The Scrapper

A new departure for the author of the Mrs Browne trilogy:
The Mammy, The Chisellers, The Granny

Praise for
The Mammy

‘A born storyteller’

THE LONDON INDEPENDENT

‘full of devastating wit’

BOOKS IRELAND

‘A story as colourful as Moore Street itself, but there is also
pathos, compassion and irony’

ENTERTAINER

Praise for
The Chisellers

‘it’s a brilliant book’

SUNDAY INDEPENDENT

‘The characters leap off the page …
you’ll have to buy this book’

SUNDAY WORLD

‘full of living and raw humour’

LEINSTER EXPRESS

‘great crack’

BOOKS IRELAND

Praise for
The Granny

‘packed with Dublin wit from start to finish’

DERRY PEOPLE

‘full of real people, earthy humour and unforgettable characters’

WOMAN’S WAY

Everything has its time and every person will have their day.

This is a lesson I learned from my mother, Maureen O’Carroll. She was an extraordinary woman. Having begun her adult life as a nun, she left a convent when she began to doubt her vocation. She went on to have eleven children, so she was probably right that convent life was not for her. She also became the first woman elected to the Irish Parliament for the Labour Party in 1953 and still all of us lived in a two-bedroomed council house.

The core lesson of all my mother’s nuggets of wisdom that she imparted to me is this: ANYTHING is possible, for anyone!

This possibility, I suppose, is also the core of the story of Sparrow McCabe. A man who get his ‘shot’, but does not understand that sometimes the result of that will not manifest itself for a long time.

I grew up in similar circumstances to Sparrow and in identical surroundings. And you, reader, are witnessing my ‘shot’. So far, so good. It is working out for me, but it has taken over twenty-five years for me to see that. On the way I have been blessed with three magnificent children, Fiona, Danny and Eric, and four beautiful grandsons all of whom make every day beautiful for me. I have also met and married a woman, Jennifer Gibney, who saw more in me than I saw in myself. I wish you this good fortune, for truly Jenny has been the decoration on my tree of life that
turns it into a glistening Christmas tree.

So then, feet up, get yourself a mug of tea and relax with this book. For believe it or not … you have just now become a part of my ‘shot’.

Brendan O’Carroll

Dublin 2011

RITA McCABE SAT in her usual corner of the Falcon Inn lounge bar. The celebration was in full swing. She watched her husband Macker move drunkenly from table to table spilling Guinness from his pint on anyone within splashing range. This was his night. She knew it would be only a matter of time before he unzipped his flies and produced his penis to his waiting audience. They would cheer, and she would once again be mortified with embarrassment. It was a ritual with him. It had begun on the evening of 14 September 1957 in this very same pub. Rita hadn’t been there that night – she’d been busy delivering her only son. It was that delivery that started Macker’s dick-waving ritual.

Macker had accompanied her right to the door of the Rotunda Maternity Hospital. This however was his limit. Beyond that door, the goings-on were ‘women’s business’. He left the young Rita in the hands of a nurse and her
mother as he retired to the Falcon Inn to await a result – to await the result he wanted. A boy. Rita had difficulty in bearing boys, Macker told those in his company. Since their marriage in 1955, miscarriage had followed miscarriage. God knows he had done his bit, but Rita just couldn’t seem to carry boys.

Like all the bars in Snuggstown the Falcon Inn was licensed until 11.30pm. But if you were a regular, and Macker was, it was possible to drink on until the early hours of the morning. Macker was just removing the pint glass from his lips when there was a rap at the now-locked door. With a creamy white moustache of Guinness froth over his lip he looked at the bar manager, a childlike fear in his eyes.

‘I’ll get it,’ the manager said flatly as he rose from his stool. There were about thirty other late drinkers in the bar. Every one of them stopped drinking and looked first at Macker, then at the door. The bar was now silent as the deadbolt clacked open.

‘Hello, Missus,’ was all the manager said as Rita’s mother entered. She looked exhausted. She stood just inside the doorway, indicating that she was not staying. Macker looked at her enquiringly. When she spoke her voice was soft.

‘It’s a boy.’

There was no reaction yet from either Macker or the group. More information was required.

‘A healthy boy,’ Rita’s mother added with a smile.

The place erupted. Macker called for drinks for everyone and regulars queued to shake his hand or slap his back.

‘What weight?’ called an older man from his stool at the
end of the bar. Over the years he had heard many women ask this question. He had no idea why, but it was always a standard question so he asked it anyway.

‘Four pounds and six ounces,’ the woman called back, and seeing that her task was complete she left. Nobody had congratulated her on the birth of her grandson.

A tall red-haired man approached Macker. ‘Four pounds and six ounces? Jesus, that’s small.’

Macker was now unsure. ‘Is it?’ He turned to the bar manager who was busy pulling pints. ‘Liam – is it? Is that small?’

‘All mine were over the eight-pound mark, sure enough. But he’ll be fine – he’ll be fine.’

Macker relaxed. Just as he did the red-haired man gripped him in the crotch.

‘Well now, Macker. You can’t expect to catch a shark with a worm!’

