Novel Chapt. 17

 

                                                Chapter 17

A long time had past since Patrick had seen Carmel; he spent his time at Smithfield around the horses and the horse sales, some of the boys could ride those horses as good as any rider in a gymkhana, they 'side-trotted' with the best of them, and, more to the point bareback; not that any competition interested them.

Once in a while, if a horse needed to be delivered, and if the buyer wasn't too far, Patrick delivered it bareback.

Selling advertisements in the local and national newspapers, wasn't going very well; the commission in nationals was better than the locals, but the business was hard.

After a day with commissions from Clerys', the hat shop in O'Connell Street and an Indian Restaurant, which opened a kind of trial 'curry house' in Lower Baggot Street, he met Joe at McDaid's.

“You do know, that the newspapers won't accept the one for the curry house - it isn't a proper restaurant.” Joe said.

Indian food was scarce in Dublin at the time, the owners of the one in Lower Baggott Street, were trying to introduce authentic Indian food where others had failed due to terrible menus, bad cooking and limited spice; just garam masala mixed with everything.

“The usual?” asked Oliver, the barman, when he came in - Patrick nodded - “I have something for you” he continued.

As the pint was settling, Oliver took an envelope from the back shelf and put it on the bar. As soon as Patrick looked at it he knew it was from Carmel, even though it had a foreign post mark. He didn't know anybody abroad, so who else could it be from?

At first he thought it was from Venice, as he could only see 'VE' over the stamp, which was pinkish and with the picture of a woman on it; funny looking Queen, he thought, or was it a fella with long hair?

It was indeed from Carmel, and she was in France at a place called Hilaire-de-Riez, Vendee; he hadn't heard of it.

She said her parents had sent her to stay with friends and that she was sorry she didn't tell him she was too young to drink alcohol legally. She drank wine, on the quiet, sneakily at her private school in Galway, on many occasions, but her parents didn't know, and were alarmed when she came back that day with only the slightest whiff of whiskey on her breath.

She said it was as if she'd given birth to the child of the devil.

She didn't say when she was coming back, but did say that when she did come back they would have to meet surreptitiously so that was promising.

The icing on the cake, which filled him with excitement, was she signed the letter with 'all my love'.

All my love!!!

He had a pint to take care of and it looked up at him, from the bar, with its one white frothy eye. If he could skip he would have done but he tipped most of the Guinness down his throat. “That's it” he said.

“From the mot?”

“Yep!”

He stood up “I have to go.”

“Go where?” said Joe.

“I have to get to Lower Baggot Street, to take the money back to that fella – the Indian.”

“He paid you, already?”
“You told me, anything risky to get them to pay up front.”

“Yes and it's a pity you didn't make that gob shite in Clerys' pay you up front.” said Joe.

“He paid up, eventually, and he will this time too.”

“He'd better.”

Patrick, downed the rest of the pint and walked out. Joe noticed on the table the letter from Carmel, still out of the envelope. He picked it up and in came Patrick, grabbed the envelope from him with “thank you” and walked back out.

“Give us a pint, Ollie, will ya” said Joe “for Jasus sake.”

Patrick had a definite skip in his step as he walked to Lower Baggot Street: are the birds singing? Is there a lovely poetic Dubliny air about the place, about the quays about . . . about Dublin?

And the little skip turned into a James Cagney cocky walk and as he pulled up his trousers, his dungarees, he knocked on a door in Lower Baggot Street, and a forty year old fella answered “Hello” he said when he saw Patrick.

“No can do.” said Patrick, shaking his head “me da said they need some kind of security to print ads”
“Security for what?” he said.

“I don't know” said Patrick “it's just what me da says – no can do.”

“Come in” said the fella, an Indian with a wonderful accent that Patrick mistook for Welsh.

“Are you – are you Welsh?”

He laughed “No I'm from India.”

“Oh??”

“Yes – somebody else thought I was Welsh – Louis d'Souza” he said as he put his hand out to shake Patrick's.

Patrick was welcomed by a wonderful smell, which enveloped him as he went inside – the smell of Indian food.

“I didn't think Louis was an Indian name” - he pronounced it without the 'S' on the end.

“It's actually Portuguese “ said Louis “I'm from Goa.”

“Goa?”

“It's a state in India – the Portuguese colonized India many years ago. Still there.”

“Well I am Patrick Callaghan – Paddy, Pat – anything you like.”

“I was in London, last year, and I met an Irishman who said 'don't call me Paddy.'

“Really?”

“Yes – he said 'call me anything but Paddy – someone was telling a joke about Paddy the Englishman, Paddy the Irishman and Paddy the Scotsman.”

“And what was the joke?”

“I can't remember.”

They both laughed.

“I am going to give you a sample of the food I cook – the food that we would cook, or will cook, if they let us open up here – you can let me know what you think?”

“Okay – but they still won't print the add even if it tastes like food from God.”

“The communion wafer?”

“How would you know about that” said Patrick.

“Because we're Catholics – our, my, ancestors were Catholics' the Portuguese.”

“Yes sir – I didn't know the Portuguese ruled India?”

“They don't – just certain states. We even have a state called Hooley.”

“Hooley? We have hoolies here all the time.”

“I know, but this is pronounced with a soft gee - Hooghly.”

Louis went into the kitchen and Patrick followed him, wondering what a soft 'g' was – he knew what the gee was, with a hard ''g'.

His wife was in there, stirring something on the stove.

“This is my wife, Calista – this is Patrick.”

She turned around, wiped her right hand on her apron and held it out for Patrick, who shook it gently.

“What are we going to give him to eat?”

“Maybe something I'm already cooking?”

The three of them laughed.

“Good idea” said Patrick “Whatever that is, it smells good.”

She turned back to the stove and continued stirring a soup kind of dish, in a pan, as she added to it.

“Go and sit down and I'll bring it in when it's ready.”

“Great.” said Patrick and he went into the next room with Louis.

Eventually Calista took the food into the other room where Louis and Patrick were sitting. The meal, a kind of masala, was put into the middle of the table, and was dished out with flat bread and another dish of potatoes and French beans mixed together.

Patrick watched as the plates were served with the masala and some kind of potato dish. They dipped the bread into the meal and ate from it, which was new to Patrick, and they also served a coconut kind of drink called Feni, which had a cashew taste about it.

He loved the meal enjoying the coconut taste and the spices.

“This is what I wanted to cook if the advertisement was to go through.” said Louis “Do you think Dubliners would like it?”

“Listen – a Dub will eat anything you put in front of him – but they might be a bit suspicious; especially in these hard times.”

“And the women?” asked Calista.

“Of course” said Patrick “why ask?”