The Climbing Boys E-Book

Ann Murtagh

• Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 220

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Dublin, 1830. When his da gets injured, Hugh 'Scholar' O'Dare has to leave school to work as a chimney sweeper. The job is scary and dangerous, but it brings him into the home of the most famous man in Ireland, Daniel O'Connell, who takes an interest in the young boy's life. Then Scholar comes across another young sweeper whose circumstances are much worse than his own, and a shocking secret comes to light. Can he help this new friend escape a life of darkness?

Leseprobe

DEDICATION

In memory of my Aunt Nancy

Contents

Title PageDedicationMapAcknowledgementsChapter One: Christmas Eve, 1830Chapter Two: The House in Merrion SquareChapter Three: ChangesChapter Four: Saving GwendolenChapter Five: Darby and Bert AgainChapter Six: Rats Rattigan and Brother MaloneyChapter Seven: Christmas DayChapter Eight: Lampkins’ PartyChapter Nine: Stephen’s DayChapter Ten: Bert’s SecretChapter Eleven: The Runaway ApprenticeChapter Twelve: The Runaway DogChapter Thirteen: Help NeededChapter Fourteen: The RescueChapter Fifteen: Breaking FreeChapter Sixteen: Merrion SquareChapter Seventeen: The StoryChapter Eighteen: The Liberator Chapter Nineteen: The Story Gets OutChapter Twenty: The True Story of Climbing Boy McCoyChapter Twenty-One: Two Weeks LaterHistorical ThemesAlso from The O’Brien PressAbout the AuthorCopyright

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book was inspired by James Kelly’s article ‘Chimney Sweeps, Climbing Boys and Child Employment in Ireland, 1775–1875’, which was sent to me by the late Michael O’Brien in November 2021. I fondly remember the lively discussions about the story that Michael and I had in the spring of 2022 and particularly feel his loss now that he isn’t here to see the finished product.  

Thanks to my husband, Richard, sons Bill and Matt, Rebecca Bartlett and Deirdre Murtagh for feedback on the manuscript. Matt also proved to be an insightful tour guide for the area around Pearse Street, where the story is set. I am grateful to Susan Curley-Meyer for answering some of my queries and to the Dublin City Library and Archive staff in Pearse Street for their expertise and helpfulness. I would like to thank my cousin, Colm Farrelly, for his assistance in consulting the archives, and Paul Duffy for his help with colloquialisms.

The O’Brien Press has once again been a pleasure to work with, especially my editor, Nicola Reddy. Finally, I would also like to acknowledge the Arts Council for the Agility Award I received towards funding this project.

Chapter One

Christmas Eve, 1830

Before the cock crew and the neighbourhood stirred, I waded through the pitch darkness into Stephen’s Lane. Guided by the map in my head, I chose where to step. Avoid the pig dung piled against the wall of Callans’ next door. Don’t crash into the cart full of old rags outside Nolans’. Creep past the old crate on the far side; otherwise Trusty, the hardy little terrier who lives in it, could spring out and sink her teeth into your leg. Watch this, mind that! My muscles tensed until we turned the corner into Mount Street, where the streetlamps lit the way.

Before we left home, my brothers Dexie and Cricket sat in the kitchen in the candlelight while I rubbed grease into my sore elbows and knees. This helped the cuts that smarted and the grazes that stung. None of us spoke. Ma and Da and eight other O’Dares were sound asleep in the other two rooms and wouldn’t thank us for disturbing them. I was grateful for my brothers’ patience; they were used to cleaning chimneys, but this was only my third week on the job. They ambled ahead of me now with their brushes and sacks. It’s only for a few months. I often repeated those words in my head while I worked – somehow, they helped me get through the day.

The sound of hobnailed boots on the pavement behind me suddenly pulled me out of my thoughts, and I swung around.

‘Hello?’ I said, but the street was empty.

‘Hurry up, Scholar,’ Cricket called back to me. I was always called ‘Scholar’ at home, even though my name was Hugh. I walked faster. Panting, I caught up with my brothers.

‘Heard someone behind us,’ I told them.

‘Probably a watchman keeping an eye out for robbers,’ said Dexie.

But when I looked back, there was no lantern and no watchman in a heavy brown coat to be seen. The freezing fog dulled the streetlamps and the odd light over a front door. A black cat dashed across the footpath in front of us, disappearing through the bars of a gate.

‘There you go,’ said Dexie. ‘Only a cat.’

‘I heard boots,’ I insisted.

