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- Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
In the spring of 1945 a mother dies, leaving four children to fend for themselves in a Dublin tenement. Nancy, the oldest, lives in dread of the family being split up. The power to send them all to industrial schools such as Artane and Goldenbridge lies with the 'Cruelty Men'. Their spy, the Pig Farmer, lives next door and holds a long term grudge against the family. Thankfully Nancy has loyal friends in Summerhill and the Diamond, among them Lilly, her brother Charlie Weaver, a Dublin newsboy, and their ma, Maggie. Through work, Nancy becomes friendly with Karla, a Jewish refugee from Prague. When Nancy accidentally betrays Charlie to the police, Charlie ends up in Artane industrial school. Desperate to keep her guilty secret and still help her friend, Nancy and Lilly come up with a plan to help Charlie escape on the boat to England. Just as her life begins to unravel, Karla steps in with a possible solution to Nancy's problems. Will Nancy succeed in keeping the family together? And at what cost?
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Contents
Dedication
For Jack and Quinn
Acknowledgements
This book was inspired by a visit to 14 Henrietta Street, a social museum of Dublin life. Afterwards I was lucky enough to meet Terry Fagan in the North Inner-City Folklore Project Museum, while it was still open in Railway Street; Terry generously shared his knowledge and experience. I met with similar generosity from Virginia Jennings and her brother Nick Sharkey regarding their family history, and from Roland Doyle, whose mother came from Czechoslovakia. Thanks to the staff of Dublin City Libraries where I accessed Dublin Corporation records for Summerhill and Gloucester Diamond. I would also like to pay tribute to the following: Lucy O’Neill, Nell Galligan and John Coleman for insights into the clothing industry; Kitty McEntee for sharing her nursing experience in the Richmond Hospital; and Helen Madden, archivist for the Mater Hospital, for the time and attention she gave to my queries. Helpful details regarding the Latin Mass were provided by Professor Salvador Ryan and my uncle Oliver Nolan. My thanks to Rebecca Bartlett for feedback on an early draft, and to everyone at The O’Brien Press, especially my editors, Emer Ryan and Nicola Reddy.
The support of my family – Daniel, his wife Lindsay, Bill and Matt – has made writing this book all the more enjoyable. A final thanks to my husband Richard for his honest comments and consistent encouragement.
6
Chapter One
A number eight tram with a sign for ‘Denny’s Bacon’ glided by and ground to a halt. My empty stomach growled. The thought of fried rashers – the smell of them, the taste of them! Sometimes my head felt light when I hadn’t eaten. But feeling sorry for myself wasn’t going to get me across O’Connell Street safely. You needed your wits about you to weave through the cars, buses and trams, not to mention the horses and carts. Let your guard down and you could end up on the slab in the morgue. And bikes! You couldn’t be sure what some people were thinking once they sat up on a saddle. Lilly was always going on about the need for an extra pair of eyes when it came to the bikes.
That Saturday morning in April 1945, we stood at the corner of Henry Street as a wave of black wheeled towards us. Black clothes and black bikes – about a dozen young priests cycled past the GPO and the Pillar. Close behind the last few stragglers, a girl tottered on a rickety old bike, her hair swept under a red felt hat.
‘Good afternoon, ladies.’
Lilly linked me. She was wearing long sleeves, but I could feel how thin her arm was. 8
‘Ladies indeed, Auntie Mona,’ she shouted at the girl as she passed and we both laughed. She was indeed Lilly’s aunt, but at fifteen she was only two years older than the pair of us, so Lilly never called her ‘Auntie’ except when she was trying to take a rise out of her. ‘Where are you off to?’ she shouted after the red hat but Mona never answered. Probably couldn’t hear with the din of Dublin’s traffic pounding in her ears.
‘Bet it’s to a union meeting. That’s all we hear about these days,’ said Lilly. Mona worked in the Phoenix Laundry in Russell Street and had joined the union after Christmas. She was always going on about workers’ rights. We scurried across to the Pillar, the brown paper parcel bought only five minutes earlier squeezed tightly under my arm.
