Brendan's Wake

[R. Broath]

He swallowed the pieces of Polo Mint and cast a final glance along the street. Maybe there would be someone. But no, not a sinner. Afternoons weren't the time for wakes. The sitters at this time of day would likely be a mix of old folk, loquacious relatives of the deceased and the unemployed.

'There'll be more craic tonight,' he thought, 'After closing time.'

But he was away later. This was his only opportunity. He flung another hopeful glance along the street. Nothing. He swung open the rusty gate and approached the paint-flaked door. It began to rain. He knocked and waited. The door opened and a fug of stale smoke billowed out.Mustiness assailed him. The smell of bachelorhood. Brendan had lived alone here for years.

An elder brother of the deceased plucked a fag from his lips and stood, squinting in smoky pain. For uncomfortable seconds they eyed one another in an embarrassment of silence. Mick mouthed the platitude.

'I'm sorry for your trouble.'

The doorkeeper completed the litany.

'Thank you, Mick. Sure it's the one thing comes to us all.'

Mick thrust a hand forward. The dry shake was completed without eye contact.

'Come in, and welcome,' said Joe, standing aside.

In the hallway the smells overwhelmed him; a combination of tobacco, sweat and damp clothes. Mick hadn't set foot in the house in over twenty years. Then, himself and the deceased, had been inseparable, hunting women and trouble, and not minding which they found. Since then they'd drifted apart; different work, different interests, and, and in Brendan's case, a failed marriage.

'Old Mrs Magorrian was too houseproud to let the place get into this state,' he thought.

'Brendan. What would you like for your tea, son?'

'Steak and chips, Ma', Brendan would reply, winking at Mick.

'Right oh.'

'That's a bloody joke. There'll be no meat in this house 'til Saturday, if the ould fellow doesn't swallow his wages in whiskey. That's all for your benefit, Mick. So's you'll tell your Ma the Magorrian's are havin' steak for their tea. Beans an' toast, more like.'

Mick smiled at the memory. It made him fonder of Mrs Mag to think she wished to be highly regarded by those in the same predicament as herself. Many's the time he'd slipped in the back door from his house three doors up, looking for a fag or a cup of sugar for his own Ma. Mrs Mag loved to issue such low scale credit.

'Go on in, Mick, if you remember the way.' said Joe.

He took the four steps along the narrow hall and turned right into the living room. As he'd suspected, the afternoon attendance was sparse. In a threadbare settee by the window sat an equally threadbare couple, cups and saucers balanced precariously on their knees. Beside them, in a high-backed dining chair, sat an old neighbour of his. He couldn't remember her name. She held her handbag to her chest, like a shield. They exchanged nods. He wallowed self-consciously in their silent gaze for an age.

'Sit down, Mick,' ordered his host, elbowing him towards an easy chair by the Devon grate.

As he bottomed into the seat the years slipped away. He remembered this very chair. Often, he and Brendan had watched, indeed encouraged, some elderly relative to contort themselves into this black hole of a chair. Many wheezing Aunts had struggled, like sheep on their backs, to extricate themselves from this mutant seat. He understood now, why the old neighbour had insisted on the solid surety of her perch. He also fancied he detected a grin creasing the features of the male half of the setteed couple. They busied themselves with imaginary lap and lapel crumbs as he came to rest, knees under chin, in the chair from Hell.

'That's what we call our 'low' chair,' said Joe, in superfluous explanation.

'Aye,' spluttered Mick, ' I remember.'

'Mmm.' said the lady in the dining chair.

'We were just saying,' she continued, nodding towards the fireplace, 'That's a good idea.'

In the opening a single bar glowed meanly. Two out of three bulbs meant to suggest a roaring log fire failed to play their part.

Mick thought he had missed something. Surely they hadn't been discussing how good an idea a broken electic fire was. No. They must mean...he searched frantically along the path of her nod for another source. He was flummoxed.

'Eh?' he said, defeated.

Another nod.

'The electric fire. A good idea.'

'Er. Yes?' said Mick, hoping she might notice the query in his voice.

Again the nod.

'In a wake house. You know.'

Mick fixed the fire with a sterner gaze. Maybe harder concentration would yield what his befuddled briain had missed. He got the impression that some apt remark or observation was expected.

'Yes. We thought so,' interjected the lady on the settee.

'Obviously it's some dementia afflicting those who attend wakes in the afternoon,' thought Mick.

'Aye,' Joe said, 'A coal fire might be too much in this wee house, an' himself lyin' above. We thought it might be...easier to control. A bit less...stiflin'.' He flicked his chin upwards to indicate where the corpse lay.

'Ah,' thought Mick, 'That's it. They were afraid of the house becoming too...stuffy. Why hadn't they said so?'

Maybe it was a subject best broached by innuendo and nod. He turned a mental nose up at the thought of his old friend going off. He had, come to think of it, read somewhere of a body starting to pong in the heat. Or was that in 'The African Queen'?, he wasn't sure.

