Im fagged out, Paddy. Them steps is killin me. Did you have
your tea?
I didnt.
Well, I dont know if theres any bread left. Go up an see.
Paddys family live in one big room with a high ceiling and a small
fireplace.There are two tall windows and you can see out to the Shan-
non. His father is in a bed in the corner, groaning and spitting into a
bucket. Paddys brothers and sisters are on mattresses on the floor, sleep-
ing, talking, looking at the ceiling.Theres a baby with no clothes crawl-
ing over to Paddys fathers bucket and Paddy pulls him away.His mother
comes in, gasping, from the stairs. Jesus, Im dead, she says.
She finds some bread and makes weak tea for Paddy and me. I dont
know what Im supposed to do.They dont say anything.They dont say
what are you doing here or go home or anything till Mr. Clohessy says,
Whos that? and Paddy tells him, Tis Frankie McCourt.
Mr. Clohessy says, McCourt? What class of a name is that?
My father is from the North, Mr. Clohessy.
And whats your mothers name?
Angela, Mr. Clohessy.
Ah, Jaysus, twouldnt be Angela Sheehan, would it?
Twould, Mr. Clohessy.
Ah, Jaysus, he says, and he has a coughing fit which brings up all
kinds of stuff from his insides and has him hanging over the bucket.
When the cough passes he falls back on the pillow. Ah, Frankie, I knew
your mother well. Danced with her, Mother o Christ, Im dying inside,
danced with her I did below in the Wembley Hall and a champion
dancer she was too.
He hangs over the bucket again. He gasps for air and reaches his
arms out to get it. He suffers but he wont stop talking.
Champion dancer she was, Frankie. Not skinny mind you but a
feather in my arms and there was many a sorry man when she left Lim-
erick. Can you dance, Frankie?
Ah, no, Mr. Clohessy.
Paddy says, He can, Dada. He had the lessons from Mrs. OConnor
and Cyril Benson.
Well, dance, Frankie. Round the house an mind the dresser,
Frankie. Lift the foot, lad.
I cant, Mr. Clohessy. Im no good.
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