‘My ma’s looking for the remnant of crêpe de Chine she asked you to put aside,’ I had said grandly in Todd, Burns & Co. on Mary Street. Lilly and I watched as the woman in the shop wrapped the blue silky material in brown paper and tied it up neatly with string. It was for Mrs Deegan’s blouse, one of Ma’s best customers.
Near the entrance to the Pillar, a flower seller held up a bunch of red tulips, the cheeks in her pixie-like face flushed from the warm afternoon.
‘You’ll not see the likes of these tulips in the four provinces of Ireland,’ she shouted to be heard over the traffic. I recognised Mrs Hanlon’s voice. Last month she had moved into the basement 9below us in Summerhill – herself, her husband and their six children. In front of her stood a small woman in a smart navy gabardine coat, rooting for money in her handbag. She pointed to one of the bunches in the pram full of flowers and pressed some coins into Mrs Hanlon’s hand. Imagine having money to buy flowers! I watched the woman cross the street clutching a bunch of pink tulips. I wondered who those flowers were for.
‘Afternoon, girls,’ said a boy’s voice, landing me back to the present moment. I stopped short. Mickser Doyle stepped in front of me, blocking my way like a lump of granite. With a grin plastered on his freckled face, he folded his arms, daring me to pass. Nothing gave him more pleasure than to watch our faces to see how we were taking the surprise the pair of them landed on us.
‘Not happy to see us?’ His pal, Jemmy Nangle, smaller, with the look of a ferret, leaned against the railings of the Pillar. Two lads from the Diamond. I tightened the grip on my parcel.
‘Not talkin’?’ Mickser asked. I tried to pass, but he sidestepped and blocked me again. He looked down at me with a sneering curl on his lips. I froze.
‘We must be invisible, Jemmy,’ he said to his friend. In spite of all his bravado, he couldn’t hide the tattered jacket or the holes in his boots. I straightened myself up.
‘What would we have to say to the likes of you?’ I answered. Show no fear, I told myself. 10
‘My friend’s right,’ said Lilly. ‘Get out of our way, the pair of yiz. You must be badly stuck for something to do, stoppin’ a couple of girls on a Saturday afternoon in the middle of O’Connell Street.’
Lilly had a large forehead and when she held her head back it made her look haughty.
‘Meaning what, Miss Hoity Toity?’ said Jemmy.
‘Meaning get a job and leave us alone,’ said Lilly.
Lilly tried to move forward, but Jemmy stood in front of her.
‘Get a job! Did you hear what Miss Lili Marlene just said, Mickser?’
‘Lili Marlene’ was a song, but Jemmy made it sound like some sort of curse.
‘I did and I feel like bustin’ my guts laughing. Get a job! As if it was that easy.’ He leaned forward and snatched the parcel. My hand shot out to get it back, but he was too fast. He had the parcel thrown to Jemmy as fast as you’d say ‘Molly Malone’. Ma’s remnant! Lilly pounced on it and started pulling it out of Jemmy’s hands. The brown paper started to rip.
‘Don’t! Don’t!’ I shouted and she let go. Jemmy threw it back to Mickser.
‘Oh, little Nancy Pancy’s worried about her parcel,’ said Mickser in a sing-song baby voice. He held it above his head to see if I’d jump for it. When I didn’t, he threw it over to Jemmy. 11
‘I’m going to call that guard,’ I said, nodding to a policeman standing at Laird’s Pharmacy across the road from us, ‘if you don’t give me back my parcel.’
‘Ooooooh, I’m really scared.’ Jemmy held it over his head again. I could see his hands were filthy and the brown paper had smudges on it. This was an important order for Ma. She had missed a week at work lately, so we were depending on the sewing done at home. Mrs Deegan’s blouse could mean dinners for a week. I was about to cross the street towards the guard.
‘Never knew Nancy Kidd was a snitch,’ said Jemmy. ‘Let’s—’
The parcel was whipped out of his hand, by somebody behind.
‘Oi,’ he shouted and turned around.
‘Everything all right here, girls?’ said a boy standing with newspapers under one arm and the parcel in his free hand. He smiled, showing a tiny gap between his two front teeth.
Jemmy held both his hands up.
‘Only having a bit of fun with the girls, Charlie.’
‘Fun indeed! He’s lying,’ said Lilly. ‘They wouldn’t let us pass.’
