The Bay Page 2

  Uncle John stopped blowing, and began to hum. This too was ritual. I glanced up at him, and saw his face set and mysterious, confronting the winds of life.

  My Uncle John was the grandest of all my relations. He was an uncle by marriage only, the husband of my father’s second sister. She was dead, and I barely remembered her, but the stories I heard of her since made her far more real to me than most of the living. The trouble was, they didn’t fit the dim figure I remember, and I had to hitch them to her portrait. But he, and his brother George, who was no connection at all, dominated the whole pack of uncles and aunts by weight of character and sheer masculinity.

  Uncle John was, I suppose, about five foot ten or eleven, but looked more. This was odd, because he was very broad in the shoulders, and had a good belly on him. It was characteristic that his obesity made him look taller instead of shorter. The rules didn’t apply to him that governed other men. His head was big, and his face round, quite round. His eyes were china blue, a little bleared in the whites, and his red cheeks and his nose had a great number of small crimson veins, due to alcohol. He wore wide turn-down collars, and, instead of knotting his tie, he pulled the two ends of it through a broad gold ring. Despite the strict uniform called for by his profession, he affected fancy waistcoats, all of them, even the so-called white one he was wearing today, equipped with tarnished flat brass buttons. These he clung to against all protest, wearing them with the bowler and black broadcloth coat needed for a professional appearance.

  Uncle John was an auctioneer, and a real authority on furniture, tapestry, and carpets. He was manager and general boss of a large furniture concern in the city, and by dint of his life’s experience he had acquired a vast and expert knowledge of brass fenders, steel fire shovels, punch spoons in Queen Anne silver, carpets, curtains, armchairs, spindley chairs and tables for drawing-rooms, divans, and goodness knows what else. He knew, too, about pictures—not from an artistic point of view; of that he knew nothing; but he could tell exactly the sort of picture that would sell, and what you might expect to get for it.

  He had been to a school in the country, and everything he had learned at it he remembered perfectly. He knew the five books of Euclid, he knew mensuration, he was a master of arithmetic in its more commercial aspects, and he had a prodigious and quite undiscriminating memory for verse. He could recite perches of Shakespeare, he could reel off furlongs of Goldsmith’s Deserted Village—Goldsmith was his pet—he knew a lot of Byron, and quite a bit of Milton. At the same time, and with equal accuracy, he could repeat to you the libretti of seven or eight operas, and never seemed to distinguish between the words, however silly, and the best of Milton or Shakespeare. There was a simple reverence in his mind for what had been given him with authority, and it was all lumped together into a sort of sacred canon. He’d amassed it all at school and when he was a very young man, and there it stayed, undisturbed. To the best of my knowledge, since he was twenty-five or so he never added to it, or read anything except the racing news. He backed an odd horse, but infrequently, and never without seeing it: and as a rule he won. He was apt in quotation, simple in his appetites, firm in his religious faith, innocent in his worldly outlook, smoked large Kapp pipes, and was a master of the art of cutting up plug with the keenest of knives. He was a superb razor-sharpener, and a glorious carver of meat and fowl. His prowess at carving was universally allowed, even in the family. He had powerful natural teeth, loved lots of blood-red gravy on his meat, and would go to any lengths to get it. He was very greedy about his food, and had a hatful of amusing stratagems to get the best rashers and the nicest-looking fried eggs out of the hot dishes at breakfast. At the same time he loved to press the best on other people, so that it was a real sorrow to him, a deep and troubling conflict, if there wasn’t enough. He was never sick or bilious, even after a drinking bout. He never had resort to the saline aids of nowadays, and was always ready for bacon and eggs, haddock and porridge.

  Uncle John was broadminded, big hearted, and for all his simplicity he had a kind of vulpine cunning which saved him time and again in places where another man must have tripped. He was not rich, but he was more than comfortably off. Having no children, he lived up to all he made, and there can have been few houses in Clontarf as well furnished as his, or with such old and genuine stuff in them. He had a passion for mirrors, I remember, big tall ones, and he put them in all sorts of odd places. Many’s the time I got a shock in the dusk of a winter afternoon to meet a small boy, a white-faced staring fetch of myself, where I least expected. His wife never cared for them either, though he excused his own passion for them by pretending that they were put in for her benefit.

