The autobiography of angelas ashes by frank mccourt

He's standing at the edge of the sidewalk with his wife, Minnie, looking at a dog lying in the gutter. He and his friend John McErlaine believed what they were told in the speakeasy, that the truck was packed to the roof with cases of canned pork and beans.

He's in great form altogether and he thinks he'll play a while with little Patrick, one year old. He can barely hold a job and Angela and the children still have barely any food to eat.

And while your yap is shut, said Delia, we're here to see you do the right thing by our poor cousin, Angela Sheehan.

Malachy, at the far end of the bar, turned pale, gave the great-breasted ones a sickly smile, offered them a drink. Francis, Malachy, Oliver, Eugene. Frank gets drunk and returns home, singing like his father used to.

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No, lady, he says. Malachy, fresh from the speakeasy himself, felt insulted and wanted to argue with the priest, one sacrilege on top of another. The next week Dad loses the job. Anything you like, missus, because I know you're an honest woman and you got a bunch o' nice kids there.

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Malachy Sr finds it even more difficult to find work because of his Northern Ireland accent and mannerisms, the children are mocked for their American accents, and many neighbors, as well as Angela's family, look down on the McCourts for their return from America. She gives the twins their bottles of water and sugar but Malachy and I have to wait till she gets money from Dad and we can go to the Italian for tea and bread and eggs. Sometimes she lets Malachy sit in the pram when he's tired of trotting along beside her. One says he knew a guy Michael sang Kevin Barry but he died of the drink which he had because of his war wounds. They tempted him with delicacies but he waved them away and drank his tea. Mam lets me sit on the sidewalk with my back against the wall. Malachy goes down. When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. McCourt writes: "I think my father is like the Holy Trinity with three people in him, the one in the morning with the paper, the one at night with the stories and prayers, and then the one who does the bad thing and comes home with the smell of whiskey and wants us to die for Ireland. MacAdorey's hand. Angela started to cry. I try to get the swing going myself but all I can do is move it back and forth and I'm angry because Freddie and Malachy are laughing at the way I can't swing.

She cries in the middle of the night, too.

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Angela's Ashes (Frank McCourt, #1) by Frank McCourt