‘And they took my parcel and wouldn’t give it back,’ I added.
‘Annoying a couple of … respectable girls – taunting them in the street – is this what you call fun?’ 12
Charlie was only fifteen but sounded older.
‘Ah here, we were only—’ protested Mickser.
‘If you boys want to play “pass the parcel”, go back to the Diamond and play there,’ said Charlie.
‘Good one! “Pass the parcel”.’ Mickser grinned. ‘You were always great for a laugh.’
‘Nobody’s laughing.’ Charlie held up the parcel like it was a big fist. ‘And if you go near my sister or her friend again, I’ll be seeing you in the Diamond and it won’t be to play games.’ He handed me back Ma’s remnant and the two boys skedaddled.
‘All right now, girls?’ he asked, pulling his cap sideways as he smiled at me. It was a relief to get my parcel back and flattering that Charlie had rescued it.
‘Thanks,’ I said, smiling back. I knew Charlie liked me, but Ma had a thing about newsboys. She was always going on about their roughness and their cheek. When she heard Charlie had taken to selling the papers after his father died, she pressed her lips together and shook her head.
‘Charlie’s selling the readers? Things must be really bad.’ Their ma, Maggie, was a great friend of our ma’s.
Another gripe of Ma’s was that so many newsboys still ran around in their bare feet when the Herald Boot Fund was handing out free boots. I looked at Charlie’s feet and sure enough, he was wearing a pair.
‘Admiring my fancy footwear, Miss Kidd?’ he said. 13
‘Footwear indeed! I was thinking how lucky we were that you came along,’ I lied.
‘That’s me, Sir Galahad,’ he said, grinning. ‘I’m heading out towards the Phoenix Laundry to nab the workers coming out at half-twelve.’
‘Well, you won’t catch Mona,’ said Lilly. ‘She’s after passing us on the bike.’
‘Ah no, one of my best customers! Off to join her trade union sisters, no doubt. Sorry, girls. Got to go back to work now.’ He turned around and roared. ‘Get your Herald or Mail! Britain closing in on Bremen!’
‘Do you have to deafen us?’ asked Lilly, putting her hands over her ears.
Charlie ignored her. He spoke to somebody behind us. ‘Are you lookin’ for a paper, Father?’
A young priest with blond hair was counting change in his hand.
‘After seeing Dublin from the Pillar, I might as well find out what’s going on in the rest of the world,’ he said. He spoke with a funny accent – Cork or Kerry. ‘Seeing you’re a local lad, could you tell me the best way to get to Killarney Street, please?’
‘If you go—’
Charlie stopped. His mouth opened and closed. He pulled the peak of his cap down over his eyes. 14
‘Sorry, Father. Have to run.’ He roared at the top of his voice: ‘Run!’
A newsboy who had been selling in front of Noblett’s Sweet Shop ran towards the GPO. Charlie took off in the opposite direction, racing past the people queuing up for the trams, a long-legged man close on his heels.
‘Come back here, ya little blackguard,’ the man shouted.
‘Oh no,’ whispered Lilly. ‘It’s the Badge Man.’
If a woman pushing a pram hadn’t chosen that moment to cross the street, Charlie would have got clean away. But he had to stop and the Badge Man grabbed his arm.
‘Who’s that man? What’s going on?’ asked the priest.
Neither of us answered but we ran up the street to where Charlie was trying to pull away. I had never seen the Badge Man up close before. He must have been the tallest man in Dublin. He had a hold of Charlie’s arm and was talking in a low voice into his ear.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the priest, panting after running up the street behind us. ‘What in heaven’s name is going on?’
‘Afternoon, Father,’ said the Badge Man. ‘I’m arresting this vagabond for breaking the law.’
‘Breaking what law?’
‘Selling newspapers without a licence, Father,’ said the Badge Man. ‘No badge, you see. No badge, no licence.’
‘On whose authority?’ asked the priest. 15
‘An Garda Síochána,’ said the Badge Man, taking out his own badge from an inside pocket in his coat and showing it to the priest. ‘Just doing my job, Father—’
‘Father Comiskey,’ said the priest. ‘A young lad selling a few newspapers – I don’t see what all the fuss is about – badge or no badge.’
