up from this table,
you’ll be calling for your patron saint.
Shut your gob.
I’ll kill you!
– You’re not my father!
– Stop it!
Leave him alone, sweet Jesus.
Stop it!
He doesn’tmean any harm.
He’s only a child.
And he’s to start work
at the post office on Monday.
Give me a fag, woman.
I’m telling you,
that boy is a little shite.
I’ll talk to him tomorrow.
I’m going to bed.
I heard them talking.
I heard the sound of Laman’s boots
as he scraped his way to bed.
I thought Mam would come
and kiss me goodnight,
to say thank you
for sticking up for her.
But no.
She went to him.
Where are you going, Frankie?
I’m leaving.
Why are you leaving,
Frankie?
Because if I stay,
I’ll take a knife to his neck.
Will you kill him?
Go to sleep, Malachy.
You’re not having my chips.
I just wanted to stay
the night, Uncle Pat.
All right.
You can stay
in me mother’s bed.
– Don’t expect me to feed you, though.
– I won’t.
There’s not a scrap of food
in the house.
What happened
to your face?
It’s all swole.
Did someone punch you?
Yeah.
Who was punching you?
Joe Louis.
Joe Louis?
I thought he lived
in America.
Was he visiting
Limerick?
He was, Uncle Pat.
That’s not right,
him hitting a wee boy...
and him being heavyweight champion
of America and all.
The world champion
he is, Uncle Pat.
That’s worse.
And look at you,
so skinny.
Those arms wouldn’tlift
two stamps.
Some things
is most peculiar, Frankie.
I’m off to bed.
I was so hungry.
I sat there and licked the front page
and all the headlines.
I licked the great attacks
of Patton and Montgomery.
I licked the sports pages.
I licked the market prices
of eggs and butter and bacon.
I sucked that paper until my face was
as black as Al Jolson’s.
Whoa, boy. Whoa, boy.
Easy. Easy.
Let’s go, Patty.
We have to get you--
Up you go.
Come on, Pat,
up the steps.
How did you let him
get this drunk?
Drink never hurt anyone,
did it?
– I want a drink.
– Tomorrow.
– Push him, Pa.
– I’m pushing. I’m pushing.
Come on, Pat.
Christ, you’re taking
both sides of the room.
What are you doing
in this house, in that bed?
Get up and put the kettle
on for your poor Uncle Pat...
that fell down
the worse for drink.
Mother of God!
You’re wearing
me dead mother’s dress.
I washed my clothes
for the big job.
– What big job?
– Telegram boy at the post office.
If the post office
are taking on the likes of you,
– they must be in a desperate state.
– Ah, Frankie.
you look... gorgeous.
Jesus, what did
you wash these in?
– Carbolic soap.
– They smell like dead pigeons!
You’ll make
a show of us.
What time do you have to be
at that job?
9:00.
Tell them that your aunt was waiting
for you and that’s why you’re late.
Late?
Why do I have to be late?
Just shut up and do what
you’re bloody well told.
Mmm.
That’s more like it.
I often wondered
why Aunt Aggie was always so angry.
But you’re going to need
a new shirt.
And shoes, not boots.
Shoes.
Compared to Mam,
she had everything,
and she didn’thave any kids
to keep her poor.
And here she is buying me clothes
for my new job.
That’s grand.
Here’s two shillings
to get tea and a bun for your birthday.
You look so smart,
people will think you’ve robbed a bank.
She certainly
was a mystery, my Aunt Aggie.
A complete mystery.
We know every avenue,
road, street...
terrace, mews, place,
close and lane.
You don’t have
to have a hanker
To be a broker
or banker
No, sirree, just simply be
my mother’s son-in-law
Needn’t even think
of tryin’
To be a mighty
social lion
Sippin’ tea if you will be
my mother’s son-in-law
There isn’t a door
in Limerick we don’t know.
We knock on all kinds of doors--
iron, oak, plywood.
Twenty thousand doors. We knock,
kick, push. We ring and buzz bells.
Risking life and limb
as we fight off every dog...
who wants to turn us
into dinner.
There are telegrams
for the houses of priests.
God bless you.
But if you waited