‘Did you not see the ones the cat was wearin’?’ said Cricket, laughing. He was being his usual chirpy self – true to his nickname ‘Cricket’. Christy was his real name. He gave me a friendly punch on the arm. ‘Come on. A black cat crossed in front of us. Sign of good luck, don’t forget.’

Cricket could be right. Maybe I’d be lucky enough to meet the owner of the first house we were going to work in. My brothers had met him many times, but that was before I joined them – before I became a climbing boy.

‘Cheer up, Scholar,’ said Dexie, as if he could read my mind. ‘It’s Christmas Eve, and there’s a good chance you’ll meet the man himself this morning. How many boys could say that?’

I smiled and agreed.

‘And we’ve decided to give you the library, seein’ you’re so fond of the books,’ added Cricket.

I had seen libraries in some of the houses we worked in, but not this library. I imagined floor-to-ceiling shelves laden with all kinds of leather-bound books. But further up Mount Street, I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder again. It wasn’t so much a sound as a feeling I had that somebody was following us. But there was no time to linger.

My brothers quickened their pace again until we arrived at Merrion Square. In the ghostly light of the streetlamps, the tall houses stared haughtily through their windows at the square in front of them. A watchman on the far side cleared his throat and announced the hour of four o’clock. A horse and carriage passed by. The click-clack of the hooves and the whir of the wheels faded. Dexie opened the gate of number 30, and we climbed down the steps to the servants’ entrance.

On my right stood Cricket, two inches taller than me. At fourteen, he was still an apprentice chimney sweeper, learning the trade from Da, a ‘master’. Dexie, at sixteen, had finished his apprenticeship and was now a journeyman sweeper, well on his way to becoming a master. He was head and shoulders over me. Ma said he shot up after he turned fifteen. I couldn’t wait for this to happen to me. I was fed up with being small. My brother Tim, a year younger, was now the same height as me; a few times lately, we were asked were we twins. I felt a twinge of envy as I thought of Tim, tucked up at home under the old coats and blankets.

Cricket rapped on the basement door, which opened and threw some light outside. Mrs Sullivan, the housekeeper, stood on the doorstep.

‘Good morning, boys, I’ll –’

Something caught her attention behind us. I felt myself being pushed aside. A tall, gangly man squeezed in between Cricket and me, his crooked nose the sign of a fighter.

‘Darby Madden, Master Sweep at your service.’

‘Told you I heard someone following us,’ I said to my brothers. The man had one hand on his brush, the other on the shoulder of his apprentice, whom he thrust forward. The boy’s hunched shoulders were covered in a torn jacket, and he kept his eyes down as he clutched his soot bag.

Dexie swung around to face the man. ‘I don’t care who you are, Master Sweep. We’ve been given the job here, so you can take yourself off.’

‘I’ll do the work cheaper,’ the sweep said, ignoring Dexie and speaking to Mrs Sullivan. ‘Me and the young lad here. You’ll be right happy with the pair of us.’

‘Will you hold your whisht!’ said Mrs Sullivan. ‘People are trying to sleep.’

‘Hmmph,’ I said, looking at his climbing boy. I wondered if he was Darby Madden’s son. I was small for twelve, and this puny boy barely came up to my shoulder. I kept my voice to a whisper. ‘You don’t look fit to climb a lamppost, let alone a chimney flue.’

The climbing boy made a face at me but never spoke.

‘Hold your tongue if ye know what’s good for ye,’ said Darby to me, out the side of his mouth. ‘I’d wager my lad, Bert McCoy, could climb up a flue quicker than you’d look at one.’

McCoy, I thought. So he’s not Darby Madden’s son.  

‘He won’t be climbin’ anything here,’ said Cricket.

‘It’s up to the Missus who’ll get the job,’ said Darby Madden. ‘She looks like a practical type of woman. Wouldn’t you like to save your famous employer a few bob, missus?’

‘If you want to save your neck, you better step back,’ said Dexie.

‘Stop! Enough, all of ye,’ said Mrs Sullivan. ‘Stand aside, please, Mr Whatever-Your-Name-Is, and may I inform you ’twas the O’Dare brothers that were sent for to clean the chimneys?’

‘But –’

‘I’ll not hear another word from you, young man.’

‘Suit yourself,’ said Darby, climbing back up to the street. Passing an empty bucket, he gave it a sharp kick, sending it clattering down the stone steps with an awful din. Bert stepped sideways to avoid it and scrambled after his master. I grabbed the bucket by its ice-cold handle and set it back on the step.