‘Father Comiskey,’ said Charlie, ‘I haven’t got the money for a badge – that’s why I don’t have one. I’m not breakin’ the law on purpose.’
The priest and the guard looked at Charlie.
‘Well, it’s—’ started Father Comiskey. A string of curses from the Badge Man stopped him. For a split second he had relaxed his grip on Charlie and Charlie wasn’t going to let this chance pass. He was gone, newspapers tucked under his arm, scampering after a bus as it moved off. He grabbed the bar, leapt on board and, swinging around to face us, doffed his cap at us as it sped off.
This was our cue to leave, too. Hang around and the Badge Man would be after us for questioning. Lilly took off like a hare down the middle of O’Connell Street and I followed her. The traffic slowed down as cabs pulled up outside the Gresham Hotel. Barely missing a pile of horse dung on the street outside Mackey’s Seed Shop, we leaped onto the footpath and turned the corner into Cathal Brugha Street.
‘I don’t know what we’d do if Charlie got caught,’ said Lilly, panting. 16
The smell of fresh bread from Findlater’s bakery teased my empty stomach. Lilly looked over at the mouth-watering rock buns in the window – an old favourite of ours.
‘Ma depends on him so much. He’s going to sell the papers for another year.’
‘And then?
‘He’ll head over to my uncle in London to work on the buildin’s.’
‘Why’s he waiting?’ I asked. ‘Surely he’d make better money over there?’
‘My uncle said there’s a better chance of a decent job for lads over sixteen. Looks like we’re stuck with him for another year.’
Another year and then Charlie would be gone. I couldn’t imagine Dublin without him. I didn’t even want to try. Instead, I linked Lilly as we stepped down Cathal Brugha Street.
‘I suppose we’ll have to try our best to put up with him,’ I said and we grinned at each other.
Chapter Two
I loved those twenty-seven steps that joined Gloucester Diamond to Summerhill. Back in the days when we moved to Dublin first, I’d call down to Lilly in the Diamond to play a game of ‘Queenie’ or ‘Plainy Clappy’. Going back to Summerhill, I used to think the archway at the top of the steps could lead you into another world; like a place where Dorothy might have gone in The Wizard of Oz. Mrs Gaynor, who sold fish out of her pram under the archway on Fridays, was like the magic keeper of that world and I used to pretend that she wouldn’t let me pass unless I knew a magic password. Now that I was in Sixth Class, the daydreaming was over but I knew that once I passed through the archway, I was almost home.
That Monday afternoon, my sister Kate and I were perched on the third last step. Kate was in Fifth Class. Like me, she wore her long black hair in two plaits. Our school bags were thrown on the step below us.
At the bottom of the steps, the footpath was Lilly’s stage and we were her audience. Lucky for us, she had been to see a film the night before. Mona had called for her and brought her to the cinema in Mary Street. She felt sorry for Lilly who hadn’t been to the pictures in months. They were showing The 18Keys of the Kingdom. Lilly could tell you about a film in a way that you could see the whole thing happening in your head. We may have been on ‘the steps’ in the middle of Dublin, but in our minds, we were in a place called Tweedside in Scotland. Lilly was warming to the story now.
‘Black dark outside, it is, and the rain’s bucketing down out of the heavens. The da’s in town on business. He knows there might be trouble, but nothing’s going to stop him going home. Mind you, with the rain hammering down on him and the wind blasting against him, he can hardly walk along the road. Suddenly, somebody sneaks up behind him – three lads with big sticks – clubs, I think you’d call them. And one of them says, “There’s that dirty papist.”’
Lilly did a good Scottish accent. I drew in my breath.
‘What’s a papist?’
‘Do you know nothing, Nancy?’ said Kate. ‘It’s a fancy word for a Catholic. Go on, Lilly. What happened next?’
Lilly paused and tilted her head slightly – a signal to us that the pause was for a good reason and we were not to look around. Somebody was coming down the steps behind us. Somebody moving slowly and wheezing loudly. A walking stick clicked like the teacher’s metronome in school. A smell of pigs filled the air. We froze on the steps, willing the person to pass us by as quickly as possible.
‘Time there was when respectable people could walk down 19these steps and not have to step aside for the likes of you,’ snorted the Pig Farmer, her pink fleshy face turned away. She never looked at us when she spoke.
