Breakfast on Pluto Read online

  Breakfast on Pluto falls in a logical progression from The Butcher Boy and The Dead School, which is about two Dublin schoolteachers caught in a psychological maelstrom of drugs, music and youth culture. Breakfast on Pluto embodies the kinetic frenzy of its predecessors through the eyes of a new kind of Irish enfant terrible – a sentimental yet ironic nineteen-year-old transvestite with a temper.

  The Troubles in Northern Ireland have pricked scores of literary imaginations throughout the years, and will no doubt continue to do so. McCabe’s latest may be the most successful book yet to be born out of the violence, and with its surety of voice and stunning originality, it moves beyond the parochial Troubles novel. Where Breakfast on Pluto succeeds is where others have failed – by underlining the vast contradictions inherent in the Irish conflict, of brutality and kindness, horror and gaiety, conviction and apathy. With a sassy narrator clad in an ice-cream-pink mohair sweater, humming the tunes of Barry White as he sashays into a London disco-pub on the verge of exploding, it is a mosaic of sound, colour and spirit. The underlying grief resonates deeply and personally, transforming what could be a literary trifle into an obsessive gift, from a man who may be one of Ireland’s finest living writers.

  Courtney Weaver, New York Times Book Review

  Breakfast on Pluto was a UK chart hit for Don Partridge in 1969

  DO FIONÁN AGUS R

  Contents

  I Was a High-Class Escort Girl

  A Word of Advice from Dr Terence

  The Life and Times of Patrick Braden

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Suddenly – An Expert!

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Some Information about Charlie and Irwin, Gleaned From Charlie’s Letters

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  If Terence Were to See Me Now!

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Thinking Far Too Much

  Understand

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  An Out-of-Body Experience Perhaps?

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Perfume: 1,000,000 v. Stench: 0

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Die, Daddy!

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Terence Was Right

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Free!

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  I Was a High-Class Escort Girl

  Although I’m afraid I don’t get too many clients these days! I can just imagine the reaction of my old acquaintances if they saw me now, sitting here in my silly old coat and headscarf – off out that door and down the Kilburn High Road with the lot of them, no doubt! Still, no point in complaining – after all, every beauty has to lose her looks sometime and if the gold-digging days of poor old darling poo poo puss are gone for ever, well then, so be it. I ain’t gonna let it bother me, girls! Just give me Vic Damone, South Pacific, plus a yummy stack of magazines and I’ll be happy, as once more I go leafing through the pages of New Faces of the Fifties, Picturegoer, Screen Parade, gaily mingling with the stars of long ago.

  Old Mother Riley they call me around here, never passing up an opportunity to shout: ‘How’s about you, darlin’?’ or ‘What’s the chance of a bit tonight then, Mrs Riley?’ whenever they hear me coming in.

  Quite what they would have to say if they suddenly became aware of just how many ‘bits’ the old girl has given away in her time, I would dearly love to know! Sometimes – it can be hard to resist, let me tell you! – I find myself on the verge of calling back: ‘Why yes! But of course, boys! I’ll leave the door open tonight and you can all troop in and give me a jab! Why not!’

  Shouldn’t be long running then, methinks! Embarrassed-out-of-their-lives, poor little innocent red-cheeked, shovel-wielding horny-handed sons of the soil of counties Sligo, Leitrim and Roscommon!

  But, best that it should never come to that, for the truth is that they’re all grand fellows. What benefit them, now that so many years have passed, to know the sordid, squelchy details of the life that once was lived by darling Patrick Braden – sigh! – sweetness pussy kit-kit, perfumed creature of the night who once the catwalks of the world did storm as flashbulbs popped and, ‘Oo!’ she shrieked, ‘I told you, from my best side, darling!’

  As off on the arm of Mr Dark and Broody then she trooped! Rock Solid handsome man, mysterious kind she liked. Who would bass-voiced coo: ‘I love you!’ and make her stomach gurgle till she’d swoon.

  A Word of Advice from Dr Terence

  Write it all down, Terence told me. ‘Everything?’ I said. ‘Yes,’ he said. Just as it comes to you.’

  It was great, him saying that. Especially when he listened so attentively to what you read, making you feel you were his one special patient and that no matter where he was or what he was doing, all you had to do was call his name and there he’d be: ‘Well? And how’s the scribe?’

  That was what he called me – the scribe! Ah! There you are! How are you today, my old friend, the scribe!’

  Which made his vanishing act all the harder to bear!

  You wake up one morning, call out his name as usual and what do you find? There he is – gone! as they say in Tyreelin.

  I won’t pretend I wasn’t upset. I bawled for days. ‘How do you like that, then?’ I said to myself. ‘You certainly made a right idiot of yourself this time, Braden, scribbling all that rubbish and thinking it would make him stay for good!’

  But I mean, there’s no harm in hoping. There was no harm in hoping, was there? That every morning you’d wake up and there he’d be – standing right in front of you, looking at you and smiling in that lovely way he was going to do for ever.

