Walking With Ghosts by Gabriel Byrne

Author:Gabriel Byrne
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK

He told me about the tunes and the stories behind them.

—Facts are in books; if you want to know what people feel, it’s in music. All the feelings and all the music of the world can be put down in seven notes: do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti.

He had great reverence for the songs of leaving and yearning.

I was drawn down below by the music. Men leaned against the counter, talking loudly, laughing, drinking pints as if they were not at sea at all. A couple of musicians played, eyes closed, feet beating time on the floor. Someone shouted a yahoo of encouragement. Some of the accents were English and others a mix of English and Irish, but most were Irish, from the country.

There were ten other boys like me dressed in black, belted coats and caps with a white badge, an eagle rising over Latin words. All of us in short trousers. I bought a plate of chips, poured vinegar and ketchup over them, and sucked orange juice through a straw for the first time. The label was an English one I’d never seen before.

One of the boys challenged me:

—I bet you wouldn’t swallow a bottle of vinegar. My face flamed. How much would you give me if I did?

—I’d give you a shilling.

I pulled the top off the bottle, put it to my mouth, and drank until it was empty. The sour burn teared at my throat and chest. The other boys looked at me in silence.

I took the money. My insides were a roaring fire but I made it to the deck before my vomit got sucked away by the wind into the darkness. I slid down behind the slatted seats and fell asleep. When I woke, the lights of Wales appeared.

The passengers lined up to disembark, shunting along with their cases, carrying sleeping children. The boat moved sideways to the dock, men waiting for the ropes to be thrown to them to secure around the bollards. With a shudder, the engines went silent. It was two thirty in the morning. I’d never stayed awake that late in my life. The clouds had moved and the stars were showing. The night air smelled sea-salty. I thought how the Welsh moon was in the same sky as in Ireland, and that gave me a warm feeling.

As we walked toward the custom hall, a policeman in a pointed helmet with the Queen’s emblem on it watched impassively. The customs men went through the folded clothes of the woman in front. Brown cases, some tied with belts, were hoisted onto the table and clicked open for inspection. We tried to make small talk with the unsmiling officers rooting through our clothes.

I felt a sense of pride when I displayed the folded shirts my mother had packed for me. It meant I came from a neat and tidy house, and the customs man would know that and be impressed. But he didn’t look up, just pushed my case along the counter.

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