‘You keep the children nice,’ she had said to Polly’s mother once. ‘I’ve only the one, but it’s hard enough keepin’ him decent, let alone half a dozen of ’em.’
Mrs Wilson was beginning to peg her clothes on the line, but she turned and smiled down at Polly as she did so.
‘Mornin’, Polly – is it the eldest Donoghue chiseller you’re after wantin’, then? He passed me on the stairs just now so he can’t be far away.’
‘Thanks, Mrs Wilson. I’ll go and take a look in Thomas Street, see if he’s out there.’
She hurried out into the road, well aware that Tad could be miles away by now, and probably was. What a nuisance, and she’d got a list a mile long, she could have done with Tad’s muscles for to carry her messages home!
She found him eventually on Thomas Street staring into the window of Byrne’s the poulterer. Polly knew from past experience that there would be a nasty smell from the chickens, ducks and pigeons hanging on either side of the doorway so although, like Tad, she coveted the feathers, she rarely lingered outside Byrne’s. She hurried over to Tad though and reached him just as he bent forward, grabbed a handful of particularly fine feathers from a cock’s tail, and pulled.
The whole string veered sideways alarmingly of course, and Mr Byrne, from behind his counter, roared a threat, but Tad, with a handful of feathers, was away, running down the street at a pace which had Polly panting in seconds. But she caught him up at last and gave him a thump with her shopping basket.
‘Tad! What did you want to do that for, and me wit’ me mouth open, about to ask if you’d help wit’ me messages? I had to run like the wind to catch you,’ she added aggrievedly. ‘And me basket’s heavy even wit’ nothing inside!’
Tad was small for his age but very strong – he needed to be as Polly well knew. He had dark hair which curled when it was given the chance – but Mrs Donoghue made the barber shave her boys’ heads so they didn’t need a haircut more than once in a couple of months – and blue eyes fringed with thick, black lashes. He had a nice grin, a soft voice, and a fund of hair-raising and probably untrue stories which made him popular in the lobbies and stairways when the kids congregated to scare themselves with talk of ghosts, banshees and other such things.
‘I thought you wasn’t never goin’ to speak to me again, because of not takin’ you swimmin’ in the Liffey,’ Tad said, but he grinned as he said it. ‘I thought you hoped you’d never see me again in this life – wasn’t that what you shouted?’
Polly dismissed this with a wave of the hand not engaged with the basket. ‘I may have said a thing or two, in me temper,’ she admitted airily. ‘But well you know, Tad Donoghue, that I was never after meanin’ any of ’em. You busy?’
‘Busy doin’ nothin’, yes sure I am,’ said the irrepressible Tad. ‘But I don’t mind doin’ nothin’ with you, if you’re in a better mood than you were yesterday. Where’s Delly?’
‘Donal’s took him on the fish round,’ Polly said. ‘I said he could; if there’s one thing Delilah does love, ’tis a nice piece of fish. Or even quite a nasty, smelly one,’ she added conscientiously, remembering Delilah’s unfortunate predilection for ancient herrings. ‘I was nursin’ dear Lionel, sittin’ in the window mindin’ me own business and thinkin’ about the summer, and then Mammy said she wanted messages doing and here I am. Only I’ve got a list as long as the bloody Liffey,’ she added pathetically. ‘And how I’m to carry me basket back once ’tis loaded wit’ stuff God above knows.’
‘Oh, give it here,’ Tad said with all his usual good nature. ‘I’ll lend you a hand. Where’s first?’
‘Thanks, Tad,’ Polly said, handing over her basket. ‘Me mammy said I could treat you if you give a hand. What ’ud you rather, ice cream, cake or tuppence?’
Tad shrugged. ‘Dunno as I mind, Poll. Let’s get the messages done, then we’ll t’ink about it. Where’s we to go first?’
Polly consulted her list and sighed. It was indeed long and would mean quite a lot of walking.
‘Mammy wants us to go to the Iveagh market, and then to Moore Street because she says they’ve the freshest fruit in Dublin. She’s sent the big boys for the spuds, thanks be to God,’ she added piously. ‘Spuds weigh heavy so they do.’
‘There’s no need to traipse to Moore Street wit’ everything half the price on the Francis Street stalls,’ Tad said firmly. ‘Or did she want to send you over the Liffey for a reason, d’you think? If your daddy’s comin’ home today was she after sendin’ you for something he really likes?’
