I could hear lambeg drums echo in the sound of the tyres on the road outside.
Derry revealed itself hunkered below us with Creggan graveyard on the hill like a testament to the city's troubled past. As we swept down the hill and turned left to cross Craigavon Bridge, passengers stood up and pulled their bags from the overhead racks. We turned into the bus depot and an Inspector stood in front of the bus and brought it to a halt. He boarded and asked everyone to sit down.
-Is there a Mr Sheridan aboard? he asked.
I knew it couldn't be me. I looked around to see the passenger I shared a name with. No one responded. The Inspector repeated his call. I felt awkward leaving him standing there when at least I had the right name. I put my hand up but I knew he wasn't looking for me. He came down the aisle and asked me in a very quiet tone was my wife's name Sheila. I was completely taken aback.
-You've to ring home for an urgent message, he informed me.
I had that sinking feeling there was something the matter with one of the children. I had two sons, Rossa and Fiachra, studying in the United States. Could it be they'd had an accident? Or could it be Doireann or Nuala, my two daughters who were at school and lived at home? My brother, Frankie, died in 1967 when I was fifteen. Stepping off the bus it was 1967 again. My mouth went dry. I felt utterly alone. Was it Nuala? She was the baby and the wildest. I prayed that she'd had a regular accident. I inserted the coins and for a moment I couldn't remember my phone number. I was thinking of an old number, long since defunct, when it came back to me. I pressed the digits with great care and waited for a reply. Doireann answered and I knew there was something wrong.
-Hi, Doireann, it's Dad, I said.
When she heard my voice she broke into tears and she tried to get words out but they choked in her sobs. Finally, she said "Grandad", and she just kept repeating it through the tears, one word, repeated, trying to find other words that wouldn't come, but all she could find was Grandad.
-Grandad . . . Grandad . . . Grandad . . . she sobbed.
-What's wrong with Grandad? I asked.
I knew what was wrong with Grandad. I had imagined his death many times but nothing prepares you for the moment.
-Granny found him at two o'clock, there was nothing she could do, she said.
-Where did Ma find him? I asked.
-On the floor of the sitting-room.
-Did he have a heart attack?
-I don't know. Granny called the ambulance but it was no good. It wasn't her fault, Dad. She started to get upset again.
-Of course it wasn't her fault. You stay where you are and mind Nuala. I'll see you later. Goodbye.
I replaced the receiver and from the corner of my eye I saw Malachy Martin walk towards me. We shook hands and hugged like theatre people do. I didn't want to tell him about my father. If I told him, I would confirm it, and I wasn't ready yet. I knew it was true but I didn't want to give it expression. What was I to do? If he was dead, why didn't I feel his spirit tug at my sleeve for permission to go? Why did I not receive a sign? I remembered the bus plunging into the pothole at two o'clock. Doireann had mentioned two o'clock on the phone as the time of his collapse.
I told Malachy something had come up and I might have to go home early. That was as far as I could go. I wouldn't disappoint the actors now that I was here. I'd inherited my father's work ethic and I wouldn't let them down. I excused myself and went off to phone Ma. Soon as I heard her voice, the tears came, and I couldn't stop them. They spilled into the phone as I listened to her.
-Oh, Pete, Pete, I came back from the shops and he was on the floor. If I'd been there I could have done something. He was marking the racing results when I left him, I thought he was OK, but I should have known. Oh, Pete, I should have been here.
-No, you shouldn't, Ma. It's not your fault. I'll be home tonight, I said.
I walked over to Malachy and gave him the news.
-I have to go home and bury my father, I said.
Malachy walked me to the tarmac and I boarded the lousy Derry Express that was bound for Dublin. I sat in the same lousy seat, closed my eyes and willed it to be in Dublin. As the bus crossed the Foyle, I opened my eyes and I could see the pale reflection of the yellow street lights in the lousy river below. As the light disappeared from the sky, sleet started to fall out of the darkness. A big blob landed beside me on the window and clung to it like it wanted to get in. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, it had fallen off.
Da was lying on a slab in a hospital morgue but I couldn't picture him. It was completely out of character for him. He didn't lie still, ever. Never closed his eyes for rest. There was no morgue anywhere could contain Da's spirit. No doctor or mortician would convince Da to get up on a slab and play dead to the world.
