My first letter, Dear Mrs. OaBrien, Inasmuch as you have not seen fit to pay me what you owe me I may be forced to resort to legal action.Thereas your son, Michael, parading around the world in his new suit which I paid for while I myself have barely a crust to keep body and soul together. I am sure you donat want to languish in the dungeons of Limerick jail far from friends and family.

I remain, yours in litigious antic.i.p.ation, Mrs. Brigid Finucane She tells me,Thatas a powerful letter, by, better than anything youad read in the Limerick Leader. That word, inasmuch, thatas a holy terror of a word.What does it mean?

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I think it means this is your last chance.

I write five more letters and she gives me money for stamps.On my way to the post office I think,Why should I squander money on stamps when I have two legs to deliver the letters myself in the dead of night?

When youare poor a threatening letter is a threatening letter no matter how it comes in the door.

I run through the lanes of Limerick shoving letters under doors, praying no one will see me.

The next week Mrs. Finucane is squealing with joy. Four of aem paid. Oh, sit down now and write more, by. Put the fear of G.o.d in aem.

Week after week my threatening letters grow sharper and sharper.

I begin to throw in words I hardly understand myself.

Dear Mrs. OaBrien, Inasmuch as you have not succ.u.mbed to the imminence of litigation in our previous epistle be advised that we are in consultation with our barrister above in Dublin.

Next week Mrs. OaBrien pays. She came in tremblina with tears in her eyes, by, and she promised shead never miss another payment.

On Friday nights Mrs. Finucane sends me to a pub for a bottle of sherry.Youare too young for sherry, by.You can make yourself a nice cup of tea but you have to use the tea leaves left over from this morning.No, you canat have a piece of bread with the prices theyare charging. Bread is it? Next thing youall be asking for an egg.

She rocks by the fire, sipping her sherry, counting the money in the purse on her lap, entering payments in her ledger before she locks everything in the trunk under her bed upstairs.After a few sherries she tells me what a lovely thing it is to have a little money so you can leave it to the Church for Ma.s.ses to be said for the repose of your soul. It makes her so happy to think of priests saying Ma.s.ses for her years and years after sheas dead and buried.

Sometimes she falls asleep and if the purse drops to the floor I help myself to an extra few shillings for the overtime and the use of all the big new words.There will be less money for the priests and their Ma.s.ses but how many Ma.s.ses does a soul need and surely Iam ent.i.tled to a few pounds after the way the Church slammed doors in my face? They wouldnat let me be an altar boy, a secondary school pupil, a missionary with the White Fathers. I donat care. I have a post office savings account 332.

and if I keep writing successful threatening letters, helping myself to the odd few shillings from her purse and keeping the stamp money, Iall have my escape money to America. If my whole family dropped from the hunger I wouldnat touch this money in the post office.

Often I have to write threatening letters to neighbors and friends of my mother and I worry they might discover me.They complain to Mam,That oula b.i.t.c.h, Finucane, below in Irishtown, sent me a threatening letter.What kind of a demon outa h.e.l.l would torment her own kind with a cla.s.s of a letter that I canat make head nor tail of anyway with words never heard on land or sea.The person that would write that letter is worse than Judas or any informer for the English.

My mother says anyone that writes such letters should be boiled in oil and have his fingernails pulled out by blind people.

Iam sorry for their troubles but thereas no other way for me to save the money for America. I know that someday Iall be a rich Yank and send home hundreds of dollars and my family will never have to worry about threatening letters again.

Some of the temporary telegram boys are taking the permanent exam in August.Mrs.OaConnell says,You should take that exam,Frank McCourt.

You have a bit of a brain in your head and youad pa.s.s it no bother.Youad be a postman in no time and a great help to your poor mother.

Mam says I should take it, too, become a postman, save up, go to America and be a postman over there and wouldnat that be a lovely life.

Iam delivering a telegram to Southas pub on a Sat.u.r.day and Uncle Pa Keating is sitting there, all black as usual. He says,Have a lemonade there, Frankie, or is it a pint you want now that youare near sixteen?

Lemonade, Uncle Pa, thanks.

Youall want your first pint the day youare sixteen,wonat you?

I will but my father wonat be here to get it for me.

Donat worry about that. I know atis not the same without your father but Iall get you the first pint. aTis what Iad do if I had a son.Come here the night before youare sixteen.

I will, Uncle Pa.

I hear youare taking that exam for the post office?

I am.

Why would you do a thing like that?

aTis a good job and Iad be a postman in no time and it has the pension.

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Ah, pension my a.r.s.e. Sixteen years of age ana talking about the pension.

Is it coddina me you are? Do you hear what I said, Frankie? Pension my a.r.s.e. If you pa.s.s the exam youall stay in the post office nice and secure the rest of your life.Youall marry a Brigid and have five little Catholics and grow little roses in your garden.Youall be dead in your head before youare thirty and dried in your ballocks the year before.

Make up your own b.l.o.o.d.y mind and to h.e.l.l with the safeshots and the begrudgers. Do you hear me, Frankie McCourt?

I do, Uncle Pa.Thatas what Mr. OaHalloran said.

What did he say?

Make up your own mind.

True for Mr. OaHalloran. aTis your life, make your own decisions and to h.e.l.l with the begrudgers, Frankie. In the heel oa the hunt youall be going to America anyway,wonat you?

I will, Uncle Pa.