‘The nerve of him! He better not have woken the Master and the Missus nor the rest of the family, not to mention the neighbours.’ Mrs Sullivan glanced nervously around outside as she said this. She continued in her sing-song Kerry accent. ‘Two things I can promise you. That man will never darken the door of this house to clean chimneys. And I’ll be telling the Master about his brazen behaviour on his very doorstep this morning.’

Chapter Two

The House in Merrion Square

Dexie cleared a space on the table for the small lit lamp, pushing aside piles of plain-covered books and papers tied with crimson tape. Then he spread the dust sheets over the floor.

‘What do you think of this place, Scholar?’

‘I’d never leave this room if I lived here,’ I said, and Dexie laughed.

Shelves from floor to ceiling were crammed with books of all sizes – even more than I had imagined – and the air had that fusty, bookish smell I loved. I quickly counted one shelf of books – twenty-seven – and calculated roughly how many shelves were in the room. Most were law books, going on the titles, but I spotted The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by Edward Gibbon; my teacher had that too.

A large wooden crucifix hung on another wall – the same as the one in the Christian Brothers’ house, in the room called ‘The Sacred Heart Parlour’. I took off my jacket and boots. Jesus on the cross seemed to watch my every move, as if he felt sorry for me. In one fast motion, I drew my cap over my face to below my chin. No soot would get in my eyes, nose or mouth if I could help it.

Dexie fixed the cloth in front of the fireplace.

‘I’ll be next door in the drawing room,’ he said before he left. I passed behind the cloth, into the darkness, and started to climb up the flue. This was the moment I hated most. I’d never tell my brothers what I often feared – that while pushing up through the flue, the chimney might turn on me and choke me, like it was something alive. Though my nose was covered, I could still smell the fusty ashes. Holding my brush above my head with one hand, I pressed my back and feet against the flue to start moving up. My sore elbows and knees smarted. Piles of soot came loose. Thankfully this flue wasn’t too narrow.

 I heard Dexie and Cricket working on the chimney in the next room.

‘Saw that travellin’ sweep last week in Camden Street,’ said Dexie.

‘Darby Madden? He’s tall enough to remember, alright.’

‘Probably doesn’t half feed that young lad with him. Saw him stealin’ a bun from one of the stalls.’

‘So they’ve been around a few days.’

‘Yeah. Bessie Reilly said they’re lodgin’ in Mrs McGinn’s cellar.’ Bessie sold fish on the streets and was one of Ma’s friends. She seemed to know everything worth knowing within a five-mile radius.

There was a pause before Cricket spoke again. ‘Cheek of them waltzin’ into our part of town, takin’ our jobs.’

‘Can’t let them do that,’ said Dexie. ‘Especially now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Found out from Ma last night there’s another child on the way,’ said Dexie.

‘What? When?’

‘April. And that could change things at home. Scholar …’

The voices became muffled as Cricket coughed, and I couldn’t make out what was being said after that. Ma was going to have another baby! Of course that would change things at home – new babies always did. Peggy, the youngest, was four now. We had another little brother after her called Michael, but he died before he was six months old. That was less than a year ago. Ma took it bad. The little wooden cradle Da had made for Michael still stood in the corner of their room.

‘Mrs Callan could do with it, Molly,’ Da had said a few months after Michael died.

‘Not yet, Bartle,’ was all Ma could say, and the cradle was left there ever since.

Now another baby would be rocked in it. I thought about Ma; she had complained of feeling poorly over the last couple of weeks. Hadn’t she asked Auntie Joan to come and help with the Christmas dinner? Ma, a strong woman, would never ask for help in the full of her health. I should have known the signs – she was expecting again.

Brush, scrape and loosen the soot repeated in my brain. One of my knees stung from a cut, but I tried to forget the pain and concentrate on getting the chimney as clean as I could. Tough as it was to work with my brothers, wasn’t I lucky I was with them and not with strangers? Dexie had taken his time to explain how things worked. Cricket was willing to show me the best way to climb, squeeze and clean, even to do it again when he knew I was finding it hard to take everything in.

I thought about what he had shown me and made sure that I was doing it right. The boys said Mrs Sullivan always checked their work carefully. The last thing I needed was to be called back for not doing a thorough job and, worse still, to be the reason why we weren’t hired to clean the chimneys again. But I couldn’t help wondering what had they said about me after they talked about Ma?

I became so caught up in the work and my thoughts that I almost forgot where I was. When I eventually climbed down and came out from behind the cover, who was sitting at the big desk only Daniel O’Connell himself, dipping his pen in the inkwell. He peered at me over his little spectacles in the soft light of the gas lamp. He wore a deep-red, shiny dressing gown with a matching nightcap pulled over his brown-haired wig. I often wondered about his wig, if he wore it at home or only when he was out and about.

