emerges from behind a stained sheet hanging from a rope that divides the flat’s sleeping and common space so that his mother and aunty might have a modicum of privacy when they have brought punters home. They usually work in the alleys and lanes, but sometimes they bring their work to the flat if the chap has paid for a warm roll instead of one up against a wall. His aunt delivers the greeting her sister has refused to give.
‘And do you be wanting a medal, so? For your troubles?’
‘Aunty Pauline,’ Jeremiah says, lifting one of his sisters, Delilah, aged four, from where she is clinging to his leg. He nuzzles her hair with his face and, as he withdraws, spots a louse—one of many hundreds—clinging to an unwashed strand of the girl’s hair. He takes it between his fingernails, drags it down the length of the strand and crushes it. He scratches the girl’s head for her, serving only to awaken the remaining lice, causing the girl to begin scratching herself. He sighs— Home —scratches and feels the stirring of the lice in his own hair, under his arms, in his pubic hair.
‘Gone how many days and come back with nothing but his goldilocks and no pot to piss in even,’ his aunt says, not looking at him as she speaks, bending to feel the tea kettle hanging in the fireplace, feeling it cold. Then, to his mother: ‘And you, it’s my day for the chair, Madam Jump-up. You had it only bleedin’ yesterday.’
‘Fuck off away with you,’ his mother says, not taking her eyes from the window. His mother is the younger of the sisters, but pays the bulk of the rent on the room, and is thus its mistress when Uncle John Keegan is away. When he is present, Aunt Pauline and her husband rule the roost.
‘And you,’ his mother says, finally turning to Jeremiah. ‘You out gallivanting and see fit to come back skint as you left us. You think the world and her mother’s here to put food in your gob? You may hump off with that hoor of an aunty of yours if you think so much as one hot drop of fat from this bacon will wet your lips.’
‘You can keep your bacon. You didn’t spend the money I brought in last week on bacon, I know bleedin’ well, but.’
His mother looks at him now as if noticing him for the first time, some fear in her eyes that fades as quickly as it has come, thinking herself mistaken in fearing this boy she has reared. Not a man yet, still a youngfella, her Jerry. ‘You’ll not be minding what I spend on what, sonny buck. I’ll skelp your arse soon as I did when you were a nipper, don’t you think I fuckin’ won’t.’
‘You’d want to rise up the lazy bones of your worn out arse first.’
His aunt raises her voice. ‘The two of ye shut it. The racket of yis’d peel the paper from the walls, what’s left of it. And it’s my turn in the chair, Janey. You may get up off it, like the boy says.’
Jeremiah sighs and swallows and sets down his youngest sister, telling her to run out to Sarah. He wonders if his mother will leave the bacon alone long enough for him to snatch it before she can go out into the lane and swap it for drink. He doubts it.
‘When are you boiling the bacon, Ma?’
‘Never you mind when. When I’ve the notion to is when.’
He softens his tone. ‘I’m only sayin’ you should cook it before Uncle John comes in if yis want any for yiselves and the kids.’ At times, Jeremiah has seen his uncle come in, a gallon of porter on board, and eat the family’s entire meal of the day himself, the women and the children left to go hungry.
His aunt crosses the room in three strides and juts her chin out at Jeremiah. ‘You’ll not be talking of me husband like that, not in front of Pauline Byrne, you won’t, you scut.’ She raises an open hand as if to strike him and he laughs, a snigger that sounds to his own ears much the same as the laugh his Uncle John Keegan laughs when one of the women makes an idle threat against him; the laugh sounding like the one his uncle
‘And do you be wanting a medal, so? For your troubles?’
‘Aunty Pauline,’ Jeremiah says, lifting one of his sisters, Delilah, aged four, from where she is clinging to his leg. He nuzzles her hair with his face and, as he withdraws, spots a louse—one of many hundreds—clinging to an unwashed strand of the girl’s hair. He takes it between his fingernails, drags it down the length of the strand and crushes it. He scratches the girl’s head for her, serving only to awaken the remaining lice, causing the girl to begin scratching herself. He sighs— Home —scratches and feels the stirring of the lice in his own hair, under his arms, in his pubic hair.
‘Gone how many days and come back with nothing but his goldilocks and no pot to piss in even,’ his aunt says, not looking at him as she speaks, bending to feel the tea kettle hanging in the fireplace, feeling it cold. Then, to his mother: ‘And you, it’s my day for the chair, Madam Jump-up. You had it only bleedin’ yesterday.’
‘Fuck off away with you,’ his mother says, not taking her eyes from the window. His mother is the younger of the sisters, but pays the bulk of the rent on the room, and is thus its mistress when Uncle John Keegan is away. When he is present, Aunt Pauline and her husband rule the roost.
‘And you,’ his mother says, finally turning to Jeremiah. ‘You out gallivanting and see fit to come back skint as you left us. You think the world and her mother’s here to put food in your gob? You may hump off with that hoor of an aunty of yours if you think so much as one hot drop of fat from this bacon will wet your lips.’
‘You can keep your bacon. You didn’t spend the money I brought in last week on bacon, I know bleedin’ well, but.’
His mother looks at him now as if noticing him for the first time, some fear in her eyes that fades as quickly as it has come, thinking herself mistaken in fearing this boy she has reared. Not a man yet, still a youngfella, her Jerry. ‘You’ll not be minding what I spend on what, sonny buck. I’ll skelp your arse soon as I did when you were a nipper, don’t you think I fuckin’ won’t.’
‘You’d want to rise up the lazy bones of your worn out arse first.’
His aunt raises her voice. ‘The two of ye shut it. The racket of yis’d peel the paper from the walls, what’s left of it. And it’s my turn in the chair, Janey. You may get up off it, like the boy says.’
Jeremiah sighs and swallows and sets down his youngest sister, telling her to run out to Sarah. He wonders if his mother will leave the bacon alone long enough for him to snatch it before she can go out into the lane and swap it for drink. He doubts it.
‘When are you boiling the bacon, Ma?’
‘Never you mind when. When I’ve the notion to is when.’
He softens his tone. ‘I’m only sayin’ you should cook it before Uncle John comes in if yis want any for yiselves and the kids.’ At times, Jeremiah has seen his uncle come in, a gallon of porter on board, and eat the family’s entire meal of the day himself, the women and the children left to go hungry.
His aunt crosses the room in three strides and juts her chin out at Jeremiah. ‘You’ll not be talking of me husband like that, not in front of Pauline Byrne, you won’t, you scut.’ She raises an open hand as if to strike him and he laughs, a snigger that sounds to his own ears much the same as the laugh his Uncle John Keegan laughs when one of the women makes an idle threat against him; the laugh sounding like the one his uncle
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