‘For speakin’ the truth?’ Mammy said, suddenly making up her mind to be equally bold. ‘For tellin’ you what you should have knowed – that the place isn’t fit for anyone to live in as it stands?’
The landlord frowned, then turned away. He began to descend the stairs, calling back to them over his shoulder. ‘Very well, I take it that you don’t want the second room. And I like the rent on time, don’t forget that, either.’
‘You’ll get it,’ Tad called after him. ‘For the one room.’
So now Tad lay in the darkness in the miserable, smelly, damp little room with his brothers and sisters sleeping all around him and mused on his lot. Why did his mammy let his daddy hit her? Why did she let Daddy hit his kids? Why didn’t she make him give her money, if only a little, towards the rent, the food? Why did Daddy get the lion’s share at mealtimes? And above all, why, in God’s name, did Mammy keep on having babies, year after year after year, when she couldn’t feed them, when for three years now, the babies had died?
Polly’s mammy didn’t keep having babies. Sure, she’d had Ivan, but she hadn’t had any since. Women who kept having babies weren’t all that strong, and they had to pay money to the women who brought the babies, or to the doctor who brought them. Then they were very weak for a while after, and they had to feed the baby which sometimes meant they couldn’t work.
I’ll ask at school, Tad decided finally. And I’ll ask the father why are people made so different and why do men hit their ould wans? Or perhaps not the father; I’ll ask Mr Roberts, at school. He’s a grand man so he is, he’ll tell me if he knows.
Beside him, Dougal kicked out, then turned over, making their straw pallet rustle and squeak. Meg was lying on her back and snoring fit to bust, her arm flung out, her fingers curled as though in her dreams she grasped at something. Tad sat up on his elbow and very gently turned Meg over so that she was lying on her side. He couldn’t bear the thought that a clock might crawl across her face and fall into the open cavern of her mouth. She might be choked to death and she was only little. Also, it stopped her snoring.
He glanced around the room. All the others appeared to be asleep and Liam was whimpering; full stomachs could give you nightmares when you weren’t used to it, or keep you awake half the night. Because it was summer the air coming through the window was flower-scented, almost pleasant. It made Tad think of the Brickfields, and the canal bank, and the green countryside which he had never yet set eyes on. It sounded nice, did the countryside. Polly had told him that when times had been hard her mammy had gone out into the countryside and picked spuds to sell in the Moore Street market. And even now, if they needed something extra, she would go and pick gooseberries or black currants and sell them, too. Polly had gone picking gooseberries with her mammy earlier in the year; she said it was lovely, really lovely, away from the city.
Tad had thought himself well on the way to dreamland, but suddenly he sat up. A thought was coming clear in his head and it was a good one, he didn’t want it to escape him, he wanted to remember it, to bring it out and look at it lovingly in the days to come.
Everyone starts somewhere, that was the thought. All men, his own daddy, Polly’s daddy, had once been a boy, as he was. And not only them but Mr Roberts the schoolteacher and the landlord, the lamplighter who walked up and down the street with his long pole and made the gaslights flare, the fishmonger in his striped apron and straw hat, the tram conductor who took pennies from the grownups and shouted at the chisellers who stole free rides and jumped off his vehicle before he could demand payment.
The Lord Mayor of Dublin, even, with his gold chain and his fancy medals, he had been just a boy once. And the film stars at the picture palaces, and the soldiers who stamped up and down the streets in their smart uniforms . . . they had all been just boys, once.
So it stood to reason, Tad told himself, that a boy could be anything. He didn’t have to be like his daddy, whether that daddy was a cruel, drunken docker, or – or the Lord Mayor of Dublin himself. He could put his mind to it, and he could be anything! Tad looked around him, at the dirty little room, the crowded mattresses, the moonlight streaming in through the window and falling, silver-striped with the black of shadows, across the beds. I’ll be Somebody, he told himself, slowly lying down again. I’ll work and scheme and try my hardest, and I’ll be Somebody, so I will. I’ll go down to that place Polly went and I’ll pick cockles and sell ’em, or I’ll dip a big net in the sea and find fishes and sell them, too. Or I’ll pick potatoes and knock the dirt off and stand in Moore Street market and sell them. But whatever happens, I’m not going to end up beating some poor woman in a crowded, dirty little tenement room in Gardiners Lane.