'My God,' he thought, 'I'm not right sat down and I'm caught in their madness.'

'It's not too warm where dear Brendan is now', said the lady on the settee.

'Indeed not,' confirmed her companion, smiling.

Joe finally got round to making the introductions.

'Mr and Mrs Clarke, this is Mick Savage, an escapee from our wee street this long and many a year. A boyhood friend of Brendan, and often, I can tell you, in his talk an' in his prayers. An' ye remember Mrs Flanaghan, Mick?'

Mick abandoned himself to the order of things and gave the greeting of the day, a nod. He regarded Joe's introduction as the claptrap of wakes. Brendan had never uttered a prayer for anyone in his life. No harm in that. But he resented Joe for making him feel guilty about the lack of communication between Brendan and him in recent times. He felt a sudden warmth for his old friend lying stiff upstairs. His thoughts were interrupted by Mrs Flanaghan.

'You were telling us, Joe, how Brendan got on in hospital.'

Joe eased himself into the twin of Mick's chair. The years had been good to it. Mick couldn't help thinking that Joe had deliberately guided him to this one.

'Yes. I was telling them, Mick, how they couldn't do enough for Brendan. Not that he'd have complained anyway.'

'Wake shorthand,' thought Mick. 'If Brendan hadn't complained they'd have buried him, for he'd have been already dead.'

'Do you know that the top liver man came over from England?'

This was too huge a nugget for Joe to let go. He let the statement rest on their ears for a moment, then repeated the claim.

'Aye. The top liver man. All the way from England.'

'Did he Joe? Away ow that,' said Mrs Flanaghan.

Mick stared at her in admiration. Here was a woman who knew her wakes. Her timing was perfect. There was Joe, struggling manfully to inflate his speech with the awe he knew it required, and here, Laurel to his Hardy, was wee Mrs Flanaghan. She underscored his tale with the import he knew it deserved, and allowed what basic good manners may have precluded, a third rendition. Joe could have kissed her.

'The top liver man in the country. An' said he'd never seen the likes of it in a man half Brendan's age. No. Nor in thirty odd years in the liver game. It was pristine. Perfect, he said. Coulda been transplanted, it was that good.'

Joe finished with a flourish. This was matinee stuff, though. He knew the big show was tonight, when the crowds would flock. But it was a good opportunity to hone the performance, and he relished it. He leaned back in his chair, a happy man.

'There you are now,' Mrs Flanaghan said, ' An' us thinkin' that all them years he crawled home paralytic drunk he was wreckin' his innards.'

The angelic smile Joe had flashed at Mrs F for her complicity now vanished from his face. Mick noticed, too, an involuntary wink begin to dance in Joe's left eye.

Mrs Clarke came to the rescue,' Sure don't we all take a drop o' the craithur, an' where's the harm in that?'

Mrs Flanaghan almost pulled the lapel from her best coat. 'See this?' and she indicated a Gold Pioneer pin, the badge of fifty years abstinence from intoxicating liquor, 'This means that demon drink has never sullied my lips. Humph'

With her final 'Humph' she squirmed heavily in her chair. Unfortunately, she had been a long time in the seat and the warm leatherette produced a rude sound.

Mr Clarke snickered. Mrs F reddened. Mick smiled and Joe coughed diplomatically. Mrs Clarke said, 'Pardon You.'


In the darkened room upstairs, where they had lied to one another about the girls they'd kissed, Mick bade a final farewell to his boyhood friend.

He recalled a conversation they'd had at their last meeting.

'You know, Mick. I couldn't care less what kills me. I just hope they have a good time at my wake.'

Mick smiled at the memory, and thought his old friend would be well pleased.

[David]

You'll have noticed by now, RB - Jimmie, is it? - that this is a relatively unfrequented corner of the site. The poems is where the action is - they're much more instant gratification than prose. But I saw you'd been in here, so I slipped in for a look, and I'm glad I did. I think this is very good, and it deserves more readers (and plaudits).

I would read on for sure, and you can't say fairer than that.

"Write about what you know", they say, apparently. I think you've done that. And I know these are the obvious names to trot out, but I would say you've read your Joyce and your O'Brien.

Enjoyed.

Cheers

David

[R. Broath]

Hi David and thank you for the comments.
Yes, I took a look in here on first joining and could see that it seemed a ghostly place of echoes and infrequent stirrings, but thought I'd have a go anyway. Your positive comments are most welcome on this. I used to write more prose but have concentrated on poetry for the reasons you give and to try to improve by experiment and feedback.
I have certainly read Joyce - his book of short stories, The Dead, is imo one of the best of the genre. Not sure, though who you mean by O'Brien. I remember reading a book of short stories by Tim O'Brien, an American. It was called 'The Things They Carried' and if you like SS then I would highly recommend it.
Again thank you for venturing into the lonely place and great to hear from you.

Jimmy