The day of the exam Iam excused from work.Thereas a sign in an office window on OaConnell Street, smart boy wanted, neat handwriting, good at sums, apply here to manager, mr. mccaffrey, easons ltd.

I stand outside the place of the exam, the house of the Limerick Protestant Young Menas a.s.sociation.There are boys from all over Limerick climbing the steps to take the exam and a man at the door is handing them sheets of paper and pencils and barking at them to hurry up, hurry up. I look at the man at the door, I think of Uncle Pa Keating and what he said, I think of the sign in Easonsa office, SMART BOYWANTED.

I donat want to go in that door and pa.s.s that exam for if I do Iall be a permanent telegram boy with a uniform, then a postman, then a clerk selling stamps for the rest of my life. Iall be in Limerick forever, growing roses with my head dead and my ballocks all dried up.

The man at the door says,You, are you coming in here or are you goina to stand there with your face hanging out?

I want to say to the man, Kiss my a.r.s.e, but I still have a few weeks left in the post office and he might report me. I shake my head and walk up the street where a smart boy is wanted.

The manager,Mr.McCaffrey, says,I would like to see a specimen of your handwriting, to see, in short, if you have a decent fist. Sit down there at that table.Write your name and address and write me a paragraph ex- 334.

plaining why you came here for this job and how you propose to rise in the ranks of Eason and Son, Ltd., by dint of perseverance and a.s.siduity where there is great opportunity in this company for a boy that will keep his eye on the guidon ahead and guard his flanks from the siren call of sin.

I write, Frank McCourt, 4, Little Barrington Street, Limerick City, County Limerick, Ireland I am applying for this job so that I can rise to the highest ranks of Easons Ltd., by dint of perseverance and a.s.sadooty knowing that if I keep my eyes ahead and protect my flanks Iall be safe from all temptation and a credit to Easons and Ireland in general.

Whatas this? says Mr. McCaffrey.Do we have here a twisting of the truth?

I donat know, Mr. McCaffrey.

Little Barrington Street.Thatas a lane.Why are you calling it a street?

You live in a lane, not a street.

They call it a street, Mr. McCaffrey.

Donat be getting above yourself, boy.

Oh, I wouldnat,Mr. McCaffrey.

You live in a lane and that means you have nowhere to go but up.

Do you understand that, McCourt?

I do, sir.

You have to work your way out of the lane,McCourt.

I do,Mr. McCaffrey.

You have the cut and jib of a lane boy, McCourt.

Yes, Mr. McCaffrey.

You have the look of the lane all over you. All over you from poll to toe cap. Donat try to fool the populace,McCourt.Youad have to rise early in the morning to fool the likes of me.

Oh, I wouldnat,Mr. McCaffrey.

Then thereas the eyes.Very sore eyes you have there. Can you see?

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I can, Mr. McCaffrey.

You can read and write but can you do addition and subtraction?

I can, Mr. McCaffrey.

Well, I donat know what the policy is on sore eyes. I would have to ring Dublin and see where they stand on sore eyes. But your writing is clear,McCourt.A good fist.Weall take you on pending the decision on the sore eyes. Monday morning. Half six at the railway station.

In the morning?

In the morning.We donat give out the b.l.o.o.d.y morning papers at night, do we?

No,Mr. McCaffrey.

Another thing.We distribute The Irish Times, a Protestant paper, run by the freemasons in Dublin.We pick it up at the railway station.We count it.We take it to the newsagents. But we donat read it. I donat want to see you reading it.You could lose the Faith and by the look of those eyes you could lose your sight. Do you hear me,McCourt?

I do,Mr. McCaffrey.

No Irish Times, and when you come in next week Iall tell you about all the English filth youare not to read in this office.Do you hear me?

I do,Mr. McCaffrey.

Mrs. OaConnell has the tight mouth and she wonat look at me. She says to Miss Barry, I hear a certain upstart from the lanes walked away from the post office exam.Too good for it, I suppose.

True for you, says Miss Barry.

Too good for us, I suppose.

True for you.

Do you think head ever tell us why he didnat take the exam?

Oh, he might, says Miss Barry, if we went down on our two knees.

I tell her, I want to go to America, Mrs. OaConnell.

Did you hear that, Miss Barry?

I did, indeed, Mrs. OaConnell.

He spoke.

He did, indeed.

He will rue the day, Miss Barry.

Rue he will, Mrs. OaConnell.

Mrs. OaConnell talks past me to the boys waiting on the bench for 336.

their telegrams,This is Frankie McCourt who thinks heas too good for the post office.

I donat think that, Mrs. OaConnell.

And who asked you to open your gob,Mr. High and Mighty? Too grand for us, isnat he, boys?

He is, Mrs. OaConnell.

And after all we did for him, giving him the telegrams with the good tips, sending him to the country on fine days, taking him back after his disgraceful behavior with Mr.Harrington, the Englishman, disrespecting the body of poor Mrs.Harrington, stuffing himself with ham sandwiches, getting fluthered drunk on sherry, jumping out the window and destroying every rosebush in sight, coming in here three sheets to the wind, and who knows what else he did delivering telegrams for two years, who knows indeed, though we have a good idea, donat we, Miss Barry?

We do, Mrs. OaConnell, though atwouldnat be a fit subject to be talking about.

She whispers to Miss Barry and they look at me and shake their heads.

A disgrace he is to Ireland and his poor mother. I hope she never finds out. But what would you expect of one born in America and his father from the North.We put up with all that and still took him back.