The Granny E-Book

Brendan O'Carroll

• Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 255

Beschreibung

The final book in the Agnes Browne trilogy. At forty-seven years of age Agnes, now thirteen years happily widowed, enters the 1980s with a fruit stall in Moore Street, a French lover and six children, five of them in their twenties. Becoming a grandmother is a terrible shock to her system, especially as Agnes suffers every one of her daughter-in-law's labour pains! And as the family expands so do the problems -one son's inevitable brush with the law, the heartbreak of emigration. But Agnes Browne is nothing if not a fighter, and she squares her shoulders, offers up a quick one to her departed pal, Marion, and sets about getting things back on an even keel - or as even as things ever get in the Brown household! The same quick-fire dialogue, hilarious humour and great characterisation as in Brendan's bestselling The Mammy, filmed as Agnes Browne by Angelica Huston, and the BAFTA-winning TV series Mrs Brown's Boys.

Leseprobe

Reviews

THE GRANNY

Becoming a granny is a big shock to Agnes Browne. At forty-seven she’s not quite ready for it. The family is expanding, and spreading. Agnes realises that her ‘chisellers’ are slipping beyond her control. But that doesn’t mean she will stand by and do nothing when the entire fabric of her once close-knit family seems about to disintegrate …

The third book in the famous Mrs Browne trilogy, a hilarious, compassionate saga of working-class Dublin

Praise for The Mammy ‘full of devastating wit’BOOKS IRELAND

‘A story as colourful as Moore Street itself, but there is also pathos, compassion and irony’ENTERTAINER

Praise for The Chisellers

‘It’s a brilliant book’SUNDAY INDEPENDENT

‘The characters leap off the page … you’ll have to buy this book’SUNDAY WORLD

‘full of living and raw humour’LEINSTER EXPRESS

Praise for The Granny

‘The perfect book for reading on the bus – permeated with a ‘can-do’ attitude and with a touching ending’EVENING HERALD

‘… a raconteur extraordinaire … full of real people, earthy humour and unforgettable characters’WOMAN’S WAY

THE GRANNY

Brendan O’Carroll

I dedicate this book, as I do my every breath, to my wife Jenny O’Carroll. I have found the one my soul loves

Contents

ReviewsTitle PageDedicationIntroductionPART ONEChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16PART TWOChapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25Chapter 26About the AuthorCopyright

Introduction

To complete a trilogy should be a relief. You know what I mean, to bring something to a close, to write ‘The End’. There should be some sort of celebratory feelings. No. When I finished this and handed it over to The O’Brien Press I was sad. I had a heavy heart. I was going to miss writing about the widow Agnes Browne and her wonderful family. But as they say, all good things come to an end. And quite apart from the end of the ‘Mrs Browne’ trilogy this was to prove correct for me in every sense of the saying!

I cannot adequately explain what success and fame do to some people. Let’s not beat around the bush, by ‘people’ I mean ME. My first appearance on the Late, Late Show propelled me into the spotlight and was followed by fifteen more appearances. The radio series I wrote was a success. My stand-up tours were selling out everywhere I played. The Mammy was a bestseller. The Chisellers was a bestseller. The Course broke box-office records everywhere. My performance in Roddy Doyle’s The Van was reviewed as brilliant. I was on the pig’s back! I actually began to think that I REALLY WAS the person on the poster. I thought that if I wrote out my shopping list and put it on the stage it would be a hit! Ha, ha!! Life was about to teach me a lesson. A very expensive one! I won’t go into detail here, because then you might not buy the autobiography when I write it, but let me put it this way … In 1990 I was broke! By 1994 I was close on a millionaire and by 1998 I was broke again. I would be still broke for the next thirteen years.

I made many mistakes during that time, but I also made some great decisions. The most important thing I remembered to do was to keep going and keep working. The most important thing I forgot to do? Ah, well that was that I forgot to READ THIS BOOK!

When I wrote The Granny I wanted it to be full of optimism and hope. I think I achieved this. I also always wanted Agnes Browne to be humble, but strong. She is. When my world fell apart in 1998 I should have read this book for two reasons: 1) to ask myself ‘What would Agnes do now?’ and 2) to see that the answer to my difficulties lay in Agnes Browne.

