Jim Brennan's Life-Personal Narrative

It is Jim Brennan 's birthday. He wakens on this humid August morning, startled by birdsong echoing across the garden outside and, for a long time, he stares in confused remembrance towards where the swelling orange sun is burning the faded floral wallpaper across from his tumbled bed. 'It 's my birthday, ' he finally realises. 'I 'm seventy-six today. Where did it go? ' Climbing painfully from a sore mattress, standing in striped pyjamas by the window, Jim stares gardenwards. There 's much too be done. Later. Much later. These days it 's all weed killing, backache and wishes. Outside in the sunrise garden roses are already awake, clematis climbs like a growing child and all the border marigolds are on fire. 'It 's my birthday. ' Next door 's dog barks. A cat scales a glass sharp wall and drops beside

Then. Jim goes to Cork with his father. A business trip. Magnificent Cork and boat bobbing, cathedraled Cobh and then the Metropole Hotel. Swanky. Dinner and desserts. Black ties, brown cigars. Gin and tonic with a twist of lemon. Now Cork is always dry gin and a twist in Jim 's fading memory. Bitter lemon. Jim with father 's friends. A party and the talcum smell of sex. Dad leaves early with a friend. Dad feels only half married. Winking a man 's signal. Permission to sin. A bird in the bush. Jim dancing until dawn with necklace and pearls. Back at her oak roomed upstairs house she says her parents are away and Jim is still not sober. 'Let me help you to bed, ' he says, learning the rules of the game and when to cheat. Sixteen Ellen smelled of love and roses. This girl is twenty and slick with gin. Pearls in her ears, stones in her heart. Bath naked she drips rich. Jim falls into her and is devoured. Ellen, sweetest sixteen, gave him everything except that. Her tended flesh is reserved for the marriage bed. Jim wanted more. Pearls before swine. Mea culpa, Ellen -mea maxima