Frankie McCourt. He’ll come back in a few years with a new suit and fat on his bones like any Yank and a lovely girl with white teeth hangin’ from his arm. Mam says,Ah, no, Pa, ah, no, and they take her inside and comfort her with a drop of sherry from Spain. It’s late in the day when the Irish Oak sails from Cork, past Kinsale and Cape Clear, and dark when lights twinkle on Mizen Head, the last of Ireland I’ll see for God knows how long. Surely  I  should  have  stayed,  taken  the  post  office  examination, climbed  in  the  world.  I  could  have  brought  in  enough  money  for Michael and Alphie to go to school with proper shoes and bellies well filled.We could have moved from the lane to a street or even an avenue where houses have gardens. I should have taken that examination and Mam would never again have to empty the chamber pots of Mr. Sliney or anyone else. It’s too late now. I’m on the ship and there goes Ireland into the night  and  it’s  foolish  to  be  standing  on  this  deck  looking  back  and thinking  of  my  family  and  Limerick  and  Malachy  and  my  father  in England and even more foolish that songs are going through my head Roddy McCorley goes to die and Mam gasping Oh the days of the Kerry dancing with poor Mr. Clohessy hacking away in the bed and now I want Ireland back at least I had Mam and my brothers and Aunt Aggie bad as she was and Uncle Pa, standing me my first pint, and my bladder is near my eye and here’s a priest standing by me on the deck and you can see he’s curious. He’s a Limerickman but he has an American accent from his years in Los Angeles. He knows how it is to leave Ireland, did it himself and never got over it.You live in Los Angeles with sun and palm trees day in day out and you ask God if there’s any chance He could give you one soft rainy Limerick day. The priest sits beside me at the table of the First Officer, who tells us ship’s orders have been changed and instead of sailing to New York we’re bound for Montreal. Three days out and orders are changed again.We are going to New York after all. Three American passengers complain,Goddam Irish.Can’t they get it straight? 358