  “A woman always likes to be seeing herself in the glass, Luke.”

  I remember him telling me that, with his man to man conspirator’s wink, when I couldn’t have been above four years old. Maybe he believed it. Maybe he only liked mirrors for her sake, or began to collect them, when he married her, in the mistaken belief that he was gratifying her. I don’t know. I’ve wished, how often I’ve wished, that he was here now, so that I could question him. There’s so much I could say to him, so much I understand now. That’s one thing I’ll get by writing this book. I’ll be able to talk to some of the figures of my youth with a man’s understanding, and atone to them, in my own mind anyhow, for the things I didn’t know when they were with me. Uncle John, Martin, Captain Callaghan, Doctor Marcus—what a carouse we’d have together, if I could hop back in time the way these new scientists seem to envisage. It won’t be the same in Elysium. Even if we can re-create your shop, Martin, down to the last split board and fly-blown notice, it won’t be the same.

  I knew where Uncle John would walk me. He would walk me to Hegarty’s, on the quay. We wouldn’t go straight to it, any more than he would approach the subject directly. We would do a sort of cast around, just as he would do a cast around in his mind. He began to blow again.

  “Phooph, do you know, little son, that’s a cold wind. Isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Uncle John.”

  Sahara or Siberia, I’d have agreed with him.

  “Oh, it is so. There’s a nip in that wind. Do you feel the cold of it?”

  “Yes, Uncle John.”

  “But not too much?” He looked down at me in large-eyed concern, as a huge seal might look down at its baby. “You’re warm enough?”

  “Oh yes, Uncle John.”

  “Ah well, you’ve a good right, bless you, with the warm muffler and good reefer coat. And the snack inside you, that Ann Dunn gave you. Now there’s a good woman for you. A jewel. Ah-ha.”

  He sighed, blew again, and paused. All the while my heart was in an agony of love for him, longing that he would come straight to the point, wishing I could tell him he needn’t go through all this circumlocution.

  He gave a sudden jovial laugh that rang false.

  “Do you know, son—seeing you have had your meal like that—I wish—faith, I wish I’d asked her to give me a bite and a sup. Bedad, I’m quite peckish. I made a good breakfast, too. It must be the air: the nip in the air. That’s what it is, son. The nip in the air.”

  “Hadn’t you better have something, Uncle?”

  My voice was timid. I can hear it this minute. I can feel his huge paw holding mine, I can see the big tanker at the quay beside us, with the patches of red paint on her hull, I can hear the winding of a winch, and the screaming of gulls in the grey empty sky.

  Uncle John stopped.

  “Bedad, son, that’s an idea. That’s a great idea. A nice ham sandwich, and something to wash it down. Not too much, you know: nothing to spoil our dinner. Just a little snack. Will ye look where we are—just around the corner from Hegarty’s. All handy as can be.”

  We rounded a warehouse, ducking our heads to the wind that rushed down the bare alley. For a second or two I had to stand still, leaning against it. Uncle John grasped his hat.

  “Faith, that’s terrible boisterous,” he said, his moustaches blowing to one
side. “George’ll be glad he isn’t out in this.”

  “Are we going to see Uncle George?”

  “We are so, when I’ve had my snack.”

  We turned another corner, and came to Hegarty’s. Uncle John pushed open the stiff door, all varnish and frosted glass. It swung viciously shut behind us, and at once we were sucked up in the familiar warm smell, compounded of beer and whiskey and sawdust, with a prevailing tang I never smelt in any other pub in the world, and I’ve sampled a thousand—the smell of a chandler’s shop, the tang of turpentine that hung about it always, and that I’ve never been able to explain.

  There were only four men in the place, beside Leary at the bar. I can see them now, two seafaring men playing dominoes, in jersey, reefer coat, and peaked cap, one with a grey beard, one young and dark: a commercial traveller with a bag and postcards, and a man whose eyes watered and who was pretending to be interested in the postcards and the low-toned monologue which went with them.