Everyone knew that you could fit a Johnston Mooney & O’Brien van down those steps, but we knew better than to say this to the Pig Farmer. Instead, we sat completely still. We were used to this. Every time she met us in the hallway of the house we were unlucky enough to share with her, we pretended we didn’t see her, as this is what she always did to us – unless she saw a chance to throw a nasty comment our way.
Squeezed into her long man’s coat, the colour of porridge, she hobbled down the last couple of steps. People said that old coat belonged to her husband, Martin, but Ma said it couldn’t be that old as he was dead this thirty years. She paused for a moment on the last step, then shuffled off to the left towards Glorney’s Buildings. I stood up and did a mock curtsey after her.
‘Time there was that you could sit on these steps without being given out to by an auld one,’ I said in that same nasal voice.
The Pig Farmer turned around. I thought she was too far ahead to have heard me, but she had her lower lip pushed out as she made her way back towards the steps. I was getting ready for a dressing down, when she suddenly veered towards Murphy’s Cottages. 20
‘What on earth is she up to?’ asked Kate.
‘Shush! She’s in with all the Cruelty Men,’ whispered Lilly. ‘Don’t go upsetting her.’
Lilly’s da had died a year ago and her ma, Maggie, lived in dread of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. We called them ‘the Cruelty Men’ for short. She was sure they were watching her all the time. They could pounce on her for not being a good enough ma, and take her children off her. It was hard for us to imagine anyone would think big-hearted Maggie wasn’t a good ma.
‘Never mind the Pig Farmer. Tell us more about the film,’ said Kate.
‘You were at the part where those men are followin’ the da?’ I reminded Lilly.
‘That’s right, and mean-looking gurriers they are too, like those boyos in the animal gangs, only they’re not from Dublin and they hate Catholics. They beat the lard out of the poor man and leave him for dead on the side of the road.’
‘But is he dead?’ asked Kate.
‘He isn’t. But while this is going on, the wife at home gets fed up waiting. Out she goes looking for him—’
‘And what about Francis?’ I asked. This was their son. Lilly had mentioned him earlier, and instead of Roddy McDowall playing the part, I imagined Charlie. His handsome face would look so well on the screen. 21
‘Well, he’s not sticking around at home. He says goodbye to his pretty cousin – pretty distant cousin – and off he goes after the mother.’ I had myself playing the role of the distant cousin.
‘On his way into town, he has to cross a river. The storm has it flowing like a mad yoke and the footbridge across it is in bits. What do you think our boy Francis sees?’
We both shrugged our shoulders.
‘His ma and da trying to cross the bridge and the river pulling them in.’
Kate swallowed. ‘What happens next?’
‘The bridge collapses and the two of them drown in front of Francis’s eyes.’ She paused to see how we were taking it. Her cheeks had turned red now; they always did with the excitement of telling a story.
‘Does Francis come safe?’ I asked.
‘Indeed, he does … Ah no! Watch out, Nancy!’
I felt my plait being pulled and turned around. Charlie stood inches away, grinning beneath his newsboy cap, as usual worn sideways. I tried not to, but I blushed. What would he say if he knew he was the boy in the film running in my head seconds ago? I let on I was cross.
‘Mind whose hair you’re pullin’!’
‘How are the Miss Kidds?’ said Charlie, tipping his cap and sitting on the step behind us. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Sis. I’m happy enough to enjoy the show from the cheap seats back here.’ 22
‘What about your newspapers? Selling themselves, are they?’
‘I’ve a few free minutes and thought I’d catch a good outdoor show. I knew there’d be one on the steps this afternoon since Mona managed to tear herself away from her trade union pals to bring you to the pictures last night.’ He grinned at us. ‘After that, I’m off down to Prince’s Street to collect the Heralds.’ He jingled some coins in his pocket. ‘I’ll be selling in Amiens Street this evening – working my way down to the station.’
‘Why don’t you take the train while you’re at it and give me a chance to finish my story?’ said Lilly. ‘I’m still stuck in the year 1878.’
‘That’s all right, Elizabeth,’ he said, giving Lilly her proper name. ‘I won’t stay where I’m not wanted.’ Toes turned out, holding the papers under one arm and an imaginary cane in the other, he shuffled up the steps like Charlie Chaplin. Kate and I giggled. Even Lilly had to laugh.
