INTERMISSION THE TRIP Chapter 1

 

THE CALLAGHANS

PART 2

INTERMISSION

THE TRIP

Chapter 1

Where are we?

The city is Birmingham: some say that the Birmingham name was originally something like Brumagem, but it wasn't; the original place was called Beormingahâm.

Try saying that, after a few pints.

That name, Beormingahâm, with the little accent over the 'a,' was the furthest thing from the mind of Patrick as he arrived at New Street Station.

They heard there was plenty of work in Birmingham and that's the reason they – or ostensibly Carmel – chose to head there.

It was nothing like Dublin and it was so far into the country, demonstrated to him by the extremely long train ride, that Patrick thought he would never see the sea again; scrotum tightening green sea or whatever.

The platforms of New Street Station were are at the bottom of a steep hill, and when Patrick saw this he saw a sign for Station Street and took it; he didn't know it but it avoided the walk up the hill.

Five minutes later he was standing outside New Street Station at the Station Street exit totally lost. There was no gold in the streets, not that he was expecting any, but it was a very quiet spot where he was standing and up the street, to his right, he could see, and hear, early morning traffic.

Opposite was The Birmingham Repertory Theatre.

'My Da would have loved to see that.' he said out loud. 'Sure – he would have been an actor if it wasn't for the war.'

He looked back to the exit from where he had amerged and saw a strange shaped clock – bit like a threepenny bit – and it desplayed seven minutes passed seven.

He could see the traffic in Hill Street flashing by and a very strange looking edifice in the middle of the street. It looked like a very large bird cage and when he looked closely he saw the word GENTLEMEN above it and men going down to pee and up the other side when they were done. There was some kind of totem pole and it had a kind of circular shape and it was in the middle of the street with a pavememt around it.

He chatted to a few people on the boat and train and was told there was a place called Rowton House, in Birmingham, where he could get a bed for the night for a shilling. He approached a woman in the street 'Do you know where Rowton House is?'

'No, love' she said as she went on her way without losing a step.

He crossed the street and looked into the Repertory Theatre: something called 1066 and All That was on, whatever that was about – 'me Da would know.'

Up towards the urinal at the road junction, down into the bowels of the earth to hear other people's bowels working whilst he had a pooley, as he called it. To the fella next to him, as he peed, 'Do you know Rowton House?' and the fella gave him a strange look and turned his back on him. Back up and into the street; Hill Street. It struck him that the first place he visited in Birmingham was a shite house things had to get better.

He stood on the bit if pavement next to the street and wasn't sure if the urinal was a traffic island, or what.

On the corner of the street was a huge pub; The Crown. From the urinal he could see it was all around the corner with loads of doors, maybe bars. He crossed Station Street, on a tiny zebra crossing and tried to look inside. It was closed, just as well at ten past seven in the morning and too early for a drink, even though he'd been up all night.

Hill Street looked busy and he looked to the left and the right. To the right was a slight hill and it was, indeed the way to the town centre and a hill beyond to big buildings: on the left hand side, up there, was a big sign saying Ansells which was a brewery and the building next to it had a bridge to the other side of the street to another building so people working there didn't have to go down to the ground to go next door and up again: 'what a great idea that is' he said out loud again. He realised he was talking to himself but as there was nobody about, who else could he talk to?

And why not?

The other way, down the street another theatre, with a big dome on top, disappearing into the clouds – he squinted and read down H . . I . . P . . er . . oh yes Hippodrome and the other side of a little street a few shops: Ah!! a newspaper shop, that'll do: Worthington Tours on the wall next door – whatever that was.

He remembered the newspaper shop in Dún Laoghaire and the craic he had in there and wondered 'would it be like that in Bermyham?'

He went into the paper shop and there was a fella behind the counter sorting newspapers into a pile, referring to a note book and writing house numbers in the top corner of each newspaper. Setting up a paper round he deduced.

'Yes mate?' the fella said.

'Do you know where Rowton House is?'

'It's in Highgate.'

'Thanks.' said Patrick and looked at the cigarettes.

'Why? said the fella.

'I was always told never to ask why.' said Patrick.

'Why?' said the fella.

'Why was I told not to ask why, or why do you want to know why I want to know where Rowton House is?'

'Smart arse, inchya'' said the fella 'Well it's in Highgate; are you any wiser?'