  Just how beautiful that might have been, I certainly haven’t the words to describe, despite all the supposed skills I am supposed to have in that particular field! (At school Peepers Egan used to say: ‘Braden! These essays of yours – they’re absolutely wonderful! If only you’d settle down! You could be so good!’)

  I don’t regret writing all this (in the end I put a name on it – The Life and Times of Patrick Braden – original, eh?) because some of it he definitely did like – I know, because he told me. ‘This is terrific!’ he said one day and raised his bushy eyebrows over the page. ‘It really is!’ And all I could think of then was – don’t ask me why! – him putting his arm
around me and saying: ‘Pussy’s mine! She’s mine and she belongs here! With me.’ One of his favourite pieces of all and he used to keep asking me to show it to him was the bit about Whiskers, although he knew that strictly speaking he should have been encouraging me not to call her that (after all, to him she was my mother), which I wouldn’t have minded because for him I’d have called the old bat anything.

  The Life and Times of Patrick Braden

  Chapter One

  Merry Christmas, Mrs Whiskers

  It was a beautiful crisp Christmas morning. All across the little village which lay nestled on the southern side of the Irish border, one could sense an air of tense but pleasurable expectancy. Already the small birdies, as if conscious of the coming mood of celebration and acceptable self-indulgence which was so much a part of the much-loved season, had begun their carefully co-ordinated invasions, their industrious beaks like so many arrowheads stiletto-jabbing the frosted gold-tops of the early-morning milk bottles. Even at this early hour, there are one or two children playing – cork guns being proudly displayed and nurses’ uniforms flaunted in so many minx-like parades. In places, the snow has begun to melt but this is still a scene that any seasonal greeting card would be more than proud to play host to. A door closes quietly and the first Mass-goer makes her way determinedly through the streets, her Missal clutched tightly and her knitted cap pulled firmly about her ears. Through a gap in the clouds comes the peal of a church bell. Already, the beloved pastor of this parish, Father Bernard McIvor, will be busying himself inside his sacristy. Donning the starched vestments which, it would later be the contention of ill-formed psychiatrists, were partly responsible for his son’s attraction to the airy appareil of the opposite sex.

  For him, in many ways, these Christmasses have lost their meaning. Once upon a time, as a young curate, he remembered, he would have held his congregation in thrall with tales of yuletides long ago, and of the special meaning the season had for all Christians throughout the world. His homily topped off, as a plum pud with a sprig of holly, with one of his truly awe-inspiring renditions of ‘The Holy City’ or perhaps ‘O Holy Night’, for which he was renowned throughout the length and breadth of the county. Or had been, once upon a time. But sadly those days were no more. When asked why he no longer sang in the church on Christmas morning, his eyes would appear to glaze over and he would regard his inquisitor with an expression of mystification almost as if the reasons were far beyond him too. Which they weren’t, of course, for as many of his parishioners knew, despite rarely giving voice to it in public, the what might be termed: Change in Father Bernard dated back to a single 1950s morning in the year 1955 and to no other – the morning he inserted his excitable pee pee into the vagina of a woman who was so beautiful she looked not unlike Mitzi Gaynor the well-known film star. And then arranged for her to go to London so that there would be no dreadful scandal. ‘Dear, dear. I wonder what is wrong with Father Bernard,’ his parishioners would say, adding: ‘He’s not the man he was at all.’

  It would have been nice, of course, if at any time in the intervening years – particularly at Christmas – he had arrived down to the Braden household with a little present for his son. Which he didn’t, of course, with the result that Yuletide celebrations in that particular establishment consisted of one plate of Brussels sprouts, a midget of a turkey and God knows how many half-human children growling and tearing at it like wild animals. And, of course, ‘Mummy’ sitting puffing Players in the corner, shouting: ‘Quit youser fucking fighting!’ and ‘Stop tearing the arse out of that turkey!’ as Santa jingle-belled all the way to the North Pole. What? On the television? Are you out of your mind? Whiskers Braden couldn’t afford to buy televisions! She had her ciggies and bottles of stout to purchase! Any jingle-belling there was took place on the beat-up old wireless on the mantelpiece above our dazzling array of wee-wee-stenching undies.

  But nevertheless all’s well that ends well and now that she’s suitably drunk she decides to pull the only cracker available, triumphantly producing it from her handbag and yowling: ‘Come on over here and pull this fucking cracker till we get this fucking Christmas finished with!’ as, happy family that we are, like a snapshot from the past, we all come crowding around, happy bright-eyed bastards all – Wee Tony, Hughie, Peter, Josie, Caroline and snot-trailing Little Ba, who for such a magnificent display of domestic harmony are hereby presented unopposed with the Patrick Braden ALL-IRELAND FUNCTIONAL FAMILY OF THE CENTURY AWARD! So congratulations, Hairy Ma and all your little out-of-wedlock kids!

  Chapter Two

  Patrick Braden, Aged 13 — The Trouble Begins in Earnest!

