hardly recall how long I continued to wander the now-empty streets until I came to a dainty bridge, fancifully decorated with iron railwork. I turned right to go across it, but a man intercepted me and asked me to pay a ha’penny.
“Why?” I asked testily, having just walked over any number of bridges without let or hindrance. He chuckled at me for a bumpkin and said, “Because ’tis the Ha’Penny Bridge, of course.”
Not in a humour to be amused by this, I turned on my heel andwalked away until I could barely see the high head of the Bank of Ireland. I cared not if I were lost. At the far end of the lane was a streetlamp with a sign that faintly read Dame Street. I saw stairs leading below, the blue waft of tobacco smoke, a few feet standing about on the trampled straw, and heard a hum of conversation. I knew it was a place to drink and I longed to rest my tired legs. Did not a man in a brave new city need a drink, heartsick and addled with sights as I was?
• • •
W HY I WANTED my fourth glass of whiskey I cannot tell, for I am not that kind of drinking man—as anyone who knows me from Strandhill to Sligo can vouch. I do like the first warmth of the gullet as it goes down, the feeling of ease. I enjoy the second one’s savour of peat and comfort, and am done. But on this day, there was summat in me which would not be comforted. I despise those who turn over their fourth glass and roll their eyes to cry or look for a fight. But I drank as if from a thirst, and a sense of having to let go of something precious. I also knew that soon I would have to find words to defend my lost dream, yet resenting its failure. What a strange state of mind this was.
Two men were talking at my table, wrestling with words. For the better part of an hour, I paid them little attention. I had come with my drinks and sat down with a tired sigh, ankle-deep in straw. The younger one looked a dandy with mocking eyes. He was dressed in a soft brown coat with round copper buttons, his hair thick and curly under a trim felt hat with a tan band around it. The other was of middle years, with a three-day growth of beard, whose talk, as I began to listen, was clearly from farther west, from Fermanaghperchance, or from Tyrone. This older man wore worn corduroy and cloth buttons, and his hands were rough and crusty. I would not be surprised to see him at a hayrick or a threshing, or his leg pushing a spade down to square off and lift sod, or dusting the dirt off the potatoes. ’Twas odd to listen to them—the city-bred and the rough countryman—knowing that such a chance meeting of opposites could only happen over peaty whiskey in a public house. As their animosity grew, I realized I was beginning to pay their words more attention.
“And ye have an opinion of the weather and the parliament and the sun and moon, eh?” scoffed the older man.
The young man smiled and shook his head. He let his finger run round the rim of his half-empty glass, then looked up, including me in his glance. “I could have predicted today’s matter, but then I am a betting man. A betting man should know his nag. And I can say confidently, I saw through that Dan O’Connell.” He flipped his palm open, as if anyone with sense would agree with him.
A hard meal it was for me to digest the meaning of today, and I grimaced, despite myself. This young suave was speaking as if our failed hero was little more than a gombeen come to cheat us, playing fast and loose with our hopes.
“Mr. Blackburn,” the older man said, holding his calloused palms together, as if not trusting them separately, “you are too flippant about a man who has served Ireland well all his life, but fumbles on one cursed day.”
Blackburn motioned to the serving man behind the counter. “Will you join us, sir, in a toast?” he said to me directly. I was taken by surprise, not just to be included, but also that a toast was to be proposed. I could tell this Blackburn liked to hold
“Why?” I asked testily, having just walked over any number of bridges without let or hindrance. He chuckled at me for a bumpkin and said, “Because ’tis the Ha’Penny Bridge, of course.”
Not in a humour to be amused by this, I turned on my heel andwalked away until I could barely see the high head of the Bank of Ireland. I cared not if I were lost. At the far end of the lane was a streetlamp with a sign that faintly read Dame Street. I saw stairs leading below, the blue waft of tobacco smoke, a few feet standing about on the trampled straw, and heard a hum of conversation. I knew it was a place to drink and I longed to rest my tired legs. Did not a man in a brave new city need a drink, heartsick and addled with sights as I was?
• • •
W HY I WANTED my fourth glass of whiskey I cannot tell, for I am not that kind of drinking man—as anyone who knows me from Strandhill to Sligo can vouch. I do like the first warmth of the gullet as it goes down, the feeling of ease. I enjoy the second one’s savour of peat and comfort, and am done. But on this day, there was summat in me which would not be comforted. I despise those who turn over their fourth glass and roll their eyes to cry or look for a fight. But I drank as if from a thirst, and a sense of having to let go of something precious. I also knew that soon I would have to find words to defend my lost dream, yet resenting its failure. What a strange state of mind this was.
Two men were talking at my table, wrestling with words. For the better part of an hour, I paid them little attention. I had come with my drinks and sat down with a tired sigh, ankle-deep in straw. The younger one looked a dandy with mocking eyes. He was dressed in a soft brown coat with round copper buttons, his hair thick and curly under a trim felt hat with a tan band around it. The other was of middle years, with a three-day growth of beard, whose talk, as I began to listen, was clearly from farther west, from Fermanaghperchance, or from Tyrone. This older man wore worn corduroy and cloth buttons, and his hands were rough and crusty. I would not be surprised to see him at a hayrick or a threshing, or his leg pushing a spade down to square off and lift sod, or dusting the dirt off the potatoes. ’Twas odd to listen to them—the city-bred and the rough countryman—knowing that such a chance meeting of opposites could only happen over peaty whiskey in a public house. As their animosity grew, I realized I was beginning to pay their words more attention.
“And ye have an opinion of the weather and the parliament and the sun and moon, eh?” scoffed the older man.
The young man smiled and shook his head. He let his finger run round the rim of his half-empty glass, then looked up, including me in his glance. “I could have predicted today’s matter, but then I am a betting man. A betting man should know his nag. And I can say confidently, I saw through that Dan O’Connell.” He flipped his palm open, as if anyone with sense would agree with him.
A hard meal it was for me to digest the meaning of today, and I grimaced, despite myself. This young suave was speaking as if our failed hero was little more than a gombeen come to cheat us, playing fast and loose with our hopes.
“Mr. Blackburn,” the older man said, holding his calloused palms together, as if not trusting them separately, “you are too flippant about a man who has served Ireland well all his life, but fumbles on one cursed day.”
Blackburn motioned to the serving man behind the counter. “Will you join us, sir, in a toast?” he said to me directly. I was taken by surprise, not just to be included, but also that a toast was to be proposed. I could tell this Blackburn liked to hold
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