for tips
from nuns and priests,
you’d surely die
on their doorsteps.
You’re lucky to get
the Carmody telegram.
I am?
They’re big tippers.
You’ll get a shilling.
How come
I got the telegram?
– ’Cause nobody else will go there.
– Why?
’Cause Theresa Carmody’s
got the consumption.
You don’t have
to speak like that so
You can tell the world
I said so
Can’t you see you got to be
my mother’s son-in-law
I heard
that sick people like Theresa...
know that they haven’t
got long to live...
and so it makes them mad
for love and romance...
and dirty things
in general.
– Telegram.
– That’s what they say, anyway.
– You’re all wet and bleeding.
– I skidded on me bike.
Come in. I’ll put something
on your cuts.
I wonder should I go in.
I might get the consumption.
That’ll be the end of me,
and I’ll never get to America.
– Come in. You’ll perish standing there.
– I need the shilling tip.
Oh, you big poltroon.
Now that’s better.
Why don’t you take off your clothes
and dry them on the screen there?
Uh, no.
Ah, do.
I will.
Lord, you might be scrawny,
but that’s a fine boyo
you have there.
My head is full
of sin and fear of consumption.
Her green eyes...
and my shilling tip.
And she’s on top of me,
and I might be killing myself...
catching consumption
from her mouth.
I’m riding to heaven.
I’m falling off a cliff.
And if this is a sin,
I don’t give a fiddler’s fart.
Fuck off, you bollocks!
Your mouth is a lavatory, McCourt.
Did you hear me?
– I did, Miss Barry.
– You’ve been heard on the stairs.
– Yes, Miss Barry.
– Shut up, McCourt.
– I will, Miss Barry.
– Not another word, McCourt.
– No, Miss Barry.
– I said shut up, McCourt.
All right, Miss Barry.
That’s the end of it,
McCourt. Don’t try me.
I-I won’t, Miss Barry.
– Mother of God, give me patience!
– Yes, Miss Barry.
Take the last word,
McCourt.
Take it. Take it. Take it!
I will, Miss Barry.
What do you want most
in the world?
To go to America.
What do you want most?
Oh, to fall in love
with some gorgeous man.
Oh, hold me, Frankie.
Uncle Pat?
Hello, Frankie.
How’s the job?
Grand.
Uncle Pat
lookin’ after you?
He is.
But I can
look after me self.
That’s good.
– You’re getting enough to eat, I see.
– I am.
Would you like a chip?
No.
Michael and little Alphie
are fine.
That’s good.
We all miss Malachy.
He’s, uh--
– Miss him? He--
– He’s gone to join the army band!
– Playin’ the bugle.
– The bugle?
Can you imagine that, playin’ the bugle?
Playin’ the fool, more like.
That’s Malachy, all right.
Mad Malachy.
I miss him too.
– Telegram, Mrs. Carmody.
– Thank you.
I usually deliver the telegram
to your daughter.
– Theresa, isn’t it?
– Theresa’s in the sanatorium.
Please, God,
it wasn’t Theresa’s fault.
The excitement on the sofa
is what the consumption does to you.
I love her, God,
just like St. Francis loved
any bird or beast or fish.
Please, God,
take the consumption away,
and I promise I’ll never
go near her again.
Anima eius, et animae
omnium fidelium defunctorum,
per misericordiam Dei,
requiescant in pacem.
Amen.
I want to tell
the priest and Theresa ’s mam and dad...
that it was me, Frank McCourt,
the dirty rotten thing...
that sent Theresa
straight to hell.
I think of Theresa,
cold in her coffin,
the red hair,
the green eyes.
I can’t understand
what I feel,
but I know that with all the people
who died in my family...
and all the people who died
in the lanes around me,
I never had a pain like this
in my heart,
and I hope
I never will again.
And then, as luck would have it,
I had to deliver a telegram...
to the moneylender,
Mrs. Finucane,
and St. Francis
smiled down on me once more.
How old are you, boy?
Fifteen and some, missus.
Old enough
and ugly enough.
Yes, missus.
But are you smart, boy?
Are you in any way intelligent?
I can read and write,
Mrs. Finucane.
There are people in the lunatic asylum
can read and write.
– Can