likes me.
’Tis Al Jolson he thinks I am.
I think we’ll keep
this little fella.
– No, he’s our brother!
– That’s Eugene.
– You can’t keep him.
– Don’t bother.
I wouldn’t want anything that was half
Limerick and half North of Ireland.
– You should be so lucky.
– Don’t worry. I’ll have me own someday.
If I have to crawl to Lourdes
on me two bended knees.
Oh, did you bang your foot?
Show me your foot.
I’ll go down to Thompsons
the undertakers...
to see about the coffin
and the carriage.
The St. Vincent de Paul Society
will surely pay for that.
God knows.
Oh, son.
Jesus, I said to me self,
I have so much gas in my system,
’tis a great pity
to waste it.
So I shove a pipe up my arse,
light a match to it...
and there I have a fine flame
ready to boil water in any billycan.
The English come from trenches...
to pay me any amount of money
to boil their water.
That’s no story to be telling
in the presence of a dead child.
’Tis better than sitting
with a long face.
I made so much money in the trenches
that I was able to bribe the generals,
who didn’t normally
give a fiddler’s fart about the Irish,
to let me out of the army,
and off I went to Paris,
where I had a fine time
drinking wine...
with the models and artists
and talkin’ the lingo.
You think that’s funny, do you?
I had a great time over there.
Requiem aeternam dona ei,
Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ei.
Requiescat in pace.
Anima eius, et anime omnium
fidelium defunctorum,
per misericordiam Dei,
requiescant in pacem.
In nomine Patris, et Filii,
et Spiritus Sancti.
Amen.
I don’t know why we can’t keep Oliver.
I don’t know why they sent him
away in a box like my sister.
It’s not right.
I wish I could say something
to someone.
Dad said he was going
to the Labor Exchange to get the dole.
He’d be home by noon, he said,
and he’d have rashers and eggs and tea.
He wasn’t home by noon...
– or 1.00...
– On your feet.
or 2.00...
or anytime before the sun
went down that day in May.
Fight! Fight!
Fight! Fight! Fight!
Fight! Fight! Fight!
Come here. Stop! Quit that now!
Quit! Stop, I said!
Quit now!
You little hooligan.
Is that the kind of behavior
you brought from America? Is it?
Well, you come on with me.
I’ll put the fighting
out of you, boy.
My little
Yankee Doodle Dandy.
The masters at Leamy’s
School all have straps and sticks.
They hit you if you don’t know
that God made the world,
or if you don’t know
the patron saint of Limerick.
They hit you if you can’t say
the Hail Maryin Irish...
or if you can’t ask
for the lavatory pass in Irish.
They hit you if you laugh,
if you’re late, if you talk.
One master will hit you if you
don’t know that Eamon De Valera...
was the greatest man
that ever lived.
Another will hit you if you don’t know
that Michael Collins...
was the greatest man
that ever lived.
McCourt.
You’re a bad Yank, McCourt.
What are you?
They said we were cowboys
and gangsters, sir.
– I was only joking, sir.
– No more jokes.
– It’s not their fault they’re Yanks.
– T’isn’t, sir.
You should go down
on your two knees every night...
and give thanks to God
that you’re not a Yank.
If you were, Al Capone himself would be
coming to you for instruction.
I know Oliver is dead.
Malachy knows
Oliver is dead,
but little Eugene is only two
and too small to know anything.
Malachy and I make him laugh,
pull faces,
put pots on our heads,
take him to the park,
show him the flowers.
Me dad says Eugene is lucky to have
such brothers like me and Malachy.
He died anyway.
Ma.
Please, God,
is this what you want, is it?
I’m not supposed
to question this, am l?
You took my son, Oliver.
You took his brother, Eugene.
You took their beautiful
wee sister, Margaret Mary.
Dear God above,
why do you want
the wee children to die?
Please, God, don’t let Malachy
and me and the rest of us...
be taken off in the box
for the hole in the ground.
Or even Aunt Aggie
or Mr.