Here was the man who had led the campaign for Catholics to have the same rights as anyone else, the man who was the first Catholic Member of Parliament. We had paid our penny every week to help his work, and hadn’t Da attended some of his huge outdoor meetings where thousands of people gathered? To think I was in a room with him on my own! Although I knew there was a chance that I’d meet Daniel O’Connell this morning, I hadn’t thought about how I should be if it happened. I did the first thing that came to mind and gave a deep bow.

‘Come, come, young man, no need for that!’ he said.

I stood up straight and watched him finish the word he was writing and press the blotting paper over it. He had added a heap of folded newspapers to all the documents on the table. Removing the pair of spectacles from his nose, he folded his arms. ‘Good morning to you!’

‘Good morning, sir,’ I said. I wasn’t sure if I should continue working or stand and talk properly.

‘Leave that a minute,’ he said, as if reading my mind. ‘I’ve met your brothers before, but you must be new. What’s your name?’

‘Hugh, sir,’ I said.

‘Hugh O’Dare?’ he repeated. I could hardly believe he spoke my name. ‘And what age are you?’

‘Twelve, almost thirteen, sir.’

‘Only two years younger than Danny, my youngest son. Hugh O’Dare … I’ve heard of you from the Christian Brothers. Brother Maloney is your teacher, is he not?’

‘He is, sir.’

‘You’ve a rare talent for arithmetic, I believe.’

‘Well …’ I was trying to think of what to say.

‘From what I hear, you have indeed. That’s a great omen for your future. You’re keen to get ahead, I’m sure?’

‘I am, sir.’

‘And you’re doing a bit of work during the holidays?’

‘No, sir. I’ve had to leave school ’cause my father broke his arm.’

‘Broke his arm? I’m sorry to hear that. But you’ll be returning when he’s better?’

‘That’s the plan, sir.’

‘Delighted to hear that. Your talent’s a gift from God to cherish!’ He paused, his eye drawn to the sack lying near the fireplace. ‘And tell me, young Hugh, did your father ever consider using one of those machines for cleaning chimneys?’

I looked at him, wondering how best to answer. I couldn’t think of anything to say other than the truth. ‘They’re very dear, those machines, Mr O’Connell.’

Daniel O’Connell knew what I meant when I said that; we could never afford to buy one.

‘The reason I asked you is that poor boy in Stoneybatter – I’m still not the better about hearing what happened to him.’

‘Bob O’Leary?’

‘Yes. You knew him?’

‘No, sir, but my father knew his master.’

‘The poor child. Shocking, shocking.’

Bob O’Leary, a nine-year-old climbing boy, died at the end of November. He was working in a house over on the far side of the city, where he climbed up one flue but became confused and chose the wrong flue to come down. All the coaldust dropped into a fire below, blazing up the chimney. The poor lad never stood a chance. I started work the following week and couldn’t sleep with the nightmares I kept having about Bob dying in the fire.

Dexie came in from the other room to help me sweep up the soot.

‘Good morning, Mr O’Connell.’

‘Good morning, Jim.’ That was my brother’s proper name; he got the nickname ‘Dexie’ from the deck of cards and his love of card playing. ‘I’ve just been chatting to your brother about the untimely end of that poor boy in Stoneybatter.’

‘A dreadful accident, sir,’ said Dexie.

‘Indeed it was, but a tragedy that could have been avoided. You’re the third generation of O’Dares to sweep our chimneys, and you’ve always done a satisfactory job. But times are changing, Jim. Next time, I will have to hire a sweep who uses a machine.’

‘Oh, we’re always very careful, sir,’ said Dexie. I could hear the worry in his voice, knowing how losing the regular job of cleaning Daniel O’Connell’s chimneys would be a blow to the business. ‘We wouldn’t be takin’ any foolish risks on the job.’

‘I know. Mrs Sullivan said the same when I discussed it with her. Still, if we’re serious about stopping those dreadful accidents, we must take a stand.’

We could hear Mrs Sullivan calling one of the maids from the kitchen.

‘There she is now in Sergeant Major mode – the real boss of 30 Merrion Square. Given today’s Christmas Eve, she’ll be charging through the rooms this morning armed with holly and ivy to decorate the place. I better let you finish.’

I knew by the tone of his voice he was trying to be funny, but I also felt that what he said about Mrs Sullivan was true. Despite being the man who changed the law in the British Parliament, this woman from Kerry was in charge of his house. Dexie, looking as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, continued to help me fill my sack with soot and ashes.

