The Death of Joe Dolan
Incubator, 2017. Copyright with the author.
Yesterday, sailing boats, cruisers and jet skis cut white trails on the water at the start of the Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race. Today, from our balcony, squinting, I see only a handful of dinghies and the colossal Manly Ferry, docked at Circular Quay.
André, the big German, slaps me on the back.
‘Do you want coffee?’ he asks me. ‘To wake the sore head.’
I grunt and give him the thumbs up.
I rid my pockets of a pouch of tobacco, receipts and coins. My phone vibrates as I put it down. It’s a message from my mother:
"We have storms here and some of the trees fell. Joe Dolan died today. Rest in Peace."
I twist in my chair to face into the living room.
‘André. . . ‘ I shout. ‘Joe Dolan is dead.’
He doesn't reply. I hear clinking and banging from the kitchen. I shout louder.
'Joe Dolan is dead.’
'Joe who?' he shouts back.
'Dolan,’ I say. ‘A singer.’
I roll a cigarette. The worst of my hangover has not yet hit and there is a moment when I almost laugh, but I know that later my body and brain will pay.
André manoeuvres through the furniture carrying the percolator, sugar, milk, cups and spoons balanced on a tray. He tiptoes around our couch, careful not to falter and send the coffee splattering onto cream-coloured suede. He steps out onto the balcony.
He pours the coffee. I light my cigarette.
‘Joe Dolan.’ I say.
#
The whole business had started yesterday when Richard went to the supermarket to get supplies. Six of us in the house, three Irish and three Germans, had pooled our money and Richard promised to return with cheese, bagels and fruit for breakfast. The plan was to take it easy until the New Year. Get some rest. After three months spent working on the farm, drinking and playing cards in the evenings, and two weeks here in an apartment overlooking the bay, our nights and money spent in Bondi Junction, a detox was overdue. Two hours passed and Richard had not returned. The Germans tried calling him, but he didn't answer. We defrosted bread that someone had left in the freezer and we made toast.
At noon, I heard shouting from below. I went to the balcony to see. Richard stood looking up. With him was a guy I recognised, Jim Mac, from Donegal. We had picked melons with Jim, and the Germans too, out past Roma and St. George in Central Queensland. Jim had stolen a bottle of gin from me on our last night there and he had fallen asleep and locked his room. I had bought a bottle of nice gin, Bombay Sapphire, and Jim stole it, drank half of it and passed out. I drank his goon (box wine) instead. I puked on the bus back to Brisbane the next day.
Jim saw my head looking out over the balcony and waved. Richard shouted up.
‘I forgot my keys.’
I went downstairs to let them in. Richard offered me a can of warm beer from the bag.
Well,’ said Jim. ‘I heard you got sick on the bus.’
‘You owe me a bottle of gin.’
‘Jim Mac is coming drinking with us,’ said Richard.
I held the door open.
‘Great.’
Upstairs, Richard unpacked the shopping - beer, vodka and a box of wine - onto our kitchen table. The Germans demanded to know where the food was.
‘In the shop,’ said Richard. ‘We’ll get something on route.’
The Germans said they didn't want to go drinking in the house now or in town later. They were sick of drinking and they asked Richard what had happened to take it easy. They looked at me for support. I had an open beer can in my hand.
Richard laughed. ‘Its tradition. St Stephen’s Day is the best day of the year.’
André shook his head.
‘This was my money. I am not happy with this.’
Richard smiled. He reached up to put a hand on André’s shoulder.
‘Do you not know St. Stephen’s Day?’
‘Stephanitag,’ said André. ‘It’s the same. A boring day in Germany. The day to visit family.’
‘At home,’ said Richard, ‘We watch horse racing and go to the pub and everyone goes out. I’m telling you, if you saw the queues for nightclubs in Portlaoise and Carlow, you’d know it was special.’
‘Letterkenny too,’ said Jim.
I nodded. At home now there would be talk of going to town.
Anyway, I have no idea what the Germans really thought, but they laughed and clapped when Richard and I sang our version of "Take Me Up To Monto" in Ryan’s bar. We beat the rhythm on the table and I spat my words. Richard hummed for most of it and joined in when he remembered the lyrics. All of us sang the chorus.
Take her up to Monto, lan-ge- roo . . .
To you!
#
That was yesterday.
I lie back in my chair, eyes half closed.
‘What do you think of St. Stephen’s Day now?’ I ask André.
André rubs his nose with the back of his hand.
‘How we went drinking?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Being honest, I could live without.’
I run my nails over the arms of the wicker chair, making clicking noises. André is right. I was surprised at myself. I wouldn't even have gone out back home. Stephen’s Day in Ireland was too messy, too busy and because of the crowds and alcohol involved, too primal. Depending on luck and sobriety, you either ended up waiting for a taxi with a hot bag of chips or with a cold woman.
The door slides open. A voice behind me croaks.
'It’s too early for shouting. Some of us were drinking last night.'
I sit up. It’s Richard. He looks unwell. He has slept on the couch in the hall, underneath damp towels and sheets. He wears his bright blue t-shirt, the same one he has worn since Christmas Eve on Coogee Beach. It sports big black writing: “SAME SAME BUT DIFFERENT.” Richard holds his hands over his eyes and he steps around us onto the balcony. I offer him my tobacco.
'Why are ye shouting for?’ he asks, taking the pouch.
'Joe Dolan is dead,' I say.
'Oh.’
He slumps into the seat. He rolls a cigarette in silence then signals for the lighter.
He turns to André. 'Did you ever hear of Joe Dolan?’
'No,’ says André. ‘He is famous?'
‘A star.’
André goes to pour him coffee.
