Taming the Alien

Trying to recapture the great moments of the past

Pat had prepared breakfast as if Man United were expected.

Two plates on the table with:

sausages (2)

eggs (2)

tomatoes (2.5)

fried bread (1)

black pudding (1)

The plates were ample enough for a labour party manifesto.

Brant said, ‘Holy shit!’

Pat was already tucking in. ‘Get that inside you, man, soak up the booze.’

Odd thing was, Brant was hungry. He sat down, lifted a fork and indicated the black pudding. ‘What kind of accident is that?’

‘Would you prefer white?’

‘White what … eh?’

‘It’s pudding, the Pope loves it.’

Brant pushed it aside, speared a sausage and said, ‘Which tells me what exactly? I mean, the Pope … is that a recommendation or a warning?’

Pat laughed, had a wedge of fried bread, said, ‘The Pope’s a grand maneen.’

‘A what?’

‘Man-een. In Ireland we put ‘een’ onto names to make them smaller. By diminishing, we make them accessible. It can be affectionate or mocking, sometimes both.’

Brant found the sausage was good, said, ‘This sausage is good … or rather, sausageen.’

‘Now you have it. Pour us a drop of tea like a good man.’

They demolished the food and sat back belching. Brant said, ‘Lemme get my cigarettes.’

‘Don’t stir … try an Irish lad.’

He shoved across a green packet with ‘MAJOR’ in white letters on the front. Brant had to ask. ‘Not connected to the bould John I suppose?’

It took a moment to register, then ‘Be-god no, these have balls.’

Pat produced a worn Zippo lighter and fired them up. Brant drew deep and near asphyxiated. ‘What the fuck?’

‘Mighty, eh?’

‘Jesus, now I know what they make that pudding from.’

Pat excused himself, saying, ‘Gum a less school.’ At least that’s how it sounded to Brant. It means simply, ‘Excuse me’.

Like that.

He came back with the inevitable tea pot and a large white sweater. ‘This ganzy is for you. It’s an Aran jumper and if you treat it right, it will outlive yer boss.’

Brant never, like never got presents; thus he was confused, embarrassed and delighted. ‘That’s … Jesus … I mean … it’s so generous.’

‘Tis.’

After Brant had showered, he donned a pair of faded Levis and then the Aran. He loved it, the fit was like poetry. He said, ‘I’ll never take it off.’ Put on a pair of tested Reeboks and he was Action Man.

Pat eyed him carefully, then said, ‘Be-god, you’re like a Yank.’

‘Is that good?’

‘Mostly! Mind you, it can also mean, “Give us a tenner”.’

Pat volunteered to show him how to find the Gardai. Before leaving, he asked, ‘Who’s Mayor Mayor?’

Brant was stunned. ‘What?’

‘Mayor Mayor. You were roaring the name like a banshee last night.’

Brant sat down. ‘Gimme one of those coffin nails.’ He lit it and felt the tremor in his hand. ‘A time back, I had a dog named Mayor Mayor … after a character by Ed McBain.’

Pat didn’t have a clue as to who McBain was, but he was Irish and learnt from the cradle not to stop a story with minor quibbles, so said nowt.

Brant was into it, back there, his eyes holding the nine yard stare. ‘We had a psycho loose called The Umpire, he was killing the English Cricket Team.’

If Pat had a comment on this, he didn’t make it.

‘I called him names on TV and he burned my dog, just lit him all to blazes, the dirty bastard.’ Brant stopped, afraid his voice would crack.

Pat asked, ‘When you caught him, you beat the bejaysus outta him?’

‘No.’ Very quiet.

‘You didn’t?’ Puzzled.

‘We didn’t catch him.’

Pat was truly amazed, muttered, ‘I see’. But he didn’t.

Brant physically shook himself as if doing so would do the same to his mind. It didn’t. ‘I loved that dog — he was the mangiest thing you ever saw.’ Is it possible to have a smile in a voice? Brant had it now. ‘I used to take him for walks up Clapham Common, thought we’d score some women.’

‘Did ye?’

‘Naw, I was the ugly mutt.’ And they both laughed. The tension was easing down, beginning to leak away.

Pat, being Irish, was attuned to loss, pain and bittersweet melancholia. ‘Lemme tell you a story and then we’ll talk no more of sad things. Tell me, did you ever hear of the word “bronach”?’

‘Bron … what?’

‘You didn’t. OK, it’s the Gaelic for sadness, but be-god, it’s more than that, it’s a wound in the very soul.’ Pat paused to light a cigarette and sip some tea. He knew all about timing. ‘Our eldest lad, Sean … a wild devil. He’d build a nest in yer ear and charge you rent. I loved him more than sunlight. When he was eight he caught a fever and died. There isn’t a day goes by I don’t talk to him. I miss him every minute I take breath. Worst, odd times I forget him, but I don’t beat myself up for that — it’s life … in all its granite hardness. The point I’m hoping to make — and eventually I’ll get there — is life is terrible, and the trick is not to let it make you a terror. Now, there’s an end to it. C’mon, I’ll bring you to the Garda.’

Brant couldn’t decide if it was the wisest thing he’d ever heard or just a crock. As he rose he decided he’d probably never be sure; said, ‘Pat, you’re a maneen.’