Collected Short Stories Read Free

Daddy said that someday he would wring their bloody necks. That is a long while ago now, for we still have the pigeons, but Johnny is dead; he died for Ireland.
    Whenever I think of our Johnny I always think of Saturday. Nearly every Saturday night he had something for me, maybe sweets, a toy train, a whistle, or glass marbles with rainbows inside them. I would be in bed when he’d come home; I always tried to keep awake, but my eyes wouldn’t let me – they always closed tight when I wasn’t thinking. We both slept together in the wee back room, and when Johnny came up to bed he always lit the gas, the gas that had no mantle. If he had something for me he would shake me and say: ‘Frankie, Frankie, are you asleep?’ My eyes would be very gluey and I would rub them with my fists until they would open in the gaslight. For a long while I would see gold needles sticking out of the flame, then they would melt away and the gas become like a pansy leaf with a blue heart. Johnny would be standing beside the bed and I would smile all blinky at him. Maybe he’d stick a sweet in my mouth, but if I hadn’t said my prayers he’d lift me out on to the cold, cold floor. When I would be jumping in again in my shirt tails, he would play whack at me and laugh if he got me. Soon he would climb into bed and tell me about the ice-cream shops, and the bird-shop that had funny pigeons and rabbits and mice in the window. Someday he was going to bring me down the town and buy me a black and white mouse, and a custard bun full of ice-cream. But he’ll never do it now because he died for Ireland.
    On Saturdays, too, I watched for him at the back door when he was coming from work. He always came over the waste ground, because it was the shortest. His dungarees would be all shiny, but they hadn’t a nice smell. I would pull them off him, and he would lift me on to his shoulder, and swing me round and round until my head got light and the things in the kitchen went up and down. My Mammie said he had me spoilt. He always gave me pennies on Saturday, two pennies, and I bought a liquorice pipe with one penny and kept the other for Sunday. Then he would go into the cold scullery to wash his black hands and face; he would stand at the sink, scrubbing and scrubbing and singing ‘The Old Rusty Bridge by the Mill’, but if you went near him he’d squirt soap in your eye. After he had washed himself, we would get our Saturday dinner, the dinner with the sausages because it was pay-day. Johnny used to give me a bit of his sausages, but if my Mammie saw me she’d slap me for taking the bite out of his mouth. It was a long, long wait before we went out to the yard to the pigeons.
    The pigeon-shed was on the slates above the closet. There was a ladder up to it, but Johnny wouldn’t let me climb for fear I’d break my neck. But I used to climb up when he wasn’t looking. There was a great flutter and flapping of wings when Johnny would open the trap-door to let them out. They would fly out in a line, brownie first and the white ones last. We would lie on the waste ground at the back of our street watching them fly. They would fly round and round, rising higher and higher each time. They would fly so high we would blink our eyes and lose them in the blue sky. But Johnny always found them first. ‘I can see them, Frankie,’ he would say. ‘Yonder they are. Look! Above the brickyard chimney.’ He would put his arm around my neck, pointing with his outstretched hand. I would strain my eyes, and at last I would see them, their wings flashing in the sun as they turned towards home. They were great fliers. But brownie would get tired and he would tumble head over heels like you’d think he was going to fall. The white ones always flew down to him, and Johnny would go wild. ‘He’s a good tumbler, but he won’t let the others fly high. I think I’ll sell him.’ He