Delia Byrne/ Francis O'Halloran

Poem 11 of the Irish Cycle
London/ East Anglia 1943

Delia Byrne/Francis O'Halloran

Everyone says there's a war on,
and I know that, for goodness' sake,
but there's no excuse for the way
they throw up their hands,
as if that's some excuse, sure, it's no excuse,
and they do nothing for the old people.

I've had three elderly people, not well at all,
moved out of my ward to clear the beds,
to make way for the wounded soldiers.
But the soldiers will never be sent here,
and, sure, everyone knows that, so I don't know
what this fuss and bother is about at all.

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I came over on the boat, there were jobs to be had,
and didn't they start roaring at us,
Jayz, from the first minute we landed:
Get in line, ye feckin Paddies, and the rest of it.

I came over to work, not to be yelled and screamed at,
but all they can seem to think to say, is
"Why are you not signed up in the bleedin' Forces?"
I can think of sixteen good reasons.

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The Ward Sister is Irish, she remembers the First War,
and she tells us not to mind these people.
Your main concern, ladies, are your patients,
and you'll answer to me, not a one of these others.

She's a very competent person, from Athlone,
and she knows well what she's doing.
I'm ready to listen to every word she says,
since she knows this country, I certainly don't.

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They shoved us into trains, sent us down to London,
handed out cards with numbers and ration books,
then they sent half of us in trains back to Liverpool:
I don't think they know what the hell they're doing!

I've been sent out with a gang to East Anglia
where we are meant to work on the airfields,
to extend the runways, laying down concrete,
the most miserable place I have ever seen.

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We've had a slow trickle of soldiers, at long last,
since the empty beds, I suppose, were a disgrace;
they are convalescent cases, we do no surgery,
and I can't help thinking of the ones we threw out.

In the evenings the girls are so exhausted
that we don't do much of anything.
They've given us billets way up in the attics
and we're meant to be in by 9 Pip Emma.

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The weather is depressing, but familiar,
and the work is hard but what you'd expect.
We have a barracks beside the airfield,
and there's a local pub, the beer is bloody awful.

That's where I first met a couple of Yanks,
same age as myself and dacent oul sticks,
killed telling me how they were "Ahh-rish"
and mechanics for the bombers at the field.

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I am so tired and nervous and homesick.
I think of Daddy and Mammy all the time,
and although I'm not really afraid of the bombs,
I can't help but wish I were home.

I went out with some of the London girls ,
and they were so cheeky with the boys!
One lad came over and he tried to kiss me.
Horrible! Neither name nor introduction.

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The first payday was a shambles,
with deductions for this, that and the other.
The lads were boiling, right on the edge,
ready to fight for what was theirs.

The squaddies backed down, on orders,
and not because they wanted to.
So we went to that awful bloody pub
and stood drinks for the Yanks.

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I've been feeling very down these days,
and Sister even took me aside.
She said to me, Delia, what troubles you?
And, do you know, I couldn't tell her.

You could use a little holiday, she said,
You've been hard at it for the last six months.
Would you not think of taking a break?
Sure, where could I go, says I.

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One Yank was Joe O'Brien, his family from Limerick,
the other Brian Cassidy from god-knows-where.
And the two of them were so grand and friendly,
unlike our "hosts", whom we all despised.

"Y'gotta come to the States", says Joe,
"because one day all this crap will be over!"
That's how the little seed got planted in my mind.
I'd never dreamed of that. But why not?

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Sister arranged a travel pass to Norwich,
to a place they call East Anglia.
It's supposed to be restful and nice,
and I could do with a bit o' that!

When I arrived it was damp and horrible,
and I settled into a dreary guesthouse
run by a yellow-toothed dragon called Mrs. Cunningham.
O God! This is not at all, at all, what I wanted.

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Brian and Joe became pals, they had a jeep,
so we'd go off on spins on Sundays
all around that flat damp country,
ending up in pubs, good pleasant craic.

One day, all wet and bedraggled,
who should walk in but an Irish girl,
short-tempered and snippy, as cross as a cat,
said her name was Delia Byrne.

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I was going mad in this awful place,
and I took to walking through the town.
One day the rain came down in a shower
and I ran for shelter to the Royal Hotel.

There was a young Irish lad, I could tell straight away,
sitting cool as you please with smooth-faced Yanks,
who enfolded me, bought me a drink, took me over,
and I didn't like that, but was cold and unhappy.

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When I saw Delia, I knew, she's the one!
But my teeth got in the way of my tongue.
Brian and Joe, in tandem, oozed with charm;
she was sulky at first, but soon settled down.

God, how I hate this place, she cried,
and we all fell over laughing.
"Oy, remember there's a war on!" said Joe,
and we all collapsed and laughed some more.

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The American boys were very nice,
but we all know what they want.
Francy, I thought, was very sweet,
so shy and well-mannered, reminds me of home.

As we left, he blushed and stumbled,
asked if I had an address or telephone number,
said he'd like to, well, keep in touch.
I hesitated, then thought, why not?

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God, she gave me her phone number!!
I don't know what on earth to do.
Should I ring her, then what the hell do I say?
I am destroyed, sweet Delia. Dilly, I love you!!

Ahhh. Maybe not. Hold back on that plan.
It might not go down so smooth.
Think, for Jayz' sake, help us out here, God!
I don't want to lose this girl.

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I thought Francy would ring me by now,
but it just shows how wrong you can be.
He's just like the rest of them, I suppose.
Still, I thought he was a nice lad from home.

God, I am so lonely. I don't really know
if I can carry on with this job much longer.
Sister still holds us together, God bless her,
but the English treat us like skivvies.

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There's a phone box in the village
and it's become my second home.
I stand in the damn thing every day,
and I can't get my fingers to twirl the dial.

I have written a dozen scripts:
"Hello, Delia, how are you?" No, no, try again.
Can I see you again, please, please,
if you say no I will damn well kill myself.

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He hasn't tried to ring, I was just a plaything.
It's so sad because I really thought he was nice.
I thought ... well, never mind what I thought.
I was so lonely, and he was a touch of home.

I find myself crying at night,
not because of HIM, for goodness' sake!
But because it is all so meaningless,
so lonely, so tawdry, such a waste!

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I got talking over beers to Brian and Joe,
and I'm afraid deep feelings tumbled out.
They grabbed the phone number I was waving about
and they bloody well rang her, just like that.

"Delia!" yells Brian, "is that you, darling?
Hang on, here's someone just dying to talk to you!"
"Delia ... Dilly, it's me, I'm so bloody sorry. I just, I just ..."
"Shut up, Francy, when can we meet?"

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I'll have to take this boy in hand.
Typical Irish, can't put his socks on by himself.
In the end it was his friends who came through,
but the flood of relief is unbelievable.

I know what he feels for me, you always do,
so I'll just have to work around that shyness.
An Irish woman knows how to take the lead.
We might go to America. Yes, I know we will.