‘Goodbye, Hugh, and good luck with the arithmetic. Goodbye, Jim.’

On my way out, Daniel O’Connell opened a drawer in his desk, took out a thrupenny coin and held it out for me. ‘Buy yourself a little Christmas treat, Hugh.’

My hands were so dirty I was reluctant to take it at first.

‘Don’t worry. I can drop it into your hand,’ he said kindly.

‘Thanks, Mr O’Connell. Goodbye, sir,’ I said. That money would go to Ma. Buying something for myself was out of the question, but I enjoyed thinking of what that might be like.

Chapter Three

Changes

I imagined telling the boys in my class I met Daniel O’Connell. It would be another few months, but it made me happy to think about it. I imagined how our teacher, Brother Maloney, would egg me on to share what I talked to the ‘Liberator’ about. He loved using that word when he spoke of Daniel O’Connell, as he rolled the rs in his Clare accent. For him, Daniel O’Connell, who ‘liberated’ all of us Catholics by giving us our proper rights, was the greatest man who ever lived. Most boys in my class had seen Daniel O’Connell at Mass. We were warned not to stare at him, but we couldn’t help ourselves. It was hard not to when the most famous man in Ireland was sitting in the church across from you.

Although we had all seen him many times, I couldn’t think of anyone who could say they spoke to him, other than one boy in my class, Rats Rattigan, and the priests and the Christian Brothers. Today that changed, I thought as we walked down Merrion Square. I pushed all thoughts about chimneys, brushes and scrapers aside. I met Daniel O’Connell. Not only had I met him, but he had heard of me.

‘Come on, Scholar,’ called Dexie. When I started daydreaming, I sometimes dawdled and fell too far back. I ran to catch up with them. ‘Da’s not going to be happy when he hears about this. Losing Daniel O’Connell’s custom’ll be a big loss to him.’

‘Nothin’ we can do about it,’ said Cricket. ‘Still, it’s goin’ be hard bringin’ home the news, especially with Ma –’ He started coughing.

‘I heard yez talk about Ma,’ I said. ‘Why wasn’t I told?’

‘She was going to tell you this evenin’,’ said Dexie.

‘And what was all that about changes?’

Cricket coughed again, but as soon as he stopped, he spoke. ‘What with Da out of work and another mouth to feed, there’s a lot of changes ahead.’

My brothers looked at each other. I knew that look. Something was being kept from me.

‘But Da will be goin’ back, won’t he?’ I asked.

‘He will, but the rent’s goin’ up and –’

Cricket stopped to cough again, and Dexie gave him another uneasy look.

‘Let Da tell him, Cricket.’

‘Tell me what?’ I said.

‘It’s not my place –’

‘Please, I want to know now.’

Dexie sighed. ‘You might have to stay workin’.’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry to be the one who’s tellin’ you this –’ he threw Cricket a dirty look for putting him in this awkward situation – ‘but you mightn’t be able to go back to school.’

‘Did Da say that?’

‘He did, Scholar. He was goin’ to tell you this evening.’

‘But I can’t …’ I was trying to find the right words, but my brain felt scrambled.

‘Look, we know you were lookin’ forward to goin’ back, but things don’t always turn out the way we think they will. Come on,’ he said kindly but firmly, ‘we’ve got to get to the next job.’

I managed to put one foot in front of the other to follow my brothers, but inside I was screaming. I gave up school to clean chimneys on account of Da not being able to work, but the only way I found it bearable was that I was going back. My nickname ‘Scholar’ was given to me with good reason: I loved school. School was where I learned all sorts of ways to work on numbers, like algebra and bookkeeping. It was where our teacher, Brother Maloney, set up a school library so we could borrow books.

You’re keen to get ahead, I’m sure. Those words were spoken by Daniel O’Connell only a few minutes ago. How often had I daydreamed of working with a quill, calculating numbers and living in a comfortable house? I often saw myself in a room with a warm fire and a chess set on a table in the corner. I had learned how to play chess this year and loved the game, so it quickly slotted into the pictures I had in mind for the future.

And thinking of the future, I had been looking forward to learning about navigation too. Brother Maloney said he’d start it in the last term to help boys who wanted to become sailors. That made me think of Sinbad the Sailor and the stories I read about him. I used to imagine being beside him, our compass and lead line at hand as we sailed off on a voyage. Like my other dreams, the dream of learning navigation skills was now gone up in smoke. Probably up a chimney that needs sweeping, I thought bitterly. What was ahead of me? Navigating my way up one chimney after another. My stomach churned like a ship out in Dublin Bay tossed about in a storm.