I couldn't picture him. I wanted to picture him because I didn't want him to be alone. Morgues were lonely, frightening places. I didn't want him on his own there. Not with other people who were dead and wanted to be on slabs. Da had never been on a winter holiday. He had never been skiing. He had never been to a place with packed snow and ice. All Da knew was warmth and summer swimming in the sea and being the first to take the plunge when the rest of us stood shivering on the rocks.
-What's it like, Da?
-Soup.
Only word he ever used to describe the sea. Soup. He warmed it up for us. You could see the excited bubbles ripple out from his hairy chest. Turned the sea into a heated swimming-pool. All five feet four and a half of him. Splash, splash, splash, splash, splash. Shea, Ita, me, Johnny and Frankie. Steps of watery stairs swimming in his slipstream. Loughshinny, Skerries, Rush, Bray, Greystones and Brittas. Every beach north and south of the Liffey, every beach reachable by train from Amiens Street station. We, the proud possessors of privilege tickets, which got us there for nothing because of Da's job.
Ma sat on the beach with the younger ones, Gerard and Paul, making hot tea for the returning swimmers. The mad rush up the beach to secure the best towels. Da declining all offers to dry himself.
-What was it like, Da?
-Soup.
He stood on the sand with his barrel of Guinness tummy pointing out to sea. He slapped the spare flesh on his back with great swinging arcs of his arms, like an ape up in the zoo. All around him the tribe of chattering teeth struggled to get their vests on.
-How can you not be freezing, Da?
-Because the sea is like soup.
Ma handed out the tea. The secret was not to drink it but to nestle it in your hands until the life came back into your fingers. After that you could press it against your face or hold it tight between your legs until your privates warmed up. Da didn't need to do any of that. His tea went straight into his mouth and washed his sandwich down. He sat in his wet togs and looked out to sea like it was home. The sea was his element and it caressed him like it loved him. The salt, the surf, the seaweed, all tingled when they saw him coming and he was carefree and abandoned among them like nowhere else I knew.
The sea around Ireland would suffer with Da gone. He kept it warm, year in and year out. It was impossible to believe he was going cold and I did believe it but only in a remote sort of way, in the same way I believed that Australia existed.
I'd forgotten to ask where they'd taken him. I was so angry with myself for forgetting to ask. Had I known where he was I might have been able to picture him. As it was, I had to play mental charades. I pictured myself walking up to the front door of every Dublin hospital I knew. Jervis Street, the Mater, the Richmond, the Meath, Sir Patrick Duns, St Vincent's. I ignored reception and followed the signs for mortuary and found myself being taken there by a man with a glass eye and a twisted leg. He wore a turf-brown coat beloved of hospital porters. I was anxious to get to Da but in order not to overtake this man I had to walk at half my normal speed. It struck me more than once along the way that he had been given this job because his disfigurement prepared distraught relatives for what they were about to see, by reminding them of their own mortality.
When we got to the door of the mortuary he took a bunch of keys from his pocket and held them up to the light. He examined the credentials of each key before he chose one to put in the lock. I followed him in to this place of eerie silence. There was a number of slabs and bodies covered with sheets. It looked like a gallery and felt like a chapel. There were pillars at one end and I could see a figure lurking behind them.
It was Da. He stepped out and started to walk towards us. He had his Saturday work clothes on and he was fiddling in the trouser pocket the way he would when he was fishing for money to send me on one of his messages. He told the porter he was slipping out for a cup of tea and he offered him a fistful of money. The glass-eyed porter returned him an unbribable stare. Da held out the money and I could see his hand was shaking with the cold. His lips and his ears were blue and his temples were blue and he was trying hard not to shake. I was glad to see him, of course I was, but it was pathetic seeing him trying to bribe his way out. I didn't want him doing this if he was meant to be on a slab. I wanted him to accept his situation and I was angry that he wasn't laid out like an ordinary dead person.
It was arctic on the Derry Express. The sleet was still falling and there was a numbing wind blowing up from underneath the seats, making icicles of my feet. It was little wonder that Da was running about the mortuary in my thoughts, blue with the cold and refusing to get under his sheet. I couldn't resist the feeling that it was an illusion and once I got home I'd be able to fix it and put things right. Da couldn't leave us just like that. It wasn't in his nature. It wasn't in our family tradition. We said goodbye before we departed this world. That's how it was with Frankie when he died and that's how it was with Grandad Sheridan. It was sad, it was upsetting, but it was the right way.
(c) Peter Sheridan 2001