Patrick Mccabe - Emerald Germs of Ireland

These few words are written so that we might understand why Pat McNab, the main character in this book, behaved in the way he did. What they definitely are not is an attempt to excuse him, for Pat is guilty and everybody knows it, but at least, with a bit of luck, they will go some way toward explaining why he grew up with the reputation of being a complete loo-la and a headbin of the highest order as Timmy Sullivan, the proprietor of Sullivans Select Bar, described him one night. You see, for as far back as he could remember, Pat had always wanted to be in a pop or show band but his mother wouldnt countenance it. Almost losing her mind, in fact, if it was even so much as mentioned! Band! she would snap, glowering at her son. Ill give you band! Think youre going to end up like that other lug, do you, that father of yours, disporting himself in his great big captains uniform for every trollop and painted hussy that went walking the road, and neer so much as a copper sent home to buy a crust of bread! Band! Pshaw! Get down on your knees this very instant and scrub them tiles before I put this brush across your back and dont think for a second I wouldnt!

Which Pat did not doubt in the slightest, for manys the time hed had to endure her doing just that, and for offenses far less serious than bringing his father up in the conversation. He had left them not too long after Pat reached his ninth birthday, and all that was heard tell of him subsequently was that he was seen in Dublin with two girls in flowery dresses, one dangling on each arm. After that, all that had to be said was D, never mind his whole name, and she would freak, as Honky McCool might put it, throwing jugs, plates, and anything else that might be to hand, calling him the most outlandish names. Names unrepeatable in any civilized company. One day, Pat, without thinking, had the misfortune to muse aloud, I wonder will Daddy ever come back?without hardly realizing he had spoken at allhis mother, before he knew it, pounding him across the head with a plastic basin, crying, I warned you! I told you not to say it! after which he was more than careful about what he pondered aloudand then someas the Americans say. But then, to make matters worse, other days youd come across her sitting in the dark clutching his fathers photograph and wiping her eyes as she sobbed, I wish hed come home, our daddy. An eventuality which, sad to say, was never to come to pass. There were rumors that he got hit in the chest by a stray shell and died right there on the spot. But then there were the other rumors that hed deserted and ran away to hide in Belgium with a woman, so its very difficult to say.

In any case, it doesnt matter, for what we are primarily concerned with here is Pat, his mother, and this band business, as she called it. The band that never was, of course, for what with his mothers persistently unhelpful attitude how could it ever have possibly beenwhen, literally, you werent permitted to open your mouth about it. Just as Pat darent open his mouth to his mother about most things, for somehow no matter what you said to Mammy (as he had always called her, for as far back as he could remember) she always seemed to take it up as you saying: Well then! Thats the end of our relationship, I guess! Ill be off to live my own life! Toodle-oo! Even if it was in reality about a million miles from what was truly in fact going on in your mind! And which became very exasperating for Pat, as Im sure you can imagine, the simplest declaration, such as, WellI think Ill just pop down to Sullivans for a bottle of stoutIve a bit of a thirst on! being greeted with a foul glare and the words Oh, have you now! A bit of a thirst on, eh? Wellgo on, then! Go on then with your thirst, Pat McNab! But dont think Ill care if you never darken the door again as long as you live!

Sometimes she might even start to cry, until in the end it would get so bad that Pat would say, I wont go, then! Ill stay here, Mammy! Ill stay here with you, then, if thats what you want! Particularly if he had been doing some reading or practicing his acting skills.

But not without being furious with himself for doing it, for at times his late evening thirsts could be almost unbearable.

A lot of people, if they could gain access to Pat (which, admittedly, can be difficult, for he rarely answers the door now), would probably be hard-pressed not to look him in the eye and say, Pat, what made you go and do the like of that, clobbering your poor mother, not to mention everything else you got up to, God knows how many unfortunates fertilizing the daisies in your garden? What on earth were you thinking of? As if to suggest that Pat is some big mysterious psychological puzzle instead of the most ordinary fellow you could ever hope to meet. An ordinary fellow who just happened to want to have a few drinks at night-time and maybe join a band to sing a few songs. Without always having a shadow falling across him and a dumpling-shaped parent snarling Where do you think youre going? every time Pat opened the front door. After all, as Pat often pointed out, he was forty-five years of age.

Still and all, there were times he missed his old mammy, and there is no point in denying it. Times when he would think of her chopping up fingers of toast and coming out with a plateful of them and handing them to him proud as punch, all in a line with the butter running through them. Times when shed dress him up in his pressed soldiers uniform and say, Be my little captain for me, Pat! as off hed march up and down the kitchen with his mother beaming, thinking of all the good old days shed once had with his father.

He would feel lonely whenever he thought of those times, seeing his life stretching out before him like some deserted highway, his bed at night now hopelessly bereft of her big warm rolls of fat and those comforting occasions when she would respond, in answer to his anxious nighttime query, Are you there, Mammy? Yes, yes of course Im here, son! As I always will be!

Which was no longer the case and never would be again, for as long as he lived, as Pat knew, the saddest part of it all being, of course, the fact that she had herself been responsible for the situation which had brought so much unhappiness to them both. As indeed had a lot of other people who couldnt find it within themselves to mind their own business. People who found it difficult to go through life without saying, Look! There goes McNab! Odd as two left feet, that fellow!

But there is something special about the relationship we all have with our mothersand Pat, in moments of reflection, would feel a wave of melancholy sweep through him as he thought how, if he had to live through it all again, he wouldnt have laid a finger on her. Often, he would wipe a tear from his eye and, seeing her before him large as life with her two eyes twinkling, whisper the words, Mammy. This time let us do it right, and when I ask you can I join the band or have a bottle of stout, you just say, Yes, Pat, you can. Why, of course you can. You dont even have to ask.

And when in his imagination Pat McNab hears his mother uttering those words, there is no happier man on this earth, and all he can think of is throwing his arms around her neck and giving her a great big gooser (their private name for a kiss) on the cheek as he cries, Do you know what Ill do, Mammy? Ill join no band! Ill say to the band. Go to hell, band, for what do I care about you! And then Ill stay home all day with you! Thats what Ill do! For youre better than any band! Band be damned! I care about no band!