And on that thought, Tad fell happily asleep.
They hated leaving, hated going back.
‘But sure and I’d hate bein’ home and out of work,’ Peader said resignedly as he and Brogan stood at the rail and watched Ireland getting smaller and smaller behind them. ‘And wasn’t it a grand holiday, Brogan? Ah, we couldn’t have had a better time if we’d been millionaires.’
‘That’s true so it is,’ Brogan agreed. ‘And it won’t be too long, Daddy, before you’re home for good. After all, Mammy’s got a good deal of money put by and now Niall’s got a good job and Martin’s looking for one . . . well, you’ll be able to go home to stay. Then you’ll find a job, even if it doesn’t pay like being the safety man for the gang does.’
‘I’ve thought of applyin’ for a job with the Irish railways,’ Peader admitted. ‘But we’re doing well so we are. I’m half afraid to make changes, in case it turns out they’re for the worse. But I do hate to leave, indeed I do.’
‘True. But I don’t know that I’d want to go on living in Swift’s Alley,’ Brogan said, surprising himself. Wasn’t it home to him and hadn’t he been brought up there when all was said and done? But back in Crewe he lodged with an elderly couple and they had a fine, clean little house and a wonderful garden. The front was a picture, all flowering trees, shrubs and flower borders with a circular lawn and an ornamental pond, but the back garden, which was very long and large, was laid down to vegetables and when they found out that Brogan was fascinated by the thought of growing things the Simpsons gave him a sizeable plot for himself.
‘Grow what you like, lad,’ Mr Simpson said. ‘If you do the work I’ll buy the seed and Mrs Simpson will cook what you produce for our meals. Anything that’s over you can sell, because I’m too old to tackle a great garden like this alone. What d’you think?’
‘I think it would be grand,’ Brogan said honestly. ‘Sure and there’s nothin’ I’d like better than to try me hand at growin’ things.’
He had worked hard in the garden and it had taught him a lot. When he came home after a day of heaving coal in the heat of a small cab he simply wanted to rest, but very soon he found that digging, planting and weeding in the open air was a most relaxing and rewarding pastime.
‘You’ve got green fingers,’ Mrs Simpson said when she came down the garden and saw his rows of peas, broad beans, summer cabbage and carrots all coming on apace. ‘Not everyone can grow things, you know.’
‘They look more like black to me,’ Brogan said ruefully, examining his hands, but Mrs Simpson just laughed and said it was a way of saying he’d the magic touch, that he could grow things where others failed.
‘When winter comes, get Mr Simpson to show you how to enrich the land with manure from the farms,’ she advised. ‘We all need food to make us grow and the good earth is no exception.’
They were not Catholics, yet they seemed to be good people. They attended church every Sunday and gave to various good causes and had decided to take in a lodger not simply for the extra money to augment the pension, but because both Mr and Mrs Simpson liked young people about the place.
‘We were never blessed with children,’ Mr Simpson told him one evening as they worked in the garden, for they shared the work now since Brogan wanted to try his hand with flowers as well as vegetables. ‘And since neither the wife nor myself have brothers or sisters we have only remote relatives left now, no close family. But we’ve a great many friends, a nice home . . . and now you, Brogan, to bring a bit of life into the place!’
‘What’s wrong with Swift’s Alley?’ Peader said now, dragging Brogan back to the present, to the ship’s rail, the heaving sea beneath the ship, the sight of their homeland vanishing into the mist. ‘You never found fault wit’ it before, lad.’
‘Oh, Daddy, it’s not finding fault that I am, it’s just that I’d like to see Mammy and the kids in the country, with a bit of space round them. You’ve not seen the Simpsons’ place, not far from Crewe, but it’s made me realise that there are other ways of life which are . . . kind of slower, softer, I suppose.’
‘I thought the same meself, in fact,’ Peader said slowly. ‘I asked your mammy if she’d like to live somewhere else, somewhere wit’ a garden, perhaps, and she said she would indeed, but not yet. Not until we’re safe, whatever that may mean.’