There was a roar of laughter from the crowd, and Macker joined in. However, unwilling to let this slight on his manhood pass he stood on the bar counter, unzipped his fly and produced his penis, to roars of approval.

‘There’s not a shark off the coast of Ireland that wouldn’t mind
this
for his dinner!’ Macker roared, as he fell backwards into the arms of his laughing friends.

As Macker and his friends drank into the early hours, a few miles away the four-pound six-ounce boy, later to be christened Anthony Jude, slept peacefully, recuperating from the first of many battles he would face as Snuggstown’s newest arrival.

And so here they were, twenty-five years after Sparrow’s birth. Same pub. Same scenario. Rita tried to recall all the events since her son’s birth that had heralded the flashing of her husband’s ‘love truncheon’, as he liked to call it. She sipped on her Pimms No 1. Seven – no, eight! Sparrow’s christening, Sparrow’s confirmation, Sparrow’s first boxing title win – that was the schools’ championship. His three national title wins, and his selection for the Irish Olympic boxing team. The latter was somewhat premature, as Sparrow was later de-selected because of a hand injury. Macker was disappointed, she remembered, and God love him he didn’t know what to do with his mickey then. He didn’t have a ritual for disappointment.

‘Speech!’ someone called from the crowd to Macker. As usual Macker feigned reluctance, but then put his drink down and raised a hand for silence. He got it. After wiping his chin he began.

‘I can’t tell yeh all how proud I amofme son, Sparrow.’

‘Sure the whole of Snuggstown is proud of him, Macker!’ someone interjected, and a roar of approval went up.

Again Macker held his hand aloft. Once again the silence came.

‘Eh, thank you, Tommy, and indeed all of you. Sparrow’s win tonight was decisive and nobody can now deny that his shot at the European title is legitimate. Menendez can’t avoid my boy now.’

‘The cowardly Spanish bastard!’ Another interjection, met this time with groans of discontent rather than a cheer.

‘That may be,’ Macker continued, ‘but he’s a good fuckin’ scrapper!’

The room now went quiet.

Macker smiled, ‘But not good enough for my little Sparrow.’

Now a huge cheer filled the lounge bar. At last came the loaded question.

‘And where did the Sparrow come from, Macker?’

There followed a spontaneous burst of song: ‘Macker, Macker, show us your flute, show us your flute, show us your flute. Macker, Macker …’

Rita closed her eyes. She fixed a pretend smile on her face to hide her disgust as her husband danced in the background with his penis dangling like a demented raw sausage. With her eyes closed she drifted into a dream of yet another scenario for her husband’s death. She was jarred from her thoughts by a nudge.

‘Move over in the bed, Rita.’ It was Dolly Coffey. Rita moved up a little on the bench seat and Dolly plonked herself into a space about half the width of her arse.

‘Yeh must be very proud, love. A shot at the European Championship!’

Rita took another sip of her Pimms. ‘Oh I am, Dolly, I am proud. I just wish it was something other than boxing. I hate it! So many nights in the last ten years Anthony has come home battered, bruised, with every joint in his body swollen; it’s not a good sport for mothers.’

‘No, I suppose it’s not.’

The two were quiet for a while, taking in the celebration. Now and then Dolly would shoot a sideways glance at Rita. If anyone were watching the two women, and
no one was, it would have been obvious to them that Dolly had something on her mind. When Dolly spoke again her words were very deliberate.

‘Sparrow’s down in my house with our Eileen.’ Again the sideways glance at Rita, and Dolly continued, ‘A right pair of fuckin’ love-birds, what?’

The two women laughed. Dolly was waiting on a reply, and it came. ‘She’s a good strong girl, Dolly. You done a fine job with her,’ Rita complimented.

‘Thanks, Rita, you can only do your best when there’s nine to be rarin’.’ Dolly accepted the compliment gracefully.

Like synchronised swimmers both women took a sip of their drinks.

‘You have one for confirmation in March, haven’t yeh?’ Rita was now enjoying the chat and lit up a cigarette, indicating that she was getting settled. Dolly, with a mouthful of Guinness, nodded before she answered.

‘Yeh, young Paul – the little bastard! I don’t know what I’m going to do with him. He’s out robbin’ cars at night, no sense of responsibility. I’ve warned him – I’m tellin’ his father and he’ll put manners on him. I don’t know where he gets it!’ Dolly sounded exasperated.

‘His father will straighten him out, Dolly, when he’s out.’ Rita took a drag of her cigarette and then continued. ‘When is he home?’

‘Well, he got nine but he’ll only serve three. Should be out by the end of the month,’ Dolly replied, still genuinely not knowing where young Paul had got it from.

‘That’s nice.’ Rita took another drink. ‘God – confirmation, there’s a day out in the church for yeh, Dolly.’

Dolly now saw her chance. She looked Rita straight in
the eyes and her reply was measured.

‘Rita … I think we could be in the church before that!’ She held Rita’s gaze.

Rita froze, her cigarette halfway to her lips. ‘What do you mean, Dolly?’ she asked.