To this day I cannot believe that it took me two years to realise that my next play should be about Mrs Browne. When it eventually dawned on me, thanks to a friend Denis Desmond, I felt like I had come home to my cuddly Mammy who would wrap me in her arms and tell me that everything would be all right. And it was. That first ‘Mrs Browne’ play would go on to become the five-part ‘trilogy’ (I know!) that is on tour now. It also became the BBC 1 sitcom Mrs Brown’s Boys. I should have known that Agnes would have the answer, she always does! Enjoy this, my favourite part of the ‘Mrs Browne Trilogy’. The Granny is more than just a book to me, it’s the beginning of a new life, a new deal, a great adventure and I am determined to enjoy every hump and bump of it all. For the last time then … my wife thanks you, my family thanks you, and I thank you. I really do.

Brendan O’Carroll

Dublin 2011

PART ONE

Chapter 1

DUBLIN 1980 ROTUNDA MATERNITY HOSPITAL

AGNES BROWNE WAS NO STRANGER to childbirth. Within fourteen years of marrying her now deceased husband Redser, she had given birth to seven children. But that was when she was between twenty and thirty-four years of age, young and fit. Now, at forty-seven, she wasn’t able for it. With her eyes tightly closed and her fists clenched, she took a huge breath and let it out in short bursts, ‘Ssst, ssst, ssst, ssst, ssst, ssst,’ ending with a soft moan.

Her son Dermot, one of her twins – her fourth delivery and now twenty-five years of age – leaned close to her ear to speak. ‘Mammy, for fuck sake will yeh stop,’ he whispered.

‘That’s easy for you to say, Dermot, you have no idea what childbirth is like,’ she answered through clenched teeth.

‘I’ll take your word for it, Mammy. Now give it up. People are staring at us!’

Dermot was right. Besides Agnes, her sons Rory, Dermot and Trevor, and her daughter Cathy, there were ten complete strangers in the waiting room. Every eye was staring in wonderment at this woman in a headscarf and trench coat holding a huge bag of fruit on her lap and going through the motions of childbirth.

Dermot’s comment prompted Agnes to open her eyes and she glanced at the strangers, all of whom immediately found things on the walls, ceiling and floor to look at. Agnes gathered herself together and sat up straighter. As she did this a melon rolled out of the bag of fruit and landed square between her feet with a thud. Everybody jumped. The room was silent for a moment as they all stared at the melon. Suddenly everyone erupted in spontaneous laughter.

‘Congratulations, Mammy, we’ll call him Pip,’ Dermot announced, and again the room broke up with laughter.

The door of the waiting room opened and the laughter stopped. In through the doorway peered the head of Ward Sister Mary Sheridan. She looked around with a scowl on her face. Now everybody was staring at the floor or the walls and trying desperately to act innocent. The Ward Sister said nothing and closed the door.

‘My Jesus, did yeh see the face on that one?’ Agnes asked this question of the entire room. Nobody answered. ‘I wouldn’t say she ever needs to buy yogurt, she just gets a pint of milk and stares at it.’

Once again everyone in the room laughed, but this time they either covered their faces or laughed through their nostrils so as not to be as noisy. When the laughter died the room once again fell into silence. After a couple of minutes Agnes suddenly stood up.

‘Nobody tells yeh anythin’ in this bloody hospital,’ she announced.

‘Mammy, sit down. If there’s any news they’ll come in and tell us,’ Rory Browne said to his mother.

Agnes thought for a moment and then suddenly said, ‘I’m goin’ out to ask. That’s my son’s wife in there and I’m entitled to know,’ and with that she left the room.

* * *

Mark Browne dabbed Betty’s forehead with a cool, damp cloth. Betty lay motionless, her eyes closed. She was resting between contractions. The last contraction had been particularly long and painful. With the feel of the cool cloth across her forehead and down her cheek Betty smiled and opened her eyes to see Mark’s smiling face looking down at her. She squeezed his hand.

‘I’m not doin’ very well, am I?’ Betty spoke in a weak voice.

‘You’re doin’ great,’ Mark answered quickly.

‘Thanks.’

Mark once again dipped the cloth in the cool water, squeezed it out and began to dab Betty’s face. ‘Everybody’s outside in the waitin’ room, except Simon – he’s up in your mother’s waitin’ for her to come back.’ Betty’s mother was away on a pilgrimage at Knock that day. Her prayers were for a short labour for her daughter and the birth of a baby girl.

Betty smiled at the thought of the Browne family sitting out in the waiting room. ‘It’s a wonder your Mammy isn’t in here with us cheerin’ me on,’ she said.

They both laughed. But no sooner had Betty spoken than from behind Mark she saw the delivery room door open slightly and Agnes Browne’s head, wrapped in her headscarf, dart through. Agnes’s head bobbed as she tried to check behind the screens around each of the beds in the delivery room.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Betty exclaimed as she turned her head away from the door. Too late – Agnes had spotted her.

