and tells us for once in our lives don’t wash our faces, don’t comb our hair, dress in any old rag. She tells me give my sore eyes a good rub and make them as red as I can for the worse you look at the Dispensary the more pity you get and the better your chances of getting the public assistance. She complains that Malachy Michael and Alphie look too healthy and you’d wonder why on this day of days they couldn’t have their usual scabby knees or the odd cut bruise or black eye. If we meet anyone in the lane or the streets of Limerick we are not to tell them where  we’re  going.  She  feels  ashamed  enough  without  telling  the whole world and wait till her own mother hears. There is a queue already outside the Dispensary.There are women like Mam with children in their arms, babies like Alphie, and children playing on the pavement. The women comfort the babies against the cold and scream at the ones playing in case they run into the street and get hit by a motor car or a bicycle.There are old men and women hud- dled against the wall talking to themselves or not talking at all. Mam warns us not to wander from her and we wait half an hour for the big door to open.A man tells us move inside in proper order and queue up before the platform, that Mr. Coffey and Mr. Kane will be there in a minute when they finish their tea in the room beyond.A woman com- plains her children are freezing with the cold and couldn’t Coffey and Kane bloody well hurry up with their tea.The man says she’s a trou- blemaker but he won’t take her  name this time with the cold that’s in the morning but if there’s another word she’ll be a sorry woman. Mr. Coffey and Mr. Kane get up on the platform and pay no atten- tion to the people. Mr. Kane puts on his glasses, takes them off, polishes them, puts them on, looks at the ceiling. Mr. Coffey reads papers, writes something, passes papers to Mr. Kane.They whisper to each other.They take their time.They don’t look at us. Then Mr. Kane calls the first old man to the platform.What’s your name? Timothy Creagh, sir. Creagh, hah? A fine old Limerick name you have there. I do, sir. Indeed I do. And what do you want, Creagh? Ah, sure, I do be havin’ them pains in me stomach again an’ I’d like to see Dr. Feeley. Well, now, Creagh, are you sure it’s not the pints of porter that are going against your stomach. 232