  Peepers Egan, the English teacher and acting headmaster, was on the verge of losing his mind as he paced the floor of Class 2A, St Martin’s Secondary School, Tyreelin, intermittently smacking the sheaf of papers with the back of his weatherbeaten hand as he addressed his hangdog pupil: ‘How dare you!’ he croaked perplexedly. ‘How dare you submit the like of this to me, Braden! When I said it would please me if you would develop your literary skills, I did not – I repeat not! (his croak quite high-pitched now) mean this!’

  It was unfortunate that I had now learned the truth once and for all about my clerical parentage, for I really was becoming quite obsessed with it. Hence the persistently colourful titles of my submitted essays, e.g. ‘Father Stalk Sticks It In’ and ‘Father Bernard Rides Again!’

  It was inevitable, of course, on foot of this, that poor old Peepers would have to come down and visit Hairy Ma. It was his duty, after all, and, I daresay, the execution of which probably came close to putting the poor man in his grave. ‘You see, Mrs Braden,’ was all you could hear as he twisted and turned in his chair, ‘I have to be seen to do something . . . it’s a direct challenge to our authority and a slur on the character of . . .’

  ‘Daddy!’ I almost squeaked.

  But didn’t – keeping my own counsel very impressively indeed right until the very end when Peepers said: ‘You won’t do it again, will you, Patrick? You’ll try and stop this anti-social behaviour. You’ll try and fit in, won’t you?’ when I replied: ‘Oh, no. I haven’t the slightest intention of stopping it, Peeps, or trying to fit in either!’

  It was, in fact, impertinent of me to call him that. ‘Peeps,’ I mean. Because he was my teacher and I liked him and should have shown him more respect. An appraisal of the situation with which Hairy hastily concurred, out of nowhere landing a fat-fingered thump on my jaw, squealing: ‘Don’t talk like that to the Master! He’s a cur! From the day and hour I took him in off the street, Mr Egan, a cur!’

  Understandably, Peeps didn’t want to get involved any further for he’d gotten himself into such a state about everything already that I think all he wanted to do was charge off to the Tyreelin Arms and have himself a few dozen whiskies.

  Chapter Three

  In Flagrante Delicto, 7.03 p.m., Sept 13, 1968

  I was absolutely sure I was safe, you see, I really was, having cocked my ear to the bedroom door for at least five minutes and then at last heard them squawk: ‘Hello, Patrick! Patrick – yoo hoo! Are you up there at your books? Me and Caroline are off to Benediction now!’ before trooping off down the hall and closing the front door behind them. ‘Gone for at least an hour!’ I cried, in the grip of a delightful excitement. But no! Hardly twenty minutes later – the pair of them back, mooching about in the kitchen looking for a prayerbook or something they’d left behind. None of which I was aware of, of course, being much too busy dabbing on Whiskers’ lipstick (Cutex Coral Pink, would you believe!) and saying: ‘Hello, Patricia!’ into the mirror and pretending I was dancing with Efrem Zimbalist Junior!

  Whom I didn’t really know, of course, except that I’d seen him in Modern Screen once or twice and really liked the look of him – thought the name quite fab too, may I add! And was more than glad to say: ‘Oh yes!’ when he husky-groaned: ‘Like to dance then, sweet Patricia?’

  As round and round we twirled to my favourit
e song: ‘Son of a Preacher Man’ – what else, darlings! with Efrem crooning, ‘The only one who could ever teach me was the—’ at exactly the same moment as the door came bursting in (they must have heard me ‘la-la-laa-ing’!) and who’s there only – yes! – Caroline going: ‘My dress! He’s wearing my favourite dress!’ and putting on quite a performance, I have to say – (Watch out, Efrem! This is Oscar material we’re dealing with here!) – as Whiskers gets a grip of me and starts yowling and – slapping me, would you believe! – saying that this is it, this is definitely the end – and then, can you believe it, collapsing hopelessly into tears!

  Chapter Four

  Mrs O’ Hare’s Smalls

  A situation which wasn’t helped, I admit it, and it’s not something I’m proud of, by my promising that I would never do it again because they were Caroline’s private things and I had no business taking them, and then sneaking off a few days later and stealing Mrs O’Hare’s smalls off the washing line, pretending this time that I was dancing with Lorne Greene out of Bonanza! Why him, don’t ask me, whether it was the distinguished grey hair or what I don’t know, all I know is that someone had seen me climbing over the fence into her garden and next thing there’s O’Hare in the kitchen waving her fists and shouting about the guards. It was stupid, of course – I mean you can imagine what I looked like in those voluminous monstrosities! (O’Hare was huge!) But I was so frustrated – dying to dance with Efrem so much that I couldn’t get it out of my mind!

  Predictably enough, it didn’t take long for word to get around the town and all you could hear going up the street was: ‘Ooh! Cheeky!’ and ‘Lovely boy!’ It was pointless explaining to them that I wasn’t all that interested in sex and that all I wanted was for Lorne or Efrem to say to me: You see this spread? It’s all yours. Your name’s going on the door, Patrick! It’s all yours from now on!