Poguemahone, p.24
Poguemahone, page 24
I saw them there myself in actual fact,
in the early days, when they’d gone
by the name Poguemahone, ha ha,
if you can believe that!
With Bonnie, God love her, giving as good as
she got
virtuosically delivering
among others –
‘The Rakes Of Mallow’,
‘The Smile Of The Moon’.
Or my own personal favourite,
‘The Sorrows Of Currabawn’.
with the latter
of course
never actually being performed
in reality
but whose sentiments & rhythm
have always been ever-present
in my blood
they really have
because, ah boys,
whenever you think of them
all those sorrows and longings of Currabawn
aye and Killiburn too
in its own way even worse
what with the way it abandoned us in the end
with the way it left
me and my poor unfortunate
sibling, lovely Una.
With something which ought
to have been so happy,
uncomplicated and simple
ending up bitter & filled
with disagreements
recriminations which have pursued
us
right down, even,
to this very day.
O! They say that
the women
are worse
than
the men!
Well, as far as my sister
Una
goes they are
& let there be no
hint of equivocation
about that
for she drove
me fair to distraction
around that time
especially when The Temple
finally fell to ruins
with those changes of mood
those endless
mood swings
& changes of mind
sometimes even
screaming at me
out of nowhere
& insisting it was me
who was to blame
for all that happened.
Do chuir tusa lámh orm!
was the first thing she said
when I told her that
on the peril of her life
she had no choice
& would have to
leave back the children
the páistí that she’d taken
literally stolen
kidnapped, yes
seduced with promises
away from Queen’s Park
to our home that day.
Yes! You struck me, Dan Fogarty!
is all I can remember her saying
over
&
over
& of course
you’re going to deny it
for all you’ve ever been
all you are is a liar
that is all you’ve ever been
& it was you
yes, you and no one else
who put the thought
of the childre
into my mind
in the first place
for us to get ourselves a pair of páistí
& once and for all have ourselves
a proper clann
one we can enjoy
at home with the Fogartys
a proper nest
a right loving family
that’s what you said
& why you made me go and
do it
follow little Bobbie & Ann
every Sunday in Queen’s Park
when smack-addict Judy their mother
used to go off to Carlton Vale
for an hour or so
yes, that’s what you said
take the children and give them
some presents
& then bring them back so as
you and me could look after them
and now here you are
blaming it all on top of me
I hate you, my brother
I despise you, Dan Fogarty!
Yes, was all she had to say
&, as well as that, this:
I loathe and despise you,
my so-called fucking brother!
Ah dún do bhéal, I said, and hit her a sciob.
But here, what’s this I was saying
I was telling you, wasn’t I
about Red Bonnie Sugrue,
yes,
& Luke Powys
& the little romance
that had been growing up
between them
at least as far as that eager
old Luke
was concerned
but what the valley-man didn’t know
of course
was that for quite some time,
Red Jack’s daughter had been coorting
this other woman
by the name of Maggie Breen
a musician, the very same as herself
& who sometimes joined them
for sessions in The Bedford
or late at night in the back bar of
The Fiddler.
What ultimately ever became of
the banjo-girl Maggie Breen
to be perfectly honest
I never did find out.
Although, I do know this
that whatever it was that she and
Bonnie might have had
somehow it hadn’t worked out in the end.
Aye, had finished badly
by all accounts
the very exact same
as Una and myself
but, sure, that’s the way
that’s the way
for sure
ha
ha.
But what a beautiful picker
Maggie was
she’d guested with her one night before
Shane McGowan & The Pogues
‘The Lark In The Clear Air’
was one of the ones they’d played together.
Lord bless us & save us
there they are again
them sweet little old birdies
you look around & there they
are everywhere
monitoring everything
going on down below
you just can’t be up to them
so you can’t.
So she never married, Red Jack’s daughter.
& as for Luke Powys
he ended up working in Barclays Bank.
In Glasgow of all places, never again
mentioning his time in Brondesbury Gardens.
Especially that night when he’d swallowed
a handful of bennies
& spent six hours doing his best to
count out all the eyes yes trying to count
all the eyes in the flat
all the eyes that he thought were there
in the flat
looking at him
I’d forgotten about that
neglected to remember the 1000 eyes.
Which was how many he said he could find.
1000
1000
1000
bawling his own eyes
out as he counted.
1000
I often wonder was that the same number
the same number totted up
by our mother Doreen Fogarty
yes, poor old Dots
as she twined the brown scapular
that revered, weathered ‘yoke of obedience’
around her little bony fingers
and then went sailing
away off out into the blue
Yes, 1000 eyes
perhaps
or maybe
more
yes, maybe even
more
before
taking that final
plunge and
leaping
right off
into
that
cold, fogswirling
dawn
with
St Anthony
&
Mary
strung
around her
neck
Yes, 500-plus eyes
600
700
up to even
1000 eyes –
or who knows,
who can say
maybe
even
more.
As a matter of fact
I think I’d plump for that
Yes, err on the side of more
because what with the náire
the shame of it
of which there was plenty
yes, thinking of it somehow
getting back to the place where she’d
been born, the quiet little village
that is known as Currabawn
she would inevitably have experienced
psychological problems
imní
depression
&
all the rest of it
because after
enjoying
the ruaille buaille
with Slack Timmoney
who of course
had upped and gone
yes, completely disappeared
whether to Port-au-Prince
Rio de Janeiro
or wherever
she did not know
making it really
impossible for her
to do anything other
than what she did
arrange to have a ginmhilleadh
which’d be an abortion, aye
of the backstreet variety
yes, that is what
she went
&
did
only,
the Lord above
save us
didn’t it all,
as so often happened
back in those medically
rudimentary days
yes, didn’t the whole blessed
thing
go hopelessly wrong
with it mainly being the
responsibility of that
sleepy old ex-midwife
going by the name of Madge Mannion
who had been supposed to perform
it in her back kitchen
but hadn’t been paying attention to
what she was doing-
with Dots, God love her
knowing if she didn’t stop her
she was going to
end up next thing to mutilated
as off she tore up the street in
her overcoat
& nothing else
with the lickle babogue
still alive & kicking inside her.
