flowing back so shes happy to let Mam have credit for tea, milk, sugar,
bread, butter and an egg.
An egg.
Mam says,This egg is for your father. He needs the nourishment for
the long journey before him.
Its a hard-boiled egg and Dad peels off the shell. He slices the egg
five ways and gives each of us a bit to put on our bread.Mam says,Dont
be such a fool. Dad says,What would a man be doing with a whole egg
to himself? Mam has tears on her eyelashes. She pulls her chair over to
the fireplace.We all eat our bread and egg and watch her cry till she says,
What are ye gawkin at? and turns away to look into the ashes. Her
bread and egg are still on the table and I wonder if she has any plans for
them. They look delicious and Im still hungry but Dad gets up and
brings them to her with the tea.She shakes her head but he presses them
on her and she eats and drinks,snuffling and crying.He sits opposite her
a while, silent, till she looks up at the clock and says, Tis time to go. He
puts on his cap and picks up his bag. Mam wraps Alphie in an old blan-
ket and we set off through the streets of Limerick.
There are other families in the streets.The going-away fathers walk
ahead, the mothers carry babies or push prams.A mother with a pram
will say to other mothers, God above, missus, you must be fagged out
carrying that child. Sure, why dont you stick him into the pram here
and rest your poor arms.
Prams might be packed with four or five babies squalling away
because the prams are old and the wheels bockety and the babies are
rocked till they get sick and throw up their goody.
The men call to each other. Grand day, Mick. Lovely day for the
journey, Joe. Tis, indeed, Mick. Arrah, we might as well have a pint
before we go, Joe.We might as well, Mick. Might as well be drunk as the
way we are, Joe.
They laugh and the women behind them are teary-eyed and red-nosed.
In the pubs around the railway station the men are packed in drink-
ing the money the agents gave them for travel food.Theyre having the
last pint, the last drop of whiskey on Irish soil, For God knows it might
be the last well ever have, Mick, the way the Jerries are bombing the
bejesus outa England and not a minute too soon after what they did to
us and isnt it a tragic thing entirely the way we have to go over there
and save the arse of the ancient foe.
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