The Prologue

But first ... a note on the differing US versions

Why is the prologue missing from the US paperback? The short answer is that my publishers thought italics too difficult for paperback readers. But joking won’t do. So let’s try again.

The US paperback does not have the three-page prologue that the US hardback has. I think the editors over there thought it offputting for a general readership – why I’m not sure, as the language of the first chapter is a bit of a grind, anyway. It was suggested I remove the prologue and disperse what small information is carried there throughout Chapter One – in order not to put browsing readers off, they said. I decided to go along with them.

The real question for me is: when is a book finished? The prologue has an odd history. I was never sure if it belonged or not, and I was forever putting it in and taking it out again. Indeed, the final MS (the one that was bought by the publishers) did not have it. Then, during the (British) editing, I put it back in again. (My editor maintains this is the only book he has ever edited that turned out longer after than before.) The US followed suit for the hardback. But they never liked it. For the paperback they wanted to revert to the original MS. I could hardly object. In a sense it seemed a clever solution: I knew too much to know which was better, and this way I had both versions in print. I rather regret that now. Clever solutions, as is their way, tend to create more problems than they solve.

Apart from the prologue, the editions are substantially the same. The differences in pagination are due solely to type-sizes. (Though with each new edition I did make fiddly changes, to grammar and punctuation and the like. I very much disliked the copy-editing the book underwent in London; and it’s only now in the US paperback that I have the text anywhere close to my intention. I still object to much of the capitalization.)

Anyway, here it is, the Prologue, dusted down and restored to glory ...

There goes Mr Mack, cock of the town. One foot up, the other foot down. The hell of a gent. With a tip of his hat here and a top of the morn there, tip-top, everything’s dandy. He’d bare his head to a lamppost.

A christian customer too. Designate the charity, any bazaar you choose, up sticks the bill in his shop. One Shilling per Guinea Spent Here Will Aid the Belgian Refugees. Comforts for the Troops in France. Presentation Missions up the Limpopo. Choose me the cause, he’s a motto to milk it. See him of a Sunday. Ladies’ Mass by the sixpenny-door, stays on for the Stations for his tanner’s worth. Oh, on the up, that’s Mr Mack, a christian genteelery grocerly man.

What’s that? A modest quencher, if your honour is asking. Don’t care if I do.

A sargentleman even, for yous know he was a soldier of the Queen, me lads. Royal Dublin Fusiliers, Second Battalion, the Old Toughs. Joined up in old God’s time. This was down in Tipp. Tipperary, says he – the Yorkshire of Ireland. Not a patriot by any stretch.

Well, I was only a kidger meself them days, with the wandering soles on me feet – nothing would do but a sodger’s life for me. Had I known the class of galoot they favoured, I better had stopped in me bed. For no time at all old Macks was made a sergeant of. Quartermaster Sergeant Mack. A responsible position, quoth he, in charge of the regimental vittles. So now yous know. The relief of Ladysmith was down to bread baked on time.

Here’s the boy with the creature comforts. Pardon me parsnips while I do the aqua. May your purse nor your prick never fail you, young sir.

Wait and I tell yous. Small accommodation I asked for one time, old comrades and all that. This was after our sodgering days was done, above in his huckster’s emporium was this. Old Macks had me splitting firewood till closing. And meself here with me lungs destroyed and half me guts left bleeding on the kopjees. Not the Boer War, says he. Incorrect to name a war for the losing party. Nothing’ll suit but you calls it the South African Campaign.

Not that Mister-me-friend-Mack saw spit of any fighting. Too cute by a quarter. Stowed for home on HMS Funk with his mawsey hide stamped time-expired. I know him of old or me name’s not Doyle, you may take your oath on that, good gentlemen fair.

Cheers now, here’s hoping. Where it goes, it goes worth chasing. This is a good one for yous:

Sure a bird never hopped on one leg. Pint of purge, if your honour is asking. Don’t care if I do.

Look at old Macks now, would you run your lamps over that. He’s tipped his hat to the milkman’s jennet. Carry me out, the tippest-toppest gent ever that loaned you nuppence.

Yous know what I’m going to tell ya, do yous know what I’m going to say? He has this handle round the parish hereabouts. They calls him the General. He don’t mind, a nod to his gallanty past. And the magnolious sight of him behind of his counter – pearl one, plain one, all day long knitting stockings for the troops. Sure no one has the heart to let on ‘tis General short for General Maid.

Whisht now, he’s after turning. What’s he forgot? Never fear, he wouldn’t darken the likes of here. Hardened tea-drinker is his nibs. Now now, where’s his corpulence at? Back to the paper stand. Will old bags risk a morning paper? Sod the basket. He’ll be looking for his change next. Old shoes, up again.

Well, would yous believe it. That bangs it. That bangs Banaghan. Is he a lunatic altogether? Does he think he’s a Protestant? He’s only after taking an Irish Times!

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