'Don’t,’ says Richard. ‘I’m heading back to bed.'
We sit, listening to the whoosh of a breeze through empty streets, birdsong and silence. I look out over the treetops at the sparkling water. I hear a flutter of wings. A macaw, red with green and blue tips on its feathers, lands on the balcony next door. Soon other macaws join him. We’re used to them now, these birds from pirate stories. They scratch on the balcony and knock over an empty wine bottle that clinks as it rolls over the gaps between flagstones. I met our neighbours when they drank it last night. A couple from Cork. The only other Irish we met so far in Neutral Bay. I had arrived back with two of the Germans and we drank schnapps on the balcony until it got late and cold.
Richard twists in his chair. The bags under his eyes are black. His gut hangs from under his t-shirt. His skin is grey, his wrinkles deep and prominent. It is 2007. He is twenty-four years old.
He folds his arms across his face.
‘I don’t know how I do it,’ he says.
Richard tells the story of how he and the lads went to Kings Cross. At some point in the morning, Richard tried to break up a fight between two Aussies, wrestling on the ground beneath the giant Coca Cola sign, beside the main road. The fight became a mass brawl involving several onlookers and Richard slipped away.
‘This,’ says André, ‘You told me this at six AM. Do you remember?’
Richard grunts. ‘No.’
‘You were so drunk,’ says André. ‘You couldn’t open the door. Really. You had the keys like this.’
André closes an eye and mimics a drunk Richard drawing circles with an imaginary key in front of him. Richard groans.
‘I might need to get sick.’
#
I bring the radio out and keeping the volume low, I search through the dial for the news. But as I turn it up to hear, thinking I had it too faint, I land on a channel coming in clear and for a second, pop music blasts.
Richard sits bolt upright. He rubs his eyes.
He looks at André, squinting.
'It’s a pity about Joe Dolan,' he says.
‘You say this,’ says André. ‘But don’t know who he is.’
Richard turns to me. ‘Put him on there, would you?’
‘What?’
‘On the radio.’
I laugh.
André scrunches up his face.
‘You don’t know about dead people on the radio?’ says Richard. ‘When a famous singer dies you hear them. Like Johnny Cash or Ray Charles. Or Ike Turner before Christmas, when they played "River Deep, Mountain High".
‘I know,’ says André. ‘This is common in Germany also.’
Richard nods. ‘That’s what confirms it, their death. You turn on the radio and you hear their song.’
'But how will this Joe person be on the radio?’ asks André.
'Joe Dolan,' says Richard. ‘That’s his name.’
‘But in Australia? He is not famous,’ says André.
‘No,’ I say. I try to explain. ‘He is famous. But only in Ireland famous and maybe a little famous in the UK. It was a joke.’
‘So, why did you not say this? Four months I have lived with you. You say crazy things. I mean. . . really crazy. I think for me, too many crazy things.’
André sighs and rests his head in his hands. ‘And you like his music?'
‘He had some good songs. He was a good singer.'
'He was a great singer,' says Richard. ‘A man of the people.’
The German looks at me.
‘Older people like him more.’
‘So why do you keep saying it is such a great pity he is dead?’
‘Because it is.’
#
The macaws make little thuds as they peck between the flagstones. I think about home and what everybody is doing, and I don’t know whether I’m in a daydream but this image floats by of lads in jerseys, pints in hand, tapping feet, getting impatient. Waiting for a song.
Richard is dozing. I reach across the table and grab his chair to shake it.
He grunts. I shake it again.
‘What?’ he asks.
‘You know,’ I say. ‘It’s still St Stephen's Day back home.'
He laughs.
‘St. Stephen.’ I say and raise my cup.
‘Joe Dolan,’ says Richard.
‘At home,’ I say ‘They’re playing “Good Looking Woman” now.’
‘They have to play it,’ says Richard, ‘It’s the law.’
‘Sing me this,’ says André.
‘We can’t,’ says Richard. ‘It’s too complicated.’
André groans. ‘Forget that I asked.’
I sit low in my seat, closing my eyes. A breeze catches my collar and I drift in thought, imagining the crowds packed in pubs, queuing to get into nightclubs. The smell of aftershave, perfume and sweat. The crush at the bar as young men in shirts and girls, with long glossy hair and short skirts, wave cash and cards to buy drink. Dry ice and a DJ who speaks in a funny accent between song; “It's a big night tonight and we’re rocking it up for St. Stephen.” And you drink and you get into it and soon you don’t hate it at all.
A humming sound brings me back. I sit up. It takes me a moment but I know the tune. Richard hums the verse. I tap my feet. When it comes time to sing, I clap my hands and open my eyes and I watch André’s face as Richard and I belt out the chorus.
‘Oh-me, oh-my, you make me sigh, you’re such a good looking woman . .
When people stop and people stare, you know it fills my heart with pride.’
We teach André the words or at least those we know, and we sing the song over and over, Richard humming us into the chorus, André laughing, his cheeks red.
The door of our neighbour’s balcony clicks open and the parrots hop up onto the railing, ready to fly. A girl with messy black hair and bloodshot eyes sticks her head out. Her mascara, slept in, covers her cheeks.
‘What’s the noise for?’ she asks in a strong Cork accent. ‘It’s early. Some of us were drinking last night.’
‘Joe Dolan is dead,’ I say.
‘Oh. . . ‘
She steps onto the balcony. The macaws take flight. She looks at the empty wine bottle on the flagstones and shielding her eyes from the sun, gazes out over the rooftops to the harbour.
‘I had heard he was sick alright,’ she says. ‘It’s a pity, don’t you think?’
‘It is.’ I say, ‘It is a pity. It’s a real shame.’