Shebeen
Jim McElroy
On Saturday nights my father combed his hair,
strode into the kitchen looking like JFK,
a pat on the head for us as he passed the table,
then off down the road for a bottle of stout.
Only not this night: it’s Holy Saturday,
Doyle’s is closed, John’s called round
for his ceilidh and although I’m shooed to bed
I’m back at the hall door in my pyjamas,
listening to the scrape of the armchairs
on terrazzo as they pull up to the fire;
then the slap of dad’s pipe on the crease
of his hand, the flick of his penknife.
I know the small blade’s paring,
cut tobacco’s curling off the plug to his palm,
and at the snap of the blade, I mimic
the easy turn of his wrist, the ball
of his right hand grinding on the birth line
of his left; loose shavings warm to his chafing.
And John’s on about them days before the pub itself,
something about a licence, and the price of it
intil the bargain, and sure who had it;
an’ the oul’ shebeen out the back,
an’ the quare stuff distillin’ through a pipe
to a drum and, if they lit a glass of it,
how a blue flame was pure poteen,
if it went yellow, the still had lead in its pipe.
An’ wasn’t that flame pure methane,
like drinking straight from yon turf fire,
and you lead-poisoned for days, or dead.
And as John pauses for the ignition, I mock
the crook of my father’s index poking
War Horse shavings into the pipe’s chamber,
his strike of the match, the tobacco crackle
of his inhalations, and John’s off again, about the time
them buck edjits up the road in their wee shebeen
were drinkin’ it neat, night and day,
an’ thon youngest fella neckin’ the yellow
like Lucozade, an’ sure him collapsin’ intil a coma,
and as the long draws of his pipe slow
the evening, Dad’s saying sure not a titter of wit
amongst them, and as lungfuls of fumes escape
the side of his mouth, John’s tellin’ him
didn’t a stone clatter the shebeen roof,
which was the signal somebody’s spotted
the cops, and all hell breakin’ loose, O’Hare
orderin’ the older bucks to cart that bloody physic
up the back hill, an’ fling it on top of McCabe’s march,
an’ them takin’ off like the clappers
up the back field, an’ likely half poleaxed
intil the bargain, an’ slings the still on top of the ditch,
and as an anisette aroma, smokescreen, slinks
out the hall door, creeps around me and I peer
in the chink isn’t the copper standin’ there,
an’ him sniffin’ the air, the young buck out cold
under a bench, his wild eyes staring,
an’ the face scalded clean off him,
they all sittin’ in front of it like pure saints,
an’ yes constable, no constable, offerin’
the wee drop of tay to see him on his way,
an’ how terrible it was about Annie Kelly’s
fright with the bull, an’ as the copper turns
on his heel, isn’t the smoke wisps makin’ a mirage
of his head, an’ his bike tick tickin’ off down the lane
an’ to be sure bucko wasn’t a goner,
they all sittin’ up while he was out,
to see if he’ll come round, an’ neckin’
the blue flame for the full five days, an’ sure
wasn’t that how the Irish wake started anyhows,
an’ unbeknownst to them, hadn’t thon
crabbid’ oul’ witch up the road only gone
an’ squealed on them, and now Dad’s puffin’ harder,
and callin’ her a right oul’ good for nothin’
and saying Holy Moses as he hears how the cops
find the still on the march and all han’s
land in front of the RM on the charge
of the drink, an’ the oul’ duty sergeant
with the folded arms an’ the smug pout on him,
and as John pauses for breath, I hear the whistle
of rogue spittle rise the pipe’s acrylic shank,
lungfuls of smoke leave his wheeze,
and me in the hall breathing it in,
as the oul’ Judge sits with the big flushed gub on him,
an’ sure didn’t somebody say wasn’t himself
fond of the quare stuff anyhows, him wantin’
to hear how they’d plead, isn’t the boyos’ solicitor
straight up sayin’ your honour my clients plead
Not Guilty, and they all nudging an’ noddin’
in the dock, for wasn’t the offending item
found on the march between one man’s lan’
and another, an’ isn’t that a no man’s lan’,
so nobody owns it, so no man can be charged;
and as John’s slappin’ his thigh, Dad’s sayin’
was there ever a truer word spoke this day,
the pipe smoke lingering over their yarns,
the clouds of his lungs turning the hall light bulb to a star.
JIM MCELROY’s awards include the Seamus Heaney Award for New Writing, the Francis Ledwidge Poetry Award, the Mairtín Crawford Award, the Poetry Business International Book and Pamphlet Competition, Arts Council NI Individual Artist Awards and Poetry Ireland’s Introductions series. His award-winning pamphlet We Are The Weather is published by Smith|Doorstop.