‘Go on with you, Charlie Chaplin, and leave us alone.’
He swaggered off.
‘Oh brother, here’s another one,’ said Lilly, looking behind us.
Halfway down the steps, my eight-year-old brother, Patrick, had been running that fast he was hardly able to talk.
‘Ma said you and Kate have to come home this minute.’
‘Ma’s home?’ I asked. She worked in Robilon’s and normally wouldn’t be home until five. 23
‘She’s home since twelve o’clock,’ said Patrick. ‘She got sick at work.’
We both jumped up. When Ma was at work, she never left early.
‘I’d better run to Kennedy’s to get the bread,’ said Kate. ‘I’ve the pillowcase in my bag.’ Kennedy’s in Parnell Street sold yesterday’s bread or ‘fancy bread’ at a good price, and a pillowcase was a handy way to carry it home.
‘Come over to me in the yard at school tomorrow and I’ll finish the story,’ said Lilly. ‘Hope your ma’ll be all right, girls.’
She snatched her bag and wove through the girls playing ‘All in Together’ with their skipping rope. Patrick took off to his friend Brendan’s house, in Sean MacDermott Street, with a warning from me about when to come home. Kate had disappeared through the archway on her way to Parnell Street. I picked up my bag and rushed up the rest of the steps to the sound of the girls’ chant:
All in together, girls
This fine weather, girls.
Chapter Three
Ma was propped up in bed by a bunch of old clothes; that was to help her breathe, but you could still hear the rattle in her chest. Granny’s white crochet bedspread was pulled up to her chin. The shutters on the two windows were closed, and only for the faint light from the embers in the fire, the room would have been in complete darkness. It was a matter of pride to her that our room – the back parlour – not only had two windows but they were the only ones – along with the Pig Farmer’s – whose shutters hadn’t been burned for fuel.
‘Good girl, Nance,’ she said.
‘Hiya, Ma. Patrick told me you were home. Are y’all right?’
‘The cough … Couldn’t stay.’
My eyes were getting used to the dim light. Ma’s flushed cheeks made her lips look pale. She coughed into a hankie held in her fist, trying to hide the spots of blood.
‘Let me get you a cup of water,’ I said, wanting to run from the room as another bout of coughing started. I took her cup from the dresser – she had been told to have her own cup and plate on account of the sickness – and scooped some water out of the bucket. She held the cup with both hands as she 25took a long drink. The blood-stained hankie was nowhere to be seen. What could I say to make her feel better?
‘I see you’ve got two letters,’ I said, pointing to the envelopes beside her pillow. She held up one.
‘One from Aunt Gretta.’
Gretta was Ma’s aunt. She lived in Leeds – a city we had called home until the war broke out in 1939. To keep us safe, Ma brought us back to Dublin in September that year, but we had always planned on going back, once the war was over.
‘Any news?’
‘The usual. Her friend Mimi is still at her to move up to Whitby.’
‘Doesn’t Mimi know that we’re moving back?’
‘She does, but—’
‘But what, Ma?’
‘To tell you the truth, Nance, I don’t think I’m able for the journey.’
I felt a twinge in my stomach. Not able for the journey back to Leeds! This was the first time she had said anything about not being able to go.
‘Look, the second letter here is from the doctor. I finally got a bed in the Pigeon House. After some treatment, I might feel more up to going.’
The Pigeon House Hospital in Ringsend was for people with consumption. 26
‘That’s great, Ma,’ I said, hoping I sounded happier than I felt inside. Many a neighbour had gone to the Pigeon House to the last bed they ever lay in. ‘I’ll take the day off school and go with you.’
‘No, love. I’ve it all arranged with Maggie. She was over here this afternoon as soon as word got around that I was home.’
‘What do you mean “word got around”?’
‘Your old ma arrived at her residence in style, you see,’ she said, her voice a little stronger. ‘The boss – Mr O’Toole, himself – had his own doctor drive me home. Said it was a medical emergency. You should have seen the women when we drove down Summerhill. Some of them nearly fell out the windows when they saw the big swanky car and me getting out of it.’
