virtually marooned in the middle of the Pacific.
Phil roars laughing as he lifts his glass. ‘Up the Republic!’
‘God save Ireland,’ says Charlie.
‘All power to the soviets,’ I say.
The first drink of the day rasps against my throat. I light a cigarette and pour another drink. Phil excuses himself and goes back to the snug.
‘How come the place is empty?’ says Charlie.
‘They took Phil’s licence after the Rising.’
‘He doesn’t seem the sort to be mixed up in that sort of thing.’
True, Phil’s idea of a political opinion is to moan about how hard it is for an honest publican like himself to make a living. If I’ve heard his joke about his membership of the Irish Publican Brotherhood once, I’ve heard it a thousand times. Yet there he was on Easter Monday morning, walking across the deserted street toward the barricade outside the GPO where I stood guard, a rifle strapped across his back and a toolbox full of ammunition in his hand.
‘Is it yourself, Victor? Is it the socialists are rising out? I heard ye were having a crack at the English.’
‘Go on home, Phil. We haven’t a chance of winning.’
‘I’m not in the least bit concerned whether we do or not.’
I remember thinking for a moment that if a man like Phil Shanahan was with us, maybe we had a chance after all. Charlie asks for a cigarette. He inhales and splutters. ‘You should smoke more,’ I tell him.
‘I know. Did you keep the card?’
I hand it over. Cigarette cards don’t interest me, but people are religious about them. ‘What are they, Navy Cut?’
‘Gallaher’s.’
He’s disappointed. ‘I’ve nearly got the full Player’s collection: the Large Trench Mortar, the Stokes Trench Mortar, the Vickers Field Artillery Piece. I only need the Lewis Automatic Gun.’ The card read Plants Of Commercial Value. Charlie’s face squirrelled up with distaste. ‘Flowers, like. Papaver rhoeas is a variable annual wild flower of agricultural cultivation. The four petals are vivid red, most commonly with a black spot at their base. Blah blah blah. Who gives a damn?’
I down the whiskey and pour another. Through the gap in the door of the snug I see one of the fellows with Phil take out a shiny gold pocket watch and fidget with the chain. I recognise that fidget. Alfie Byrne, the Shaking Hand of Dublin himself. Such a nervous fellow, if he didn’t have someone’s palm to pump, he would take out that bloody watch chain and fidget with it. Couldn’t sit still for a moment. He had shaken hands all the way to the House of Commons. I down the whiskey.
‘You have to come home, Victor. Your da isn’t the man he was. The drink has him.’
‘A man with fifteen children can afford to lose one son.’
‘He has nobody.’
Nobody? The Lord said Go Forth and Multiply, and by God Pius Lennon took him up on it. He made my ma into a production line.
‘They’ve all left. Everybody’s gone. Pius is alone.’
Most of my brothers would knife the old man in the guts if they thought it’d get them their inheritance a day sooner. The Lennon land is worth a lot, at least in the conception of Madden people. ‘What d’you mean gone? Gone where?’
‘The four winds. We’ve tried everyone else. You’re our last hope.’
I get up and knock on the door of the snug. I ask Phil to lend me pencil and paper. He goes behind the bar to see if he can find anything, and as he rummages, I wave to Alfie Byrne. Alfie looks well, with his crisp moustache and stiff collar and expensive shoes. He waves back. Is he starting to lose the hair? He won’t like that, the vain bastard. I can only see the knees of the third man, who stays seated in the snug. Phil hands me a pencil and a copy of the Picturegoer magazine.
‘It’s all the paper I can find.’
‘Do rightly.’
According to the Picturegoer there’s a new five-reeler coming soon starring Kitty Gordon. Don’t think much of her to be honest, but apparently she’s the Most Magnificently Gowned Woman On The Screen. I thumb through the pages quickly to see if there’s a picture anywhere of Mildred Harris. I like Mildred Harris. Don’t see one. I throw the magazine down in front of Charlie. ‘Fifteen is a lot to keep track of. Write on this.’
Charlie opens the Picturegoer at a random page and glances at the picture. ‘There’s a new picture palace only after opening in Armagh,’ he says.
‘Is that a fact?’ I say as I take it back from him. If you want something doing, honest to God. ‘I’ll write. Let’s start with Seamus. Where’d he go?’
‘Boston.’
I scribble it down. ‘Emily?’
‘Manchester.’
‘England or New England?’
‘England. Mary’s in Cape Town. Anthony’s in Wellington, Thomas is in Sydney.’
‘Fucken empire-builders.’ I down my whiskey and pour another.
‘Oliver is in Buenos Aires. Maybe you should slow down, Victor.’
‘Bonus what?’
‘Buenos Aires. In the Argentine.’
‘Jesus. What about Patsy?’
‘Melbourne. Theresa, eh …’ Charlie thinks about it for a second: ‘Glasgow. Johnny is in Chicago. Agnes is in New York.’
‘Wee Aggie? She’s only a child.’
‘She’s twenty-two. She’s married over there, I think. Rosemary’s in Toronto. Who am I forgetting?’
I tot up the numbers quickly. ‘We’re missing four.’
‘Including yourself.’
‘Three then. Brigid?’
‘Philadelphia. Peter went to London. He got conscripted. He’s in France now.’
I pour another whiskey. ‘Fucken eejit.’
‘I met him out there. In Paris. Small world, eh? Two Madden boys meeting away on the other side of the world. Him and a few of his cockney pals were paralytic. They were asking me did I know where was the Moulin Rouge.’
I smile. Peter’s the youngest, he was eight the last time I saw him. ‘Dirty wee bastard. I’m sure you told him off.’
‘Sure I was on my way there myself.’
I laugh loudly and take a long slurp. There’s a name missing from the list. ‘What about Sarah?’
‘Sister Concepta. She’s been with the Dominicans in Drogheda these last five or six years.’
‘You must be fucking joking me?’ I’m off again, laughing like I haven’t laughed in years. Fifteen Lennons and not one single city big enough for two of them. Pius has scattered the family like I said he would. My sides hurt.
‘Keep it civil down there,’ Phil shouts across the room.
‘Is she married?’ I ask Charlie. ‘You know damn well who I mean.’
‘No, she’s not. She’s the schoolteacher.’
‘Did she send you to come and get me?’
‘Jesus but you’re full of yourself.’
‘Then who’s we? You said we wrote to all our ones.’
‘Bishop Benedict.’
The name is like a nail on a blackboard to my ears. I presumed he’d be dead by now.