Patrick looked again at the cigarettes and newspaper scattered about.

'Any Sweet Afton?'

'No mate.'

He had the choice of Woodbines, Star or Park Drive and with filter tips Craven–A.

'I'm new to Bermyham so which are the best? What's that you're smoking?'

'Park Drive – no filter.'

'I'll have a package of those, please?'

'Ten or twenty?'

'Ten.'

'That'll be seven pence.'

He paid for the cigarettes and as he walked out, the paper seller called 'cross over and get the fifty bus – it's not far.'

'What's not far?'

'Are you serious?' said the fella 'Rowton House.'

'Oh yes, sorry; thanks.'

'And it's Birmingham.'

Patrick turned and shrugged in the open doorway.

'You're saying Bermyham, or something – it's BIRMingham.'

'Oh? Okay.'

He crossed the street and lit up a cigarette, blew the smoke out and coughed. As he did this a bus pulled up and he got on.

'Smoking upstairs' said the conductor.

Patrick threw cigarette away.

'If those are the best you can do I think I'll quit.' The bus conductor shrugged as he looked at Patrick swaggering into the bus and taking a seat.

The built up city, through the windows of the bus, was another world to Patrick and he wondered what he was letting himself in for.

The conductor came up 'Fairs please?' a woman across the aisle put her hand out and said 'Trafalgar Road, please.'

The conductor took a ticket from a satchel around his neck and gave the woman a ticket after making a hole in it with a counterpunch he was carrying.

Patrick gave the conductor a ten shilling note and said 'Rowton House,' a ticket was clipped and the conductor handed Patrick lots of coins which he put into his pocket. He looked through the bus windows and saw plenty of shops, and just before the bus turned right he saw what he thought was a post office. That's what he wanted as he needed to write to Carmel who was staying with Joe and Finbar; he caught the name of the street; Deritend; which is an old English word for Dirty end.

The Rowton House was a huge rust coloured building on a corner. Next to it was the green expanse of a park. Didn't look that good with a few 'down and outs' asleep on the benches. He walked into the park and used an empty bench to take the weight off his weary legs. He just wanted to sit down and arrive. He hadn't stopped moving since Carmel and Finbar saw him off at the dock in Dún Laoghaire the night before. He imagined, before he set off, that he would get forty winks sometime with the Irish Sea beneath him, but he walked the length, depth and expanse of the biggest ship he had even been on – the only ship, of course, The Cambria – and there wasn't even the chance of somewhere to fart: it was the first but not the last time on that ship and the first impression he got was a noisy haze of nowhere.

It was a rough crossing and it felt like the ship was being tossed and turned and he had to stay on the open deck with the tiniest of overhead covering. He saw woman changing her baby's napkin and throwing the shitty nappiy over the side and into the sea.

More than a snot green sea now, he thought.

No available places to sit; he only had one suit case with him and, like lots of others, he used his case as a seat, but each time he started to doze off, the case would tip him on to the deck – the outside deck - up against the outside of a very noisy bar. He didn't get sea sick but others did and they puked where they were standing and seemed to do the same in the lavatories below with piss. Three cubicles, in there, to share which smelt of puke, shite and urine, in that order, and the sight of those ejected excrement from their livers, bladders and pancreases, on the floor made him wonder just who was in those cubicles and how could they sleep with the smell and the noise unless they got lucky and died.

The bench in the park was a luxury. He had a theory that once you smell something nasty it sticks in the hairs up the nose so you keep smelling it. And he kept thinking that as the smell from the boat was still with him.

Over the street was Rowton House and as he looked at it from the bench, it looked like a huge imposing prison or a strange shaped castle with its towers and turrets. He was a bit nervous about even going over there.

'Ah well – in for a penny in for a pound - a shilling a bed, aye?' He wondered; then he wandered over there.

There was a huge double doorway, with a few little steps up to it and inside it was less imposing. It did indeed cost him a shilling and he was given a single cubicle, which is what they called it and the place had communal dining room and a library; did he feel lucky?

He had noticed the way the bus came and walked back to where it had turned. The post office was a three or four minute walk and over that way too was a very old interesting looking pub, The Olde Crown.

He went to the post office and enquired about the possibility of receiving mail there and was told it was possible. He bought a blue air mail folder from them and when he opened it he found the places to write to Carmel and where to put both addresses, his was c/o Post Restante – c/o was the way they wanted him to put for 'care of.'