She stopped to cough, then continued:
‘Maggie wasn’t working today and as soon as she heard about it, she was around in a flash. She’s going to go on the later shift tomorrow so she can bring me over to Ringsend.’
‘What about Mrs Deegan’s blouse?’ I asked.
‘It’s almost finished,’ she said. ‘Will you hem it? I have it pinned. I promised Mrs Deegan she’d get it back tomorrow.’
‘I’ll finish it this evening and deliver it after school tomorrow.’
‘In the meantime, I’m going to ask you to take charge of things here. You don’t mind, love?’
‘Of course not, Ma.’ 27
‘The books for the rent, the rations, the children’s allowance and the pension are in the biscuit tin under the bed.’ Ma had a British Army pension since Da was killed in Egypt three years before.
‘Where’s Kate?’
‘Gone to buy some fancy bread in Kennedy’s. She’ll be home shortly. It’s her turn to cook the dinner. Will you try a bit, Ma?’
‘Later. I’ll have some later. Are the lads home yet?’
‘No. Patrick’s called over to Brendan’s. I told him to come home as soon as he sees the Rag and Bone man on his way to Corporation Street. I haven’t seen Tom since this mornin’.’
‘I’ll close my eyes now. Hardly slept last night, I was sweatin’ that much. You can leave me be for a bit, Nance.’
I closed the door quietly.
* * *
Kate held an open book in one hand and Ma’s old ladle in the other. Every so often, she’d stir the mutton soup in the saucepan and then stick her nose back into her book. I took out four bowls from the cupboard and set them on the table. A snore came from Ma’s room, so I knew it was safe to talk.
‘Ma’s going into the Pigeon House tomorrow.’
Kate closed the book and gave the soup another stir. 28
‘The cough’s been so bad—’ she whispered.
‘I know none of us wants her there, but we don’t want to see her suffer either.’
‘It’s just—’ Kate left down the ladle and took up the poker, to give the turf and sticks under the pot a good poke.
‘I know what you’re thinking but she needs to be in a place where she can be properly looked after. And Ma won’t be our only worry.’
Kate turned around to me.
‘There’ll be no money coming in from Robilon’s,’ I said quietly.
‘At least we have Da’s pension.’
‘True, but we won’t get by on that.’
Kate pointed the ladle at a statue of the Virgin Mary on the mantelpiece. ‘I can’t understand why Ma won’t pawn her or some of the other holy statues of Granny’s. What about that picture of the Sacred Heart?’ This was the picture of Jesus pointing to his heart that had a crown of thorns around it and a little flame over it. ‘That’d get a nice few shillin’s.’
‘Sshh! Keep your voice down,’ I whispered. Between the kitchen and Ma’s room there was only a wooden partition that went three-quarters of the way up the wall. ‘You know quite well why she won’t. She takes pride in the fact that we never had to pawn any of the holy things, plus they all belonged to Granny. She’s sentimental about them.’29
‘Being sentimental won’t put food on the table,’ said Kate, adding a little more salt to the soup. ‘And I’m sure Granny wouldn’t want us to go hungry for the sake of a few holy statues.’
I smiled. Honora Murphy, our granny, was a practical woman, but like Ma she had been a proud one too.
I straightened the statue on the mantelpiece. It had been there since Ma was a little girl. So had that picture of the Sacred Heart and the statue of the Child of Prague with Granny’s mother-of-pearl rosary beads strung around him.
Kate had opened the window on account of the warm evening, but the smell of the piggery out the back was worse than usual. I could hear the Pig Farmer throwing the slops into the troughs. I pulled down the sash, but it was always stiff and closed with a bang.
‘What about asking Tom to sell newspapers?’ suggested Kate.
‘Ma would have a fit if she thought we were even talking about it,’ I said.
‘If she’s away, how is she to know? You could ask Charlie to show him the ropes. I’m sure he’d be pleased to oblige.’
I felt a blush making its way into my cheeks.
‘Don’t say anything to Tom. Let me handle it.’
The sound of hobnailed boots in the hall was followed by Tom and Patrick bursting into the kitchen. 30
‘Shhh. Ma’s in bed.’
‘I’m starving. Give us a good bowl of mutton soup,’ said Tom, sitting down at the table.
