mother, straight home, oh, he doesnt know about the excitement in
the loft or the excitement on the green sofa or me in such a state of
doom that if I died now Id be in hell in a wink.
Uncle Pa goes back to his pint. Im out on OConnell Street and
why shouldnt I take the few steps to the Jesuits and tell all my sins this
last night Ill be fifteen.I ring the bell at the priestshouse and a big man
answers,Yes? I tell him, I want to go to confession, Father. He says, Im
not a priest. Dont call me father. Im a brother.
All right, Brother. I want to go to confession before Im sixteen
tomorrow. State o grace on my birthday.
He says, Go away.Youre drunk. Child like you drunk as a lord ring-
ing for a priest at this hour. Go away or Ill call the guards.
Ah, dont.Ah, dont. I only want to go to confession. Im doomed.
Youre drunk and youre not in a proper spirit of repentance.
He closes the door in my face.Another door closed in the face, but
Im sixteen tomorrow and I ring again. The brother opens the door,
swings me around, kicks my arse and sends me tripping down the steps.
He says, Ring this bell again and Ill break your hand.
Jesuit brothers are not supposed to talk like that.Theyre supposed
to be like Our Lord, not walking the world threatening peoples hands.
Im dizzy. Ill go home to bed. I hold on to railings along Barring-
ton Street and keep to the wall going down the lane. Mam is by the fire
smoking a Woodbine, my brothers upstairs in the bed. She says,Thats a
nice state to come home in.
Its hard to talk but I tell her I had my first pint with Uncle Pa. No
father to get me the first pint.
Your Uncle Pa should know better.
I stagger to a chair and she says, Just like your father.
I try to control the way my tongue moves in my mouth. Id rather
be, Id rather, rather be like my father than Laman Griffin.
She turns away from me and looks into the ashes in the range but I
wont leave her alone because I had my pint, two pints, and Im sixteen
tomorrow, a man.
Did you hear me? Id rather be like my father than Laman Griffin.
She stands up and faces me. Mind your tongue, she says.
Mind your own bloody tongue.
Dont talk to me like that. Im your mother.
Ill talk to you any bloody way I like.
You have a mouth like a messenger boy.
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