At My Mother's Knee (29 page)

That summer I was allowed to go to Ireland on my own. I flew
Aer Lingus from Speke Airport to Dublin, my first time on a plane, feeling like McGill from
Man in a Suitcase
. I had some
time to kill before I caught the train to Castlerea, and although
my parents had told me not to I went for a mooch around
Dublin. I got something to eat in Bewleys Café on Grafton
Street, where my dad and I always headed when we got off the
boat. Bewleys was dark and smoky, with a turf fire burning in
the grate – that glorious smell which, for me anyway, is the fragrance
of Ireland. All Bewleys ever seemed to serve were
all-day breakfasts, and very delicious they were, swilled down
with a mug of liquid tar calling itself tea.

In Easons bookshop I bought a copy of J. D. Salinger's
Catcher in the Rye
to read on the train. I also picked up
The
Eleventh Pan Book of Horror Stories
, selected by Herbert Van
Thal, just in case the
Catcher
didn't work out, but in the four
hours it took to get to Castlerea I finished the book. I
empathized with Holden Caulfield, the anti-hero of the story,
a skinny, cynical adolescent, who didn't seem able to communicate
with either adults or others of his own age. I saw the
world through Holden's jaded eyes for the first time. He was
right: it was full of phoneys, and there was too much pressure
to conform to parental and other irritating adults' ideas. Well,
no more. I began to cultivate a suitably louche attitude to go
with my new frame of mind and greeted the cousins with a
laid-back 'Jesus H Christ, it's good to see ya.'

I didn't dare give the Holden welcome to my aunty
Bridget and if my cousins wondered why I was talking
through the side of my mouth they didn't comment. Nice
people. It's thanks to all those holidays spent on the farm in
Ireland that I developed a love for the countryside. I can
hear my aunty Bridget's voice in mine when I call the
chickens – you make a noise that sounds like
Zook-zook-zook
.
Chicken fanciers will understand, the rest of you will just
have to believe me.

*

The year 'That Same Old Feeling' by Pickitywitch was released
was the year I became Paul O'Grady, Cat Burglar. It was an
indefensible crime, and I make no attempt to absolve myself.
Why did I do it? That's easy. Boredom, plus an unquenchable
thirst for excitement. I can't even defend myself by saying that
I was easily led. Not that I wasn't – it's just that in this instance
I was the instigator. I was very immature, and in a world of my
own, floating somewhere between Planet Batman and Planet
Avenger. I went to church regularly every week, did my homework,
was a member of the Legion of Mary, turned out every
day to flog the patients of St Cath's their papers and fags, still
went to the marine cadets, and was available to babysit most
Saturdays for my sister.

On the dark side of my moon it was a different story. The evil
twin was enjoying himself; the balance of order had tilted in
chaos's favour. He could be found running down the street
throwing milk bottles at random, hanging around outside chippies
in the North End, swigging cider and smoking loosies
(unscrupulous newsagents were more than happy to sell loose
Park Drive fags to kids), prowling the streets for girls (preferably
ones who would go down the back alley with him for a necking
session and hopefully a grope) . . . and climbing through
bathroom windows to rob houses.

The evil twin was unscrupulous, his bad behaviour knowing
no bounds. Smarter than his pals, he used his clever ways
to encourage them to become willing accomplices in his mini
crime wave.

Our first 'job' was a house in Oxton. It wasn't planned; we
were just walking past and it seemed like a good idea to break
in. Franny was having none of it and went home, leaving the
four of us to slip in through the open kitchen window. We
didn't even have to smash it, which I have to say disappointed
me – I'd been looking forward to that. Instead, the owners had very obligingly left the house wide open to us. We didn't
actually steal anything; instead we browsed around examining
every room as if we were house-hunters instead of burglars.

'Look, they've got their own private bathroom in their
bedroom.'

'Jesus, look at this. They've got a shower!'

'There's a phone by the bed!'

I swear we took to
burglary
just so we could have a good
nose around the homes of the 'posh'. If
Location, Location,
Location
had been on the telly at the time none of it would've
happened.