  Uncle John gave them all a hearty good morning, to which they responded with no great enthusiasm. He then spoke almost severely to Leary, as if the barman were tempting him.

  “Now, mind you, it’s only to be a snack. And the one glass only, not a sup beyond. We have to go and see the boy’s uncle, and mustn’t spoil our meal.”

  Leary nodded, poured my uncle half a glass of John Jameson, and went away for a moment. Uncle John tossed the whiskey off at a gulp. Leary came back with two ham sandwiches, picked up the glass, and poured in another dram. Uncle John took sandwiches and dram, and moved to a table next the commercial traveller. As if profiting by the diversion, the man with the watery eyes got up swiftly and went out.

  Uncle John looked at the sandwiches meditatively, picked one up, made to bite it, then appeared to change his mind, and hurriedly drank his whiskey. Leary did not move. Uncle John sat quite still for a few seconds. Then he addressed himself to the traveller.

  “A cold morning, sir.”

  The traveller grinned weakly. He had very few front teeth. “No one’ll contradict ye there,” he said.

  “Ah,” said my uncle. “That’s what I like about you gentlemen of the road. You’re broadminded. You’re broadminded. There’s nothing like travel for broadening a man’s mind. A man stays in one place all his life, sitting on his arse, and you come and make a proposition to him—no matter what: you may just say, It’s a fine day, or, That’s a pretty woman. You may say the sky is blue, or the mustard wants mixing—God knows, any little thing, for civility’s sake: and, likely as not, he’ll contradict ye. But a man like yourself, that goes around and meets all manner of people, is ready to exchange civilities, and meet a person half way. Am I right?”

  While my uncle was speaking, Leary came out from behind the bar with a duster, and flicked one of the tables. Reaching our table, he picked up my uncle’s glass, and took it away with him. My uncle never batted an eyelid. He made no sign, either, when Leary came back and set it once more before him, with the same golden dose.

  The traveller had at first seemed a little disconcerted. Then he rallied.

  “Oh, bedad,” he said, “ye meet all sorts.”

  “Very true. Very true. You do. All sorts. I can endorse that, for I meet so many myself. My calling, sir, takes me around the country at frequent intervals. I meet all sorts. Next to a doctor, and a priest—and, of course, yourself, sir—an auctioneer sees deepest into the secrets of the human heart. Now,” said my uncle, leaning forward and waving a finger up and down, “that may surprise ye?”

  “No, no,” said the traveller. His gaze, following my uncle’s finger, came to rest, fascinated. I felt sure I knew what he was looking at, for I’d often looked at it myself: the big thumb-stall Uncle John wore always on the thumb of his left hand. When I first noticed it, I thought he’d cut his thumb, and asked him, but got an evasive reply. Next time I saw him, he still had it, though there’d been time for the worst of cuts to heal. I always looked after that, and he always wore it. After much speculation, I was content to leave it a mystery, part of the glorious personality of my Uncle John.

  “The occasions,” said my uncle, raising his glass—”may it be to your good health, sir. Will you join me? You will? Grand. I’d have asked you before, only I didn’t see this rascal here had filled my glass. Leary—one for the gentleman, and another for me. The occasions on which an auctioneer sees his fellow creatures are such as to shed a ray of light upon their inmost hearts. Have you watched the play of passion over the faces at an auction? Greed, concupiscence, avarice, running from face to face like wind in a field of wheat? Have you seen the shocking incidence of grief, frustration, hate, on the face of the baffled bidder? You have not, God help you—and how should you? Only the auctioneer on his dais sees that. Again, do you penetrate into houses in times of bereavement? When the deceased—maybe he was of your own calling, sir—when the deceased has not only left no money, but has left a second establishment, unknown to the first, and the first unknown to the second, and both women appear as claimants to the proceeds of the same enforced sale? Ah, sir, I tell you—here, Leary. The gentleman would like another, and I must keep him company. Oh, but you must, sir. I positively insist. I won’t take no for an answer . . . “

  Leary came, but slowly. I knew what he was thinking. Sure enough, he made a sign to Uncle John, and nodded towards me. But Uncle John, on the full tide of munificence and speech, would not see him. After a marked hesitation, Leary took the glasses away, and came back. The traveller began to talk. Uncle John’s whiskey loosed his tongue, and he started to interrupt, telling Uncle John of the dramas he, too, had seen. Uncle John didn’t like being interrupted. He raised his hand to check the traveller, but the traveller did not heed it, and Uncle John presently forgot what he was going to say.