Polly consulted her list again, then shook her head. ‘No, it can’t be that, for there’s not even tobacco on me list – I don’t know that me daddy smokes, come to that. We’ll start in Francis Street then, Tad.’
‘Sure,’ Tad said, hefting the basket. ‘Will we be buyin’ ribs, from Durney’s?’
‘That’s right,’ Polly said. ‘Why?’
‘We might ask Mr D for some bones for your Delly,’ Tad said. ‘Then I could take ’em home for me mammy to make us a broth. Pork bones make good broth, wit’ an onion or two and mebbe a carrot.’
‘All right, we’ll do that,’ Polly told him. ‘I’m wantin’ a good shirt to fit our Donal from the Iveagh, too. Mammy says he’s growed out of his old one and she won’t have me daddy shamed on Sunday, at Mass.’
‘Oh, the old priests don’t notice, ’tis the other old women who point, if you’re raggedy,’ Tad said knowingly. He was usually raggedy. ‘Mind, me daddy’s always smart. Mammy puts his suit, shirt and shoes in the pawn on Monday morning, early, an’ takes it out again on Saturday, late. Wish I had a dacent suit to pawn,’ he added wistfully. ‘I could do wit’ the money.’
‘Well, mebbe,’ Polly said vaguely. As they talked they had made their way through the crowds of shoppers on Thomas Street and turned right, into Francis Street. ‘What’ll we do when we’ve got our messages, Tad? It’s a beautiful day, wouldn’t you say? Too nice for hangin’ round the alley.’
‘We could do all sorts if we had pennies for the tram,’ Tad said. ‘We could go all over.’
Polly smiled. ‘Right you are, let’s go to Phoenix Park, shall us? It’s nice there, Niall said so.’
Tad pulled a face. ‘It’s real hot today; I’d sooner go to the canal, then we could swim,’ he said longingly. ‘I can swim – almost. We can go to a quiet bit, where the fellers don’t go. Would you like that?’
It was definitely an olive branch but even so, Polly looked doubtful. ‘Last time we was there we saw that dead dog, remember? The poor feller, wit’ his legs in the air and his poor eyes clamped shut. I don’t want to swim wit’ no dead dog.’
‘Aw, janey, that won’t happen again,’ Tad protested at once. ‘Anyway, I’ll look after you, alanna. You’ll be safe wit’ me.’
Brogan couldn’t stop smiling. Making his way across Liverpool, down Beckett Street, along Fountains Road, he smiled like an idiot whether anyone was looking at him or not. And when he and Peader got on the tram just outside the Stanley Hospital, even the conductor, taking their fares, noticed it.
‘Where’s you off to, then?’ he enquired blandly. ‘’Cos you’ve gorra grin on your gob like a bleedin’ Cheshire cat.’
‘I’m goin’ home,’ Brogan said simply. ‘First time for five years. I’ve been livin’ in Crewe for eighteen months because the work took me there, so I’ve been away from all me family, even me daddy here. It’s good to be seein’ them all again.’
The conductor whistled sympathetically. ‘No wonder you’re grinnin’, pal! And don’t tell me, you’re from God’s own country – right?’
‘That’s right. Dublin. Swift’s Lane, off Francis Street.’
The conductor heaved a sigh. ‘I come from there meself, or rather me mam did,’ he said reminiscently. ‘She were just a child when her mam and da crossed the water – her family live there still, in Enniskerry. O’Mara, the name is. We’ve never been back, ourselves, but me mam talks about Enniskerry as though it were paradise – always ’as.’
‘Dublin isn’t paradise, and Swift’s Alley’s a bit rough, mebbe,’ Brogan said. ‘But there’s something about it . . . I dunno.’ He turned to his father. ‘What do you say, Daddy?’
Peader shrugged. He had told Brogan that life in Liverpool wasn’t the same without him, that he was seriously considering trying to get a bit of a decent job in Dublin when they got home, but Brogan doubted if he would really do such a thing. He was the safety man for a large gang now, on good money with a lot of responsibility. Of course he missed his family, anyone would, but his conscience would not let him take the easy way out. Returning to Dublin and no job, letting his wife and kids keep him, was not Peader’s style. He had always looked down on the men of the tenements who took it for granted that their wives would support them and the large families they gave them. He’d disapproved of a baby every year, too, and told his sons frankly that they should learn self-discipline before they married. Brogan had not been at all sure what his father meant at the time, though he knew now. A woman should be loved, honoured and cherished, his father had told him when Brogan took his first young lady to the cinema. You young fellers think women are only good for one thing – taking to bed. Well, that’s selfish, wicked and wrong. If you give a girl a baby then you have to support the pair of ’em, and if you want your wife to stay healthy and sweet then you must deny yourself from time to time.