We went further afield, to
Heswall
, for our next heist and
found a suitable des res down a country lane. It was a beautiful
house, full of antique furniture and oil paintings. Again, as
in the previous house, there were no coin-filled electricity, gas
or television meters to rifle, and as we were only interested in
cash we chose not to take anything except an oil painting of a
ship and an old pirate's pistol which we planned to sell.

We had no idea how to go about this and after a lot of debate
in my bedroom with the booty hidden in the loft above, we
decided it would be best to flog them to a shop in Rock Ferry
that seemed to deal in old paintings and such. Turned out that
the pistol was an eighteenth-century flintlock, one of a pair, and
the oil was a valuable and recognizable artwork. The manager
of the shop, recognizing the worth of our plunder and suspicious
as to how a gang of scruffy kids had come by it, called the
police and we were nicked. My dad threw up with shock. He
actually vomited in the kitchen sink when the police came to the
house to tell him that they were holding me at the station.

He came to collect me and we walked home in silence. He
didn't look at me, stopping only once to allow me to catch up
when I'd paused to tie my shoelace. He just looked through me
while I hurriedly tied a knot.

My mother was making the tea. 'Where've you two been?' she asked suspiciously, coming in from the kitchen, her eyes
darting from me to my dad. 'What's going on?'

'He's been arrested and charged with housebreaking,' my
dad said bluntly, sitting down and running his hands through
his hair. 'I've just been to pick him up from Well Lane police
station.'

My mother sat down slowly on the arm of the sofa, her
trembling hands clasped in her lap. 'He's done what?'

My dad shook his head. 'You heard me right, Molly,' he said
slowly. 'He's been having a rare old time, breaking into
people's houses. I'd just like to know why,' he added sadly,
staring at me as if he didn't recognize me.

My mother began to rock herself, ever so slightly, back and
forth. 'Mother of you, sweet Jesus,' she moaned, 'what on
earth are we going to do?'

'If it's any consolation, Mam,' I began, 'we didn't really nick
much—'

'Oh, that was very charitable of you,' she said bitterly.
'Those Brothers at St Anselm's had your cards marked all right.
What did Brother Kearney say? "Born to trouble as the sparks
fly upwards" – never a truer word spoken.'

'Now, Molly, don't take on,' my dad sighed. He looked tired
and old, as if all the life had been knocked out of him, which
for the moment it had.

'How could you?' my mother shrieked, suddenly lunging
towards me. 'You thieving, robbing, lying little whore.' She
pronounced it 'who-er'. 'I'll bloody well swing for you.'
She grabbed me by the hair and laid into me with the flat of
her hand. I wriggled out of her grip and ran upstairs.

She carried on all night, slamming doors and muttering curses.
I stayed in my room, out of her way, mortified with shame.

'You know you'll go to prison for this,' she roared up the
stairs. 'And it'll serve you right.'

Aunty Anne and Aunty Chris came round to calm her down. The three of them hunched round the fire would've given
Macbeth's witches a run for their money. Sitting on the stairs,
I could hear them in the front room. My dad had retired to the
Black Horse to drown his sorrows and try to make some sense
of his son's behaviour.

'I know now that I must have taken the wrong baby home
from St Cath's,' my mother lamented, dunking her biscuit in
her tea. 'He has to be a changeling. He's evil incarnate, that
one. I don't know where he gets it from.'

From my seat on the stairs I knew, without being able to see
her – not from the gift of X-ray vision, but from years of experience
– that she was pointing her finger in the direction of
Rose Long's house. 'Imagine
her
when she gets a load of this
little lot. Oh, she'll have a field day. It'll be round the neighbourhood
quicker than a bloody tornado . . . and imagine if
the
Birkenhead News
gets wind of it – or the
Echo
? Mother of
God, the shame and disgrace.'

She'd got it into her head that the world's press would be
beating a path to Holly Grove to get a glimpse of and
hopefully an exclusive with the leader of the 'Birkenhead Four'.

As it happened, when I did appear before the beak some
months later I had the fear of God put into me and was given
a sixty-pound fine, a lot of money at the time. My dad paid it
religiously at the rate of a pound a week, and I paid him back
when I started work. Or at least, half of it – he didn't have
the heart to take any more off me after the first few payments.
He told me to keep it, adding, 'You'll only have it off me
again anyway when you're skint and on the cadge.' I didn't
deserve him.