So, between the hopping and the
trotting
& drinking far too much
wasn’t the next thing she was doing
arriving late at night in
St Mary’s Hospital
down Paddington way
doing her damnedest
to try & pull out all the
little baby hospital plugs
to bring them peace
as she kept on saying later
but, as you can imagine,
as far as everyone else was concerned
police included
that was definitely no way
to behave
with it only being by the grace
of God that another young nurse
came upon her in the nick of time
saving the babbies
but, all the same,
I’m afraid Dots Fogarty
she was now in very serious trouble
indeed
coming back half drunk
to Brondesbury Gardens
that cold night in 1954
carrying a little empty baby-suit
in a bag and all the time
laughing her head off
waltzing around in our
little attic room
along with it
& not a sinner to be seen inside of
it.
No, divil a baby or toddler
or nothing
Before being arrested
but thankfully not charged
instead treated by a doctor
after which she embarked on
an entirely new occupation
becoming what they called
a sin-girl
of mystery
with what eventually emerged
in her little attic room
not at all what you might call
a babogue
or a leanbh at all
nothing like a human infant
in fact
something, maybe,
not of this earth,
going
ploc
ploc
ploc
for all the world
the blood of ages.
Poor auld Dots.
No wonder she’d imagine
that the eyes of 1000 little birdies
– and more! –
monitoring her every move.
Yes, the eyes of little birdies
súile na n-éan
which, to this day,
even yet
remain relevant
to this story
because Tanith, you see
yes, The Duchess Tanith Kaplinski,
as she’d been christened by Alex Gordon,
in whatever spare time she
may have had at her disposal
she often made a habit of
visiting the West End
and this exotic club in particular
called The Mandrake.
Where, after having consumed a few lagers
she would eventually relent
(after all, they knew she was a dancer)
& perform a routine, a special little one of her own,
which never failed to bring the house down
her own very unique interpretation of
the James Bond theme
‘You Only Live Twice’
rendered in as impossibly an erotic manner
as she could manage
with her hourglass silhouette wantonly
rhythmically swaying
as though Miss Kaplinski
she hadn’t so much as a care in the world.
And most certainly, in recent times
hadn’t been hearing any ‘odd noises’.
O no, not at all.
As a performer she became quite entranced
whenever she found herself
‘in the moment’
which is where she was now
in a cherry-red sports car
cruising a cliff road in the French Riviera
as the orchestral theme attained its
familiar crescendo.
She had brought the house down
with the owner pleading with her
to come back
will you, Nancy Sinatra?
Nancy, she had laughed
& had never felt better
making her way home in the
taxi, over the moon
what on earth have I been worried about?
she kept on asking herself
throughout the course of the journey
did you not see the reception
that I received?
Ha ha ha I’m a star
she kept on laughing
before finally arriving at No.45
& whistling the very same bravura tune as
she flung her bag away from her
plugging in the kettle on the draining board
feeling so silly for ever having
been so ridiculously & unnecessarily
apprehensive
ha ha, she laughed again
& that was when she heard
the single dead, muffled beat of
the drum
just one single, abbreviated thupp.
But that, however, was just the beginning
as, one by one, the originally dull
scarcely audible sounds
ever so steadily began merging &. . .
coagulating was the word she kept thinking of.
Until, directly, diagonally opposite
her across the room
she could plainly make out
what appeared to be an eye.
Not 1000, or anything close to such a number.
No, just one
eye, that is
just one single solitary
súil.
Gleaming there, lasciviously.
As over she went, to her dismay finding nothing.
Not, at least, until she turned around.
And saw me sitting there.
Observing her with my little birdie
eyes.
Súile na n-éan.
Knowing, of course, that no one would believe her.
Not even Troy McClory
who was usually sympathetic
but, like the rest of them, in recent times
had begun to manifest
identifiable signs of impatience
& exasperation.
But, if nothing else,
at least he had done this much
– recommended her to an alternative
therapist in nearby St John’s Wood.
Who’d suggested she avail of the benefits
of St John’s Wort, a herb she herself
swore by.
And which, for a while,
it has to be said
had actually worked like a dream for her
at least until another type of dream
or brionglóid took over.
When poor Tanith Kaplinski,
ironically in the aftermath of yet
another triumph onstage
in The Mandrake,
miming this to Nancy’s
equally popular tune
her very own version
of the popular tune
‘Secret Agent Man’
handsomely attired in a gold-spangled
mini-dress
combined with glossy white go-go boots
finding herself now really
quite euphoric
flinging open the door of her apartment
& falling down, laughing, onto the sofa.
& presently drifting off into a
deep and most contented slumber
only to wake up, she estimated afterwards,
less than an hour later
with her attention being drawn
to the elaborate white plasterwork bordering the light bulb.
& realising that the small round spot she’d just
identified
dark crimson in colour
& approximately the size of a small coin
it had now begun spreading ever so slowly
positioning itself
directly above her
she found herself dumbfounded
& as well as that discovered she
couldn’t move
as the first droplet hit her
ploc, was the sound it made
&
ploc
ploc
