J. Donleavy - A Singular Man

ON a day when winter was ending. On a promontory near a dead end of street pushing out into the river by the fish market. Dark sheds. Barges bumping derelict. I walked out here on the first day I moved office and have come lunch times ever since. To watch the ferries, the pigeons scared into the air by hoots. And to conjure up a future for my past.

The new office is two interconnecting rooms where I sit in die back one watching out on the endless white tiled wall of a warehouse. Brought Miss Martin with me. Had a going away party too. Sportsmen from The Game Club. A buffet. With beer, wine and tidbits. It was disastrous. Matilda trooped in to Thirty Three Golf Street drunk with several celestial friends and danced with my topper and hardly anything else. Dispersing the less hardy guests.

I got letters. Delivered by post, by hand, by elephant by God. I objected to some of the innuendo.

i Electricity Street

We are firm in our wish

that the year is immaterial.

George Smith

Room 604,

Dynamo House

Owl Street

Dear Sir,

Do not pretend not to know who we are.

Yours faithfully,

JJJ. & The Associates

P.S. We assume you were attending a funeral.

And to answer these this month of March I sat chilly and wagging my feet on a capstan on a wharf the end of Owl Street. Feeling easier out under the open sky.

Room 604

Dynamo House

Owl Street

i Electricity Street

Dear Sir,

I require details to establish identification. How many eyes have you all got.

Yours sincerely,

G. Smith

P.S. Also be glad if your next letter were accompanied by a brief medical history.

On Wednesday, some days later a note was slipped under the front office door.

i Electricity Street

Our former comments in

this heading will suffice.

Room 604

Dear Sir,

We can do without your crass attempt at jocularity. We inform you that our appointees have been instructed to institute moves. In the light of the seriousness of the situation and in case you are under any illusion we inform you that we are in the possession of two eyes each.

Yours faithfully,

JJ.J. & The Associates (Global)

P.S. There is no need to go into our medical history.

Grey Thursday afternoon to spell out a reply to J.J.J. from room 604, Dynamo House.

Turdsday

JJ.J. & Associates (Global)

i Electricity Street

Dear Sir,

Watch out.

Yours sincerely,

G. Smith (Local)

P.S. I am also blessed with two headlamps, which I should be glad to focus on your medical history.

And on this day. At her plywood desk with a slender vase of chrysanthemums, Miss Martin's shoulders slumped forward and she burst into tears over her typewriter. George Smith went to her. Her hair brown and full round her head. Placing a hand across her back, the little acorns of her spine.

"Mr. Smith, I'm sorry."

"It's all right, Miss Martin. Don't worry. Yon cry."

"Mr. Smith, I don't want to ever let you down. Bnt I'm scared."

"Is it the office here."

"I suppose I'm just getting used to the long anonymous halls and staircases. It's not like Golf Street. I shouldn't cry like this. But Mr. Smith I feel the whole world is horrible and mean. And the letters."

"Miss Martin, don't you fret That's not your worry. Here try my hanky."

"Thanks."

"Give a good blow. That's it."

"I'll wash and iron it."

"Nonsense, you keep it now."

"I read in the paper that poor boy was shot to death. Just because he recognised someone on the subway train."

"Miss Martin, you musn't take things so seriously. Now wipe these away. Feel better."

"Such a nice smell your hanky."

''Lemon."

"I like it. I feel better now and Mr. Smith this letter just came registered special delivery."

Mount Ararat

March iyth

My Dear George,

I write to you alas for some material aid. At the moment I am completely banjaxed. I am trying desperately to escape from this God forsaken place to make a fresh start in the new world. I hope you will be able to assist me in this. We hear that you are now very successful and a happy family man and I am glad. Can you wire as much money as you can reasonably afford to departing Passenger" Volta Steamship Lines — to their office here or there will get me, and mark it "hold for collection." You will never know how much you will have saved my life. And may God protect you as He has not yours truly*

See you soon,

BONNIFACE

Smith folding the letter carefully, putting it back in its envelope. Miss Martin with liquid wide whites around her eyes. In this room where one is waiting for something awful to happen. Cedric, the awful Bonniface, Clementine. College classmate. Amateur historian of his own recent history. No fear Miss Martin. A friend. It's my turn for tears.

Miss Martin coming each morning to room 604, Dynamo House at nine. She put on a little burner for coffee. She rode two hours on the train. Said it went over bridges and bridges and the salt water was covered all along the shore in ice. She told me how the workmen put boards on the train and it stopped at the middle of the bridge way out over the water and they climbed out in the wind, boards on their shoulders. And her house. Her little tiny bedroom. Wind whistled round it all the night. Heat came up in the morning with pipes creaking. And when very sad she would go down the street in the early morning along the row of empty boarding houses, grey and shuttered up and look out across the flat sea. To watch a sun red and cold coming up. Her ears would sting. Then get on the train, sit on the slippery seats, see the people get in. Same ones sometimes. Until it would get like sardines. Then climbing up out with a crowd, crossing the park by the ferry terminus and through the shadowy streets to the little world of room 604. And the grand dad clock would chime. And nine canes in the cane rack.

Now Miss Martin sits all forlorn. Her voice tired. The vein trembling across her wrist. Shaves the hair off her legs. Grey wool dress with short sleeves. She is twenty six years old. From there step down into years of waiting. For marriage. Light hair on her light skin. Her face up close, new born, all fuzz and peachy. Her lids and lashes lay down over her eyes as she thinks. Want sometimes to gather her up in my arms. Say, little girl you're safe while I hold you. And instead I ask her let's go out. Take a walk in the park.

George Smith leading Miss Martin across the lobby of Dynamo House. Past the great glass covering all the little names of firms right through the alphabet. And at S. There is George Smith, room number 604. Fourth Floor. And down the wide steps. Across the busy street. Passing the little cemetery by the church. Needle spire like a toothpick. Might have had a little plot in there had I been in time a hundred years ago.

Into the park by the barge office. Drizzling rain. Sky dark and heavy. Ferries squeezing along the greased pilings and clanging against the little metal bridge of shore. Cars start engines and off they come. Others go taking the people home to the lights across the water. And a monstrous ship passing down the river. Little circle of people on the fan tail. Two figures pointing and waving at the park. Hear the vessel's engines. Feel them on the soles of the feet, shaking the ground. Passengers1 streamers fall away and land on the water. Gay tidings in the mist.

"Miss Martin, a majestic sight."

"I'd love to go on a ship."

"Yes."

"Mr. Smith, it's letting off steam."

"Hooting bye bye. Takes you away from a lot of things."

"Mr. Smith, you say that so sadly."

"Come, Miss Martin and we'll get something to eat."

Two figures crossing the windy park. Miss Martin taking Smith's arm over the street. And inside where wieners were being turned on a hot skillet behind the steamed glass. Always wanted to have the constitution to eat these fearlessly, perhaps with a glass of orange. I know it will warm up Miss JMartin. Her ears, just showing out of her hair, tinged with red.