‘Yo hoo, Betty! I have some fruit for yeh!’ Agnes called quietly and with a lilt in her voice.

Mark swung around. ‘Mammy, for God’s sake get out,’ he snapped, ‘you’re not allowed in here.’

Before he had finished speaking Agnes was confronted by Nurse Mary Sheridan who blocked Agnes’s view of the bed and simply said, ‘Out.’

‘I’m just checkin’ –’

‘Out.’

‘Just lettin’ her know we’re all here.’

‘Out!’ Nurse Sheridan opened the door and, gripping Agnes’s coat, began to usher her out into the corridor. But not before Agnes waved goodbye to Betty with the advice, ‘Don’t push till they tell yeh, Betty. See yeh later.’

Out in the corridor Agnes straightened her coat under the stare of Nurse Sheridan.

‘I just wanted to give her some mortal support,’ Agnes said by way of explanation.

‘I’m sure she’s delighted. Now, Mrs Browne, stay out of there, all right?’ Nurse Sheridan turned her back and went to re-enter the delivery room.

Agnes called after her. ‘Nurse, how’s she doin’, really?’

Although Nurse Sheridan was annoyed at Agnes’s intrusion, she could hear the genuine concern in the woman’s voice and she softened a little.

‘She’s doing well, Mrs Browne. She’s got a bit to go yet, but still, she’s seven centimetres.’ Nurse Sheridan turned and was gone, leaving a puzzled Agnes behind in the corridor.

Agnes re-entered the waiting room and with an air of authority walked back and took her seat. As she did so she was followed by every head in the room. For a few moments Agnes sat quietly.

‘Well?’ asked Dermot.

‘Well what?’ Agnes answered very smugly.

‘How is she?’

‘Oh, I’m very pleased with her, she’s doin’ well,’ Agnes answered as if she had personally examined Betty. ‘Although she has a bit to go yet, about seven litres.’

‘Seven litres? What does that mean?’ Dermot asked.

‘Oh, it’s a gynaecological term, Dermot, you wouldn’t understand,’ Agnes brushed off the question and extracted her packet of cigarettes from her handbag.

Two hours later there was still no news. Dermot had gone down to the newsagent’s across the road from the hospital and bought a deck of cards. Now he, Rory, Trevor and one of the other men who had been waiting for hours in the waiting room were sitting in a corner playing Don.

Agnes was staring across the room at a young man who spent the whole time biting his nails. Agnes was thinking that if this man’s wife didn’t have her child soon he’d have chewed his hand off. At this point the man looked up and caught Agnes’s eye. He smiled and she smiled back.

‘Is it your first?’ she asked.

‘Yeh.’

‘Ah that’s nice. Is she long in there?’ Agnes asked, nodding towards the door.

‘Four hours.’

‘Don’t be worryin’, son. The first is the longest. Oh don’t remind me! On me first – Mark, that’s the baby’s father inside – I was ninety-six hours in labour.’

The man’s eyes opened wide and he gave a short, silent gasp.

The man playing Don in the corner with Mrs Browne’s three sons muttered softly, ‘Ninety-six fuckin’ hours!’

Dermot smiled. ‘Don’t mind what she’s sayin’. The first time I heard her tellin’ that story it was sixteen hours. Jaysus, by the time I’m havin’ a child she’ll be sittin’ in the waiting room tellin’ everyone that she was so long in labour that Mark was born with a moustache.’

The four men laughed. Agnes eyed them suspiciously.

Finally the door of the waiting room opened slowly and in walked a dazed Mark Browne. His blue eyes were glazed and he had a smile on his face from ear to ear. Nobody moved. Mark looked over at his mother and his eyes cleared as if he had suddenly woken up. He could see the question in her face.

‘It’s a boy,’ he said simply.

Agnes and Cathy threw their arms around Mark and hugged him warmly as tears streamed down their faces. Trevor, Dermot and Rory jumped up simultaneously, sending playing cards scattering across the room. They first congratulated their brother and then they began to congratulate each other. Just in the nick of time, it seemed, Simon and Mrs Collins, Betty’s mother, entered the waiting room.

‘It’s a boy,’ the Browne family all announced together.