He went to the old pub and wrote to Carmel: “Dear Carmel, it was a wonderful peaceful – he made sure to say that - crossing so don't be worried about being sea sick. I have found a place to stay it's called Rowton House where I plan to stay until I find a place for us to live. I miss you my darling and Finbar. I will let you know when I find work and a place to live and I can see the bottom of the page so have to stop – love love love, Patrick; x x x.”

He sealed the aerogramme and took it back to the post office. He checked with them behind the counter and put it in the box.

Now:

Find and job find a place to live. He walked away from the centre of the town and away from the Olde Pub – he knew they spelt it that way but was told by a very well spoken Englishman that it is pronounced the same as old. After a few minutes he came to an island in the street. One to the right and a fork to the left. He decided to go right and that road was called Camp Hill and he wondered why – but what did it matter: an army camp, a place where they used to camp a . . . he was right; what did it matter.

He noticed that the numbers went up one side and down the other as opposed to evens on one side and odd ones on the other. Streets in Dublin were like that. When he got to the end of the street there was another pub on the corner. He hadn't counted them but there were loads of pubs nearly as many as Dublin. He wouldn't be at a loose end here with nothing to do; oh well, into the pub on the corner, The Ship.

It was a big bar inside and he went up to it; a young fella behind there 'Do you ever have any bar jobs?'

'That what you're looking for?' said the fella – maybe Irish.

'Well, I suppose so' said Patrick 'is there one going?'

'There might be' he said – might be Scottish.

'Might?' said Patrick.

'You could have my job' he said 'if I was to leave – but I'm staying; would you like a drink while you're waitin'?'

No he's from the north of England, with his 'while you're waitin' and his cocky look.

'Not at the moment but I don't see Guinness in any case.'

And off he went. He went to that post office every day to see if there was any post but he never went into the Ship with the smart arse behind the counter; him and his bleeding job.

He went back to the fork and took the left one; Coventry Road. One of the houses had a card on the door.

He looked closely and the note was offering a room to rent; he knocked the door and, eventually, a woman answered, 'yes?' she said.

'I was just wondering about the room' said Patrick.

'You . . . have . . . speak slow' she had a foreign accent, which Patrick didn't recognise.

'The room to let' he said. He wasn't sure she understood.

He pointed at a door behind her 'Room?'

She shook her head in confusion 'er er Entschuldigung, ich verstehe es nicht.?'

Patrick didn't understand.

She turned to go into the house and made a sign to Patrick to stay 'Ehemann' she said, and she went into a room at the back.

'Otto' he heard her say 'Ein Mann will dich... an der Tür.'

'Okay' he heard.

A man came to Patrick: 'I'm sorry my wife is only starting to learn English. What can I do for you?' he said in perfect English, as far as Patrick thought but there may be a foreign accent.

'I was passing and saw the card about the room' he said.

'I see – it's not our house.' he said 'It's owned by Mister Reynolds. He owns a cafe on Moseley Road; we don't know him very well as we're only staying here for a few weeks. Will it be for just you?'

'No my wife and child will be joining me here soon.'

'If you leave an address – are you on the phone?'

'No' said Patrick 'I have no contact at all apart from Derit post office.'

'Deritend.'

'Ah that's it' replied Patrick.

'It means dirty end, in old English, but the Brummies hardly know that.'

'Are you not a Brummie?'

'Do I sound like one?'

'I wouldn't know' said Patrick 'you all sound the same to me - er, excepting your, er, lady, your lady wife.'

'I'm from, erm, I'm from London and my wife is . . . – we left Germany when war broke out.'

'Oh I see.'

'She struggles with her English. Not a safe place Munich, so we came over – I came back.'

'You're German?'

'No – erm, yes, we left there before the war. We were living in Vichy France.'

'I'll have a look for Mr. Raynolds when I can.' said Patrick.

'It's Reynolds – the cafe is near Ombersley Road – between Ombersley Road and St. Paul's' Road.'

'Thanks a lot.' said Patrick and he left them.

He wasn't going to take a room just yet, even though it would have been a most convenient place to live. He went further up Coventry Road and found a cafě where he had Woolton Pie. He didn't know what it was and was told it was a really nice home grown vegetable pie; and he loved it so much he went there all the time.

Chapter 2