On the Border of Memory: Childhood in a Divided Ireland

The Messages

Footsteps clacking behind you on the rain-
spattered path as you totter home with
your two-gallon can of paraffin. Footsteps
in the Fog the name of the film you saw
on Saturday where the man chased through
the city choking the cloaked woman. You can
not run faster than you ran from the werewolf
hiding in the hedge or the ghoul
that flashes past on his way to the graveyard.

Patricia is almost as afraid but she only
has to get to school and back. To
the cinema and back. Buy a milk pan
now and then. She's the one who told you
that it isn't just in the movies it happens.
There are men and creatures who chase little
girls. She knows, she's American. And when her
mother brings her back home with
Mickey Mouse watch and her coat with the fur

collar that comes off and her father in
his wheelchair there is no one to talk to
about the stranglers on their way from
Bombay, the skull that goes screaming down
the street or the men who quicken their pace.
And when one day you hear on the News how
on her way out to buy a head of lettuce a man
from two floors down stopped her, you wonder
was she wearing her watch? Was it too hot
for her collar? And how will you manage
to struggle home with your string bag of messages?

* * *

Yes, we have no bananas, we have no bananas today . . .

The three o'clock pantomime show has begun. The Pierrots troop across the stage of their ramshackle hut at the end of the pier.

We've boiled beef and onions, and plenty of scallions . . .

For three old pence you can sit and watch from the rows of granite steps inside the pier wall; sixpence secures a collapsible chair. Either way, it's necessary to bring a rug to wrap around your legs as protection against the northeast wind. My rug belongs to my grandmother. It's brown and threadbare and I hate it.

I've come to the show most afternoons this summer. The Pierrots' repertoire includes such songs as "Happy Days Are Here Again" and "My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean," but it's the banana song that fascinates me most. I used to think it ridiculous. Who cares whether or not these half dozen actors had any bananas, or indeed any apples or oranges, for that matter? And what had corned beef and onions got to do with fruit? But my education in matters artistic has begun: I'm learning how to relax and be entertained by words and actions that don't necessarily make sense.

I know the show's format by heart. After the opening song there'll be a sketch, a satire on the politics of the day, followed by another song, and then a hypnotist will hypnotize those members of the audience foolish enough to volunteer. Soon the most dreadful experiences will befall these holidaymakers: they'll spill ice cream down the fronts of their smart new clothes; the tide will come gushing into the holes they dig in the sand; crabs and lobsters will crawl up their arms and legs and nip them in the most tender places. The hypnotist will then snap his fingers and the volunteers will return to their seats, wondering why the rest of the audience is shrieking with laughter and giving them the strangest looks. The Pierrots will then sing another number and the talent competition, the highlight of the show, will begin. Members of the audience will this time volunteer to sing a song, tell a joke, or recite a poem. The winner and runner-up will be decided by the loudest and second loudest applause.

All summer I've longed to take part, but I can't sing, and I know none of the...