Brogan had said he understood and promised to be careful; it hadn’t been difficult. The girls he took out were nice girls, but they hadn’t lit any particular flame within him. It had been easy simply to say goodnight to them after a few kisses, easy to part. But now there was a girl he thought he cared about, only she’d been sent away. And anyway, he was a man and Sara Cordwainer was a child – but bidding fair to become a very lovely young woman.
But now Peader, who had been looking out of the tram window, turned to face the conductor.
‘Sure and isn’t everyone’s home special?’ he said. ‘The air’s softer, over there,’ I guess, and the water’s sweeter. The girls are prettier, the people kinder. Otherwise perhaps we’d not want to go back so bad.’
The conductor laughed and patted his shoulder.
‘Aye, the Irish are a lovely people and there’s Irish in most of us scousers,’ he said in his heavy Liverpool accent. ‘Good luck to you, fellers, and good sailing.’
When they reached the dock the sky overhead was blue, the sun shining.
‘We’re goin’ to have a good voyage, Daddy,’ Brogan remarked as they hefted their bags up the gangplank, jostled by a great many other would-be travellers. ‘Not like the last time – janey, how the waves heaved! Still, even that weren’t as bad as when I took the wee one over under me jacket.’
He had lowered his voice but even so Peader glanced anxiously about him.
‘Don’t speak too loud, lad,’ he muttered. ‘I’m always careful. Your mammy would kill the pair of us if we had to take Polly from her. Deirdre’s a kind and lovin’ woman, but who’d have thought she’d take to the child the way she has? She dotes on her, dotes.’
‘So do we all,’ Brogan said. He had last seen Polly when she was only two years old, but under his mother’s care she had grown prettier and more self-confident than ever. She was talking well, walking, playing nursery games . . . he had been as proud of her as though she had been his own get. But now she was a really big girl, seven years old, and doing well at school. Mammy wrote regularly and Polly often added a little letter of her own and Brogan was always astonished at her cleverness. He couldn’t wait to see her now, the child that he had stolen, or rescued, depending on your viewpoint, he supposed.
‘The nuns all t’ink she’s a little wonder, so they do,’ Peader said now, as they settled themselves in the bows, eyes front. Everyone wanted to be the first to spot Ireland through the heat-haze which hung over the land, and here in the bows they would be shouting ‘land ho!’ long before the rest of the passengers. ‘She’s always bringin’ home holy pictures and medals for good work.’
‘I know,’ Brogan said. ‘I often wonder about the other kids, you know, the other Carberys. I used to catch a glimpse of one or two of them, but I suppose they changed as they grew up. Anyway, I’ve not seen one for ages.’
‘Do you still see that girl you telled me about?’ Peader asked presently. ‘What was her name, now? I disremember it.’
‘You mean Sara. Sara Cordwainer. No, we’ve not met for years, Sara and meself. There was trouble more than a year before I left the Pool – did I not tell you? Her father discovered that she and I had met once or twice whilst she was staying with her old nurse. There was nothin’ in it bar friendship, she was only fifteen or so, but he’s an awful toffee-nosed feller, real high in the instep. She wrote to me once and told me they were sendin’ her away to school and she didn’t know the address, so I couldn’t write back. She said they’d stopped her visitin’ in Snowdrop Street. I went and visited her gran, but she said there was nothin’ she could do.’ Brogan sighed. ‘Poor kid, and we was only good friends when all’s said an’ done. Still, there you are. It’s all over, not that there was anything . . . but she’s a young lady now, not a child, I doubt I’d recognise her if we met face to face in the street.’
He knew he would know her again, though, thought he’d know her anywhere. He’d felt awful sorry for her the last time he’d seen her, being treated like a criminal just for walkin’ alongside a feller in workin’ clothes. He had spotted her walking along Stanley Road with a basket swinging from one hand and when he’d called she had rushed across the pavement and hugged him, clearly very pleased to see him once more.