The Killing of the Tinkers

I finally took Laura to a dance. As Jack Nicholson said,

“I’d rather have stuck needles in my eyes.”

Before going to London, I’d lived in Bailey’s Hotel. You have to be old Galway to know it. Well, you have to be old. Off Eyre Square, towards the tourist office, a small street on the left and you’re there. The owner was in her eighties, a feisty old devil. A chambermaid, Janet, was even older. She’d once given me a rosary beads. Shortly after, I’d killed my best friend. I’m not saying there’s a connection.

It was Janet who told me about the Saturday night dances. Sounded safer than a club and the band was live. If wearing a blazer and being over fifty counts as live. I dressed casual; black jeans, white shirt and a deep anxiety. Arranged to meet Laura in the Great Southern. She asked,

“Why there?”

“So we can begin with notions.”

She, as usual, had no idea what I was talking about, but she agreed. As I swung through the revolving doors, the porter said,

“Jack Taylor, by the holy!”

“How you doing?”

I couldn’t remember his name so leant heavily on the greeting. Seemed to work as he said,

“Grand. I heard you went to London.”

“I’m back.”

“That’s great, Jack.”

I took an armchair in the lobby, just sink in those mothers, feel important.

Laura arrived, short black coat and legs to die for. I clocked the porter give her a look of full appreciation. I stood up and she kissed me, said,

“It’s ages since I saw you.”

Took her coat off and she’d a black polo over black skirt. I said,

“Jesus, you look phenomenal.”

“For you, Jack.”

The porter came over, asked,

“Your daughter, Jack?”

“Yes, it’s mid-term break.”

Laura ordered sherry and I’d a Jameson; get the evening cooking. The porter, trying to regroup, asked,

“Would you be happier in the bar?”

“Nope.”

I told Laura about Bailey’s. She said,

“Oh, the Saturday dance. My dad used to go.”

Whoops!

We’d one more drink and got up to go. The porter took me aside, said,

“Jack, I didn’t mean anything by what I said.”

“Forget it.”

“I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of the guards.”

I didn’t correct him. If nothing else, it shows that contrary to popular belief, hotel porters didn’t know everything.

Mrs Bailey had a huge welcome, asked,

“Who’s this?”

“Laura Nealon.”

“Ah, I know all belong to you.”

Laura went to the ladies and Mrs Bailey said,

“I heard you got married.”

“Not to Laura.”

“I thought so. She’s far too fond of you to be your wife.”

This is Irish flattery at its finest. There’s something in there to like, but there’s also the suspicion of a lash. Whatever else, it keeps you on your toes. Now she said,

“I wouldn’t have you down as a dancer.”

“I’m not.”

The band didn’t disappoint. They had the mandatory blue blazers, white pants. None of them would see fifty again. Not that they’d gone easily into that good night. No, whether it was toupees or Grecian 2000, they’d a uniform of dark unmoving hair. And teeth? Man, they’d molars to die for. Like the showband legacy, they played as if they meant it. The showpiece was the bugles, with a one two dance step to match. Of course, a massive repertoire; if they’d heard it, they played it…energetically. From Roy Orbison through the Shadows (with a nod towards the Eagles) to Daniel O’Don-nell. It was Hospitals’ Request live. The time-honoured formula, too: a fast set, ladies choice, then fast. Interspersed was a lone vocalist. The stage would go black, a single spotlight on the singer. He’d stand, head lowered, and a voice would intone,

“Ladies and gentlemen, Elvis Presley” or Chris de Burgh or even Buddy Holly.

Same singer, of course. He had the sort of voice that got no votes on Opportunity Knocks. Halfway through the evening, the band took a break; like everybody else, they headed for the bar. As luck would have it, I was alongside the lead vocalist. Sweat was pouring off him. He gasped,

“Howyah?”

“Buy you a drink?”

“No, we got complementaries.”

“You deserve it, great show.”

“Thanks, it’s our last before the tour.”

“Tour?”

“Yeah, Canada, then two months in Las Vegas.”

I tried not to shudder, said,

“Lucky you.”

“And we have an album coming out.”

“Wow, what’s it called?”

“Greatest Hits.”

I had the grace not to ask,

“Whose?”

He lifted a tray of drinks and said,

“There’s a chance we’ll be on The Late Late Show.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”

“We’d be made.”

“Hey, you’re made already.”

He loved that. When I tried to pay for my drinks, I was told the band covered it. There are moments, rare as luck, that you feel glad to be alive. That was one. I danced three times, managed to make two of them slow. You can fake your way through these. Just hold her tight and don’t walk on her feet, easy-ish. The fast numbers were a nightmare. I tried to look like I had some moves. A woman had once said,

“You learnt to dance in the sixties.”

It’s one of those statements you don’t question. There is never a time you want to hear the answer. Laura, of course, was a great dancer. As I fumbled through, the sweat cascaded down my body, a voice in my head roaring “horse’s ass”. When we stood for the national anthem, I swore never again. When we walked home, Laura linked my arm and said,

“That was terrific.”

Back home, she smiled, went,

“I can stay.”

After we’d made love, she perched on one arm, examining me. I wanted to plunge the room into darkness. Her fingers touched the tattoo and she asked,

“Is it an angel?”

“Yes.”

“Your guardian angel?”

“I don’t know, I got it in a snooker game.”

“You won?”

“No, I lost.”

One thing my dad had taught me was snooker. He’d played in provincial finals. I’d learnt well. Almost never lost. Till my training at Templemore. We’d a weekend break and had headed for the centre of Dublin. A snooker hall in Mary Street had a long-standing rep. I’d beaten all the other cadets when our sergeant arrived, challenged me to a game. I knew enough then not to play for money, so we’d wager anything else. The sergeant, his sleeves rolled up, was a riot of tattoos. He said,

“You don’t approve, young Taylor?”

“Not my thing.”

“Well, if you lose, you get one, how would that be?”

Piece of cake, I thought, and lost. Down on the quays we’d gone. Tattoo parlours in those days were dodgy. Of all the awful symbols on offer, the angel was the least offensive. Did it hurt?…Like a bastard.