Thirty minutes later the Browne family and Mrs Collins stood in a semi-circle around the baby crib at the bottom of Betty’s bed, their eyes glowing with pride as they beheld the newest Browne to enter the world. Betty Browne sat propped up by four pillows, sipping a cup of hot tea. She was delighted with her new offspring and thrilled that the event should bring so much joy to so many people. Her smile beamed. Agnes looked at Betty and she too was smiling in delight. Betty gave her a wink.

‘Where’s Mark?’ Agnes asked.

Betty pointed at the door. ‘Gone to the toilet.’

‘I think I need to go meself,’ said Agnes, ‘the excitement is killin’ me.’

She got to the door of the Ladies just as the door of the Gents on the opposite side of the corridor opened and Mark stepped out.

‘Are yeh all right, Mammy?’

Agnes turned and smiled at her eldest son, as proud of him as she always had been. She walked over to him and placed her hands on his shoulders.

‘I’m fine, Mark, and I’m so, so happy for yeh, son.’

‘And I’m happy for you – Granny!’ Mark grinned, and turned back towards the ward.

Agnes stood in the hallway for a moment. Granny? Granny!

The word fell like a sack of coal across Agnes’s back. She felt her shoulders dip and her spine bend. For some inexplicable reason she hadn’t thought about it like that at all. She looked down at the back of her left hand – it looked wrinkled and her wedding ring seemed to sink into the flesh of her fourth finger. For the first time in her life Agnes Browne felt old.

Chapter 2

SENGA SOFT FURNISHINGS LIMITED and its new Managing Director, Mark Browne, had been very good to each other. In the years following former owner Mr Wise’s demise, Mark had not just reorganised, but had completely refurbished the factory. Gone were the old belt-driven bandsaws and chain-driven drills. The factory now boasted a complete range of high-tech, compact, fast and accurate machines. The new machinery was essential, as the factory now turned out furniture in numbers greater than even Mark had anticipated. The client list for Senga Furnishings now read like a who’s who in the department store directory of Ireland and the United Kingdom. Mark’s flair for design and his hard work were handsomely rewarded with a new semi-detached home in Baldoyle, just a mile or so from Dublin’s beautiful golden coastline. Strangely enough, Mark remained the only Browne to work at Senga Furnishings. Each of the boys and Cathy decided to go their own way in life, to strike out and do their own thing, an independent streak they had all inherited from their mother.

* * *

Seven days after the birth of his child, Mark arrived at the Rotunda Hospital in the company Ford Cortina to take Betty, babe-in-arms, home to what was usually a peaceful house. Not today, however! The entire Browne clan, along with Mrs Collins, were waiting at Mark’s house. The pink-faced little child with the big brown eyes was greeted with a barrage of Oohs and Aahs as ten pairs of eyes ogled him.

What began as a family reception for the new child soon turned into a celebration, and by early evening had turned into a noisy party. So much so that Betty and Mrs Collins decided to slip away with the baby, and the new child spent his first night out of hospital in his Nanna Collins’s flat while the Browne clan partied on into the early hours.

In the week since the birth there was not a conversation in the Browne household that did not eventually turn to what the first Browne grandchild should be named. Agnes was plugging for Gerard, a name she had wanted for Mark when he was born, but had lost the battle to her husband Redser. Dermot fancied James, after the soul singer James Brown. Between the rest of the family names like Jason, Peter, William, and Rory’s choice of Gabriel, received various peaks of popularity. Of course, the final choice would be down to Mark and Betty. This is why the morning following the child’s homecoming Agnes stared across the breakfast table at Dermot with a shocked expression.

‘Arrow? They can’t be fuckin’ serious.’

Agnes was stunned by Dermot’s revelation. She filled the kettle, repeating the name, her head still woozy from the cider the night before. She had come down twice during the night to take huge mouthfuls from the pint of cool water she kept in the fridge. Each time she opened the door the light from the fridge seemed like a prison search light, and her head rattled. She had been feeling a little better until Dermot brought up the subject of the child’s name.

‘That’s what Mark told me,’ he confirmed.

‘Yeh can’t call a baby Arrow – he’s not a fuckin’ Apache, for God’s sake.’ Agnes was incredulous.

The two sat in silence. The element in the kettle began to heat and the water surrounding it began to complain. Agnes spoke her thoughts aloud again.

‘Arrow Browne. In school he’ll be registered as: Browne, Arrow! Good God, it sounds like somethin’ a cowboy might find up his arse!’

Dermot laughed but Agnes glared at him; she hadn’t meant to be funny. So he returned to silent contemplation, and this is how Rory found them when he came down.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

It was Dermot who answered. ‘Mark and Betty are callin’ the baby Arrow.’