‘We’re all starving, Tom,’ Kate told him. ‘There’s lots of fancy bread if you’re that hungry. But for goodness sake, will you go and wash yourself? You’ve brought half the muck of the street in with you.’
If Tom’s face was anything to go by, she was right. There were dirty smears across his cheeks. His mouth went into a pout, like Da’s used to do. He also had Da’s dark eyes and followed the Kidd side of the family when it came to being tall. At ten years of age he was the same height as Kate. Patrick, on the other hand, took after Ma’s side. Although he was eight, he’d have passed for six.
‘How was school today, Patrick?’ I asked.
‘All right, but two lads were teasing me because Da came from England,’ he said.
‘Who?’ asked Tom.
‘Joe O’Dea and Tim Benson,’ said Patrick, stuffing some bread into his mouth.
‘What did they say?’
‘The teacher was talking about Hitler and all the bad things he was doing and I told the class that Da died fighting the Germans. Joe said he couldn’t have because his da is in the Irish army and they didn’t fight in the war. Then I told him 31Da came from England and he had joined the British Army. As soon as we were let out for break, they followed me in the yard, calling me a Brit.’
‘Did you not tell the teacher?’ asked Kate.
‘And be called a tell-tale? No, I didn’t! And they were calling Brendan a Brit too, even though his da is from Sean MacDermott Street.’
Brendan’s father was also in the British Army.
‘Never mind that pair of gits,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll hang ’round tomorrow and make sure they won’t be after you again.’ He grabbed a bar of soap and a towel to wash at the tap in the yard.
Once Tom was back, I poured the soup into bowls.
‘Listen,’ I began, ‘we got some news from Ma today. She’s a place in the Pigeon House.’
Tom looked down at the table.
‘When is she going?’
‘Tomorrow,’ I said.
‘Can children go to it?’ asked Patrick.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘We can go to see her on Sunday.’
‘Wasn’t that where Mrs Tumulty went last year?’ asked Patrick.
‘That’s right,’ I said slowly, dreading what he was going to ask me next.
‘Didn’t she die there?’ 32
I took a spoonful of soup. ‘She did, and—’
I stirred the soup in my bowl, trying to think of something to say to take the sting out of Mrs Tumulty’s death.
‘She must have been much worse than Ma to go and die like that, isn’t that right, Nancy?’ said Patrick.
I was spared having to reply to this by a knock on the door. Kate opened it and stepped out into the hallway. She came back inside, opened the pillowcase on the sideboard and took out a piece of bread. Snatching a knife off the table, she spread some dripping on it. Before I got a chance to say anything, she was back in the hallway again. There was a short murmur of voices. She closed the door and slipped back into her place at the table.
‘That was Sconsie,’ she said. ‘He heard Ma wasn’t well and asked how she was. I knew he was in a bad way for a bit of food, so—’
‘You handed him out some of ours. For heaven’s sake, Kate, you shouldn’t be encouraging him,’ I told her. ‘Askin’ about Ma indeed. More like he was on the touch for a bit of bread.’
‘And doesn’t he have to eat the same as the rest of us?’ said Kate.
‘If he spent less time in those pubs along the quays, he’d have more money for food,’ I said. ‘No wonder the stairways are filthy with the likes of him sleeping there. You shouldn’t be drawing him or any other knockabout into the house, handin’ out bread and the likes.’ 33
‘A bit of bread – I don’t see what all the fuss is about,’ said Tom.
‘He always says “hello” and calls me “the little master”,’ said Patrick. ‘I don’t care what you say, Nancy. I like him.’
‘Well, little master, I’m going to open a window. I’m nearly dead with the heat in here,’ said Tom. He opened the window and the stench from the piggery wafted in. ‘God, Éamon and Seán are at their finest this evening.’
It was well known that Martin Knaggs, the Pig Farmer’s husband, had fought and died in the First World War. The Pig Farmer never forgave the leaders of the 1916 Rising – Éamon de Valera among them – for destroying Dublin ‘and murderin’ decent people’ when ‘her Martin’ lost his life in Flanders. From then on, she badmouthed ‘that Dev fella’. After he formed Fianna Fáil she always named the oldest pigs after himself and Seán Lemass.