  I became sleepy, and stopped listening. The voices roared and ebbed, ebbed and roared. The traveller began a story about a woman, and presently I realised that Uncle John was stopping him, with reproofs on my account.

  Then we were all on our feet. Uncle John went over to the bar. He had the traveller by the arm, and was pressing him to have another drink. The traveller didn’t want it. Leary joined in, and the argument became a quarrel. How they got there I don’t know, but the next thing I noticed, they were talking about Ireland.

  “It’d be a damn sight better for Ireland,” said Uncle John clearly, “if she’d stop talking about herself and thinking about herself. No man or woman is ever the better of always standing on their dignity and thinking about themselves. And it’s the same thing with a country.”

  Suddenly he stooped, picked me up, and sat me on the counter.

  “Ah, little son. Sure we don’t want to talk politics, do we?”

  “Bedad,” agreed the traveller, “you’re right there. Well—I must be off.”

  “Be off, then,” said Uncle John, and let out a roar of laughter. The traveller looked surprised, but rallied as before with his weak grin, and disappeared. Uncle John wiped his eyes and his moustache.

  “Oh, begod,” he said. “That’s a queer fella, now.”

  Leary and Uncle John and I all looked at one another. Leary jerked his head at me.

  “I thought you were going to take the young lad to see your brother.”

  “I was,” Uncle John said composedly. “But sure, it’s too late now before dinner. What do you say, little son? Shall we have dinner first, and go and see Uncle George after?”

  “Anything you like, Uncle John.”

  “That’s my good boy.” He lifted me down. “Ah, I declare, now, you’re a grand boy to take out. A real treat. Not like some, that are always nagging at ye and exacting ye.” He turned to Leary. “I’m saying, Leary, he’s a good boy to take out. A nice quiet boy.”

  Leary gave me an approving nod. Uncle John sat down at the table again.

  “What have you, Leary?”

  “Liver and bacon. It’ll not be ready yet.”

  “Not ready yet!” Uncle John frowned. “That’s bad
, Leary. That’s bad. What’s the hour?” *

  “It wants five minutes of one. Sure it’s never ready till one or a quarter past.”

  Uncle John considered this with the same worried look on his face. It was in little ways like that you could tell when he’d had a drop. The sort of fluent, bombastic talk that would sound drunk in another man was simply Uncle John’s public manner, his way with men he didn’t know. The sign of liquor on my Uncle John was just those sudden small punctiliousnesses he’d discover. Leary regarded him, with complete understanding. He knew, and he knew that I knew. If he had shown the slightest sign of complicity, if he had grinned or winked at me behind my uncle’s back, I would have wished him dead, and wished to die of shame myself. But not by a muscle of his face did he betray us. It’s there, among simple people, among the uneducated and the poor, that you’ll find perfect consideration and tact—in certain human situations, that is, situations they can understand.

  Uncle couldn’t make up his mind. He knew some decision was called for, but he couldn’t focus it. Leary helped him.

  “Will I go and ask Bridgie how long it’ll be?”

  Uncle John’s face cleared. Relief shone on it like sweat.

  “Aye, do, Leary. There’s a good man.”

  Leary went. Uncle John filled in the interval by looking straight in front of him and humming, “Yes, let me like a soldier fall”. When he came to the high G, his voice cracked and sputtered. He cleared his throat self-consciously, and repeated the phrase, making the same cracked noise on purpose, as if he’d intended it the first time.

  Leary came back.

  “Bridgie says it won’t be above ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes.” Uncle John turned to me. “Will that do us, Luke? Can you manage that?”