‘Ha! That’s great. If he grows up and marries Bo Derek we’ll have a Bow and Arrow in the family,’ Rory joked.

The two young men burst into laughter.

‘It’s not funny.’ Agnes brought the laughter to a halt. ‘Arrow Browne! What’ll people think? Can you imagine the christening – the priest pourin’ the water and sayin’: I christen this child Arrow. I’ll be mortified.’

* * *

The christening day was a great affair. After the church service everybody headed down to the city centre to Foley’s pub, the venue for virtually every Browne family celebration for twenty-seven years. Mr Foley had prepared cocktail sausages and little squares of cheese on cocktail sticks. Everybody was dressed in their Sunday best and after the preliminary niceties the evening broke into a singsong. Agnes sang ‘The Wonder of You’, and accused the band of being three beats behind her. The whole old Jarro neighbourhood, where the Brownes had spent their childhood, was having a great time. Mark moved from table to table, thanking everyone for coming and for the lovely christening gifts. He spied his mother at the bar buying a drink for herself and her boyfriend Pierre, and made his way over to her.

‘There yeh are, Ma.’

Agnes spun around on hearing her eldest son’s voice. ‘Ah Mark, love.’ She gave him a huge hug.

‘Enjoying yourself, Mammy?’ He asked, chuckling.

‘What’s the giggle for?’ Agnes asked with one eyebrow raised.

‘You and the baby’s name.’ Mark began to laugh. Agnes reddened a little. ‘Oh yes, well, how d’yeh pronounce it again?’

‘Aaron! It’s from the Bible.’

‘Aaron from the Bible – I love it!’

Agnes was thrilled. Anything was better than Arrow. In the background a glass was being banged off a table and Agnes and Mark turned to see Pierre standing and holding his hand in the air for silence.

‘Here we go again, another fuckin’ speech,’ Agnes moaned.

Mark just laughed. ‘Ah leave him to it, Ma, he enjoys them.’

Silence fell over the room.

‘I would like to make a speech,’ Pierre began, although it came out like, ‘Ah wood lik to mik a spitch,’ as his French accent was still very thick.

There was a great cheer from the crowd. When the room fell into silence again Pierre went on.

‘All of today you have congratulated Betty, the new mother, Mark, the new father, and of course Aaron, the newest child of the Browne family.’

This was met with a huge cheer. Pierre again held his hand in the air. ‘But now I would like to propose a toast.’

Buster Brady turned to Dermot and asked, ‘What’s a fuckin’ tist?’

‘Toast, he means a toast – shut up, Buster.’

Buster shut up, Pierre went on. ‘To the beautiful Agnes Browne.’ All the glasses were raised and Agnes beamed a smile, but Pierre wasn’t finished. ‘Welcome, Granny!’

There was a loud cheer. Agnes held her smile, but through her teeth she said, ‘Sit the fuck down, Pierre.’

Pierre did and as he did he took Agnes’s arm and pushed her up to acknowledge the toast. She raised her glass and looked around the room. There they all were, Agnes’s little orphans, all adults now. Her entire brood, except for poor Frankie – but at this moment Agnes wouldn’t let herself think about her one stray son who had come to a no-good end. Mark settled and married to Betty and with a beautiful young son; Rory with his friend Dino, both now top hair stylists at Wash & Blow; Trevor, one year to go in art college, and soon to be a qualified graphic artist; Simon, now head porter in St Patrick’s Hospital; Cathy there with her fiancé Mick O’Leary; and Dermot there with …? Suddenly Agnes’s expression changed. The crowd roared in unison, ‘Congratulations, Granny!’ and everyone tossed their drink back. The roar and the action of the drinking served to hide Agnes’s change of expression.

What had caused Agnes to look worried was that Dermot was there with Mary Carter. Agnes knew the Carter family well – Jack Carter, Mary’s father, had left their home in Townsend Street one morning ten years ago and was never seen again; Helen Carter proceeded to drink herself into oblivion and the children reared themselves on the streets of Dublin. Agnes felt sorry for the family, particularly the children, but her pity didn’t extend to accepting Mary Carter, now a known junkie, and, Agnes suspected, a drug pusher, into the Browne family. She had warned Dermot weeks ago, but he had said it was just a casual affair and it would come to nothing at all.

Dermot had noticed his mother’s change of expression and when at last he caught her eye he gave her a smile and a wink, indicating that she should not worry, everything was okay. Agnes’s tension eased and she returned his smile.

