home, Frankie.
Hello, Frankie.
It’s grand
to have you home, soldier.
Thank you, Mrs. Purcell.
Goodman, Frankie.
Ah, Francis, my boy.
But the moment
I saw me dad with Alphie on his lap...
was an empty feeling
in my heart,
because I know
he’s out of work again.
– Welcome home, son.
– Da.
It’s good to see you.
You too.
Get a wee sit, right?
St. Wilgefortis’ mom
had nine children.
But still, I loved
having my dad to myself in the morning.
I loved his stories where motorcars
and planes went under water.
Submarines
flew up in the air,
and polar bears wrestled
with elephants on the moon.
He was the Holy Trinity, was my dad,
with three people in him.
The one in the morning with his tea
and Woodbines telling us the stories.
The one who tried so hard
to find work but never did.
And the one who came home at night
with the smell of whiskey on him.
But he was reading all the time
he was at the hospital.
I’m sorry, Mrs. McCourt.
He’s missed over two months of school.
He’ll have to go back to the fifth
class. I’m really very sorry.
Mom, I don’t want to go back
to fifth class.
Malachy’s in fifth class,
and I’m a year older than him.
Oh, come on, Frankie.
But all me friends will laugh at me
because I’ve been put back.
No.
What I needed was a miracle,
and it happened right there outside
the Our Lady Of Liberty Pub.
I looked up at her.
She smiled.
And when I looked down,
there was a penny.
I spent the penny
on a candle...
and prayed to St. Francis for him to
get me out of my little brother’s class.
Our Father who art in heaven,
hallowed be Thy name--Our Father who art in heaven,
hallowed be Thy name--
Take that sour look off your puss,
Francis McCourt,
or you will feel
the end of my stick.
Francis McCourt
is going to show you...
how well he learned
to write in this class last year.
He’s going to write a composition
on our Lord.
Aren’t you, McCourt?
He’s to tell us what it would be like
if our Lord had grown up in Limerick,
the holiest city in Ireland.
Wilgefortis’ dad wanted to marry her
off to the King of Sicily,
but the beautiful,
young Wilgefortis...
was desperate not to marry
the scabby old man.
Oh.
And McCourt scores
a brilliant goal.
They said that Limerick
was the holiest city,
but everyone knew the reason why there
were always people in the churches.
It was because
it was always raining,
and they were in there
to get out of the wet.
The name of my composition is--
Title, McCourt.
The title.
The title of my composition
is “Jesus and the Weather.”
What?
“Jesus and the Weather,” sir.
All right, read it.
“I don’t think Jesus,
who is our Lord,
would have liked
the weather in Limerick,
because it’s always raining and
the Shannon keeps the whole city damp.
My father says the Shannon
is a killer river...
because it killed
my two brothers.
When you look at pictures
of Jesus,
He’s always wandering around
ancient Israel in a sheet.
It never rains there, and you never hear
of anyone coughing...
or getting the consumption
or anything like that.
And no one has a job there,
because all they do is stand around,
eat manna, shake their fists,
and go to crucifixions.
Any time Jesus got hungry, all He had
to do was to walk up the road...
to a fig tree or an orange tree
and have His fill.
Or if He wanted a pint, He could
wave His hand over a big glass...
and there was the pint.
Or He could visit Mary Magdalene
and her sister Martha,
and they’d give Him His dinner,
no questions asked.
So it’s a good thing Jesus decided to
be born Jewish in that nice warm place.
Because if He was born in Limerick,
He’d catch the consumption...
and be dead in a month, and there
wouldn’t be any Catholic Church,
and we wouldn’t have to write
compositions about Him.
The end.”
Did you write this composition,
McCourt?
I did, sir.
The miracle worked.
I was back
in my old class.
Stock your mind.
It’s your house
of treasure,
and no