It was Dino Doyle, Rory’s friend, who noticed how sombre Trevor had been all evening. When he said it to Rory, Rory sought out Trevor in an effort to find out what was bothering him. He found him standing beneath the switched-off television, resting his elbow on the cigarette machine, alone.

‘Hi, Trevor, great isn’t it?’ Rory beamed a smile at Trevor.

‘Yeh, great.’

‘Are you all right, Trevor? You seem a bit down.’

Trevor brightened slightly. ‘No, I’m grand, Rory, just a little tired – yeh know, exams comin’ up and all that.’

‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘No, you’re all right, Rory, you go on back to Dino. You don’t want to leave him roamin’ around here on his own – he might find somebody else!’

‘If he does they’ll be holdin’ a white stick.’ Both the brothers burst out laughing and Rory kissed Trevor on the cheek and went back to Dino. Trevor took another sip from his drink and his thoughts once again turned to Maria Nicholson.

Trevor was by far the quietest and shyest of the Brownes. Although as an artist his work was tremendously expressive, when i t came to communicating verbally, especially on a one-to-one basis, his mind went blank, his mouth went dry and he would always beat a retreat as quickly as possible. In the past it had not been a real problem for Trevor as he was quite happy with his own company, but lately it had become the source of great pain. The cause of the pain was Maria Nicholson.

Maria had joined the College of Art and Design, where Trevor attended, just one year ago. She had transferred there from Vancouver in Canada. Although she was Irish-born, from Limerick city in fact, her father was a design engineer specialising in bridges, and his work took him all over the world. Wherever Daddy had travelled, the family had travelled. Maria was thrilled to be back in Ireland, and although a late student when entering fourth year, she was readily accepted by all. She attended only two classes with Trevor – Art History and Graphic Design. But from the very first moment Trevor Browne had laid eyes on her he knew he was in love. Trevor made several attempts to speak to Maria but each time not a single word would come out from his mouth. She would tilt her head sideways, tap him on the shoulder and say, ‘Look, I’ll talk to you later, okay?’ and be gone.

So Trevor had made a decision. He would communicate with her through his art. One day during a free class, Trevor took a length of artist’s canvas and cut it into fourteen squares, each square two and a half inches by two and a half inches. At home in his bedroom he set the first tiny canvas on an easel and began to paint with oils. His plan was to paint a miniature copy of works of great artists, signing each miniature with the first letter of the artist’s name. Each letter would correspond to a letter in Maria Nicholson’s name. Each miniature took two weeks to complete, and as each one was completed he made a little frame for it, parcelled it and left it somewhere that Maria would find it. Tied to the tiny parcel was a tiny card reading, ‘For you, Maria.’

By the day of the christening Trevor had already completed miniatures of paintings by Monet, Albers, Rembrandt, Ingres, Allston, Neel, Israels, Constable, Hockney, O’Keeffe and Lancret. He had just three to go – actually two and a half, for he was already halfway through ‘Mares and Foals’ by the English eighteenth-century painter George Stokes. Trevor had hoped that Maria would recognise his work and seek him out. The truth was she had been searching, going from student to student during classes in an effort to recognise the artist’s hand, but never once did she look over Trevor’s shoulder.

Trevor was brought out of his day-dreaming by a large slap on the back from a very drunk Dermot.

‘There yeh are, Trevor, great crack isn’t it?’ Dermot was dribbling at this stage. By Dermot’s side, as if stitched to his hip, stood Buster Brady – he too was three sheets to the wind. Dermot opened his arms wide to hug Trevor – always when Dermot had a few drinks he liked to hug everybody, especially his brothers.

From across the room Agnes watched her two sons hug, and she smiled. Pierre also saw the boys and glanced at Agnes’s happy face.

‘You are happy, Agnes, yes?’ he asked.

‘Sure, why wouldn’t I be, with all me family here together in one room?’ She took a mouthful from her glass of cider, and smiled again.

Little did Agnes Browne know that this night would be the last time she would see her entire family together. For fate and tragic coincidence were about to take a hand and scatter her brood to the four winds.

Chapter 3

WHEN AGNES BROWNE AND HER SIX CHILDREN had moved in next door to the Brady family on Wolfe Tone Grove, Dermot, then fourteen, had befriended the only boy of the Brady family – Buster, also fourteen. The friendship was immediate and rock solid. They had little in common, certainly not in looks. Dermot was lean, blond and handsome. Buster was short, stubby, overweight, with a red face that seemed to smile all the time. But what they did have in common was a love of practical jokes, pranks, and petty crimes.