Brogan nodded slowly. He knew what his mother meant and so did his father, but the truth was they scarcely knew what it was to be safe, with landlords always liable to put up the rent, the council to increase the fees you paid at school, or an employer deciding to give you the boot. Safety, if it meant security, he concluded, was not for the likes of them.
But that didn’t mean that they could never be safe. I’m still working at me books, he reminded himself fiercely, and soon now I’ll be driving an engine, or perhaps I’ll learn about motor-car engines so I can put them right when they go wrong, for it’s a practical turn of mind I have, or so my teachers at the Gordon Institute told me. And once I’ve got a good enough job, then I can make Mammy safe, see that she’s secure, so that she isn’t worried where the money’s coming from.
Peader, standing beside him, sighed. ‘Women! But one of these days we’ll whisk her away to live somewhere decent, eh, Brog? Ah, Ireland’s gone into the mist now; let’s go below and have a glass of porter!’
Sara didn’t wake on Sunday morning until the maid swished her curtains back and let the mild September sunshine flood into the room. Then she sat up in bed, stretched, yawned, and blinked across at the maid.
‘Morning, Bessy! It looks a nice day.’
‘Morning, Miss Sara. Did you enjoy yourself, last night?’
‘It was very nice, thanks,’ Sara said politely. ‘I danced every dance and had supper with Captain Franklyn. He’d be a lot nicer if he didn’t keep feeling his moustache in that horrid, sly sort of way, as if it was a false one and he was afraid it had fallen off.’
Bessy snorted, then tried to turn it into a cough. She came over to the bed and took the cosy off a small teapot. ‘Tea, Miss Sara?’
‘Oh, please, Bessy. I want to go round to Mrs Prescott’s this morning. After all, I’ve been back in Liverpool three whole weeks, it’s about time I went to Kirkdale, whatever anyone thinks. And it’s the harvest supper at church this evening; I wonder what I should wear? I do have rather a lot of new clothes . . . Mother and I seem to spend all our time shopping.’ She did not add,
It’s the only thing we have in common
, because that would have been unkind, but she knew it was true, nevertheless. In the three weeks since she returned her mother had taken her out every morning, sometimes to meet friends, sometimes to go round the picture gallery or the museum, but mostly to visit the shops, particularly the big stores.
Sara sat up on her elbow and sipped her tea. ‘Now the harvest supper – that takes some thinking about because not only will the Reverend Atwell be there, Mr Alan Hepworth will attend, too. So that means best bib and tucker, eh, Bessy?’
‘You shouldn’t joke about Mr Hepworth, Miss Sara. He’s always calling round, asking after you,’ Bessy said, her hand on the door knob. ‘Besides, Mrs Cordwainer approves, so I suppose that means he’s gorra bob or two,’ she finished, dropping her ‘smart’ accent and grinning at her employer.
Sara grinned back. ‘You’re right there, except that he’s gorra bob or
three,
’ she said. ‘Actually, he really is rather nice and all the girls are after him, so reeling him in would be quite a catch.’
‘Then do it,’ Bessy advised. ‘Has he asked you yet, Miss?’
‘Twice. But he expects to have to dance to my tune for a bit longer, he’s made that clear,’ Sara said cheerfully. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t tease him, but I’m not at all sure I want to marry anyone, yet.’
‘Don’t blame you,’ Bessy said. ‘I ain’t goin’ to marry anyone till I’m good and ready, and when I do I’m goin’ to make the feller sign a contract to say he’ll hand over his pay packet without openin’ it first, that he’ll give me everything I want that he can afford, and that I can go dancin’ twice a week without him.’
‘Bessy, you are truly disgraceful, you shame womanhood,’ Sara said, giggling. ‘I’ll remember that the next time Mr Hepworth proposes; I’ll say would he like to glance at the contract I’ve got in mind and see whether he approves and would like to sign on the dotted line.’
Both girls laughed, then Bessy sobered, and opened the door.
‘If you want anything, Miss, just ring the bell,’ she said, and let herself out on to the landing.
Sara finished her cup of tea, then she swung her legs out and stood up. My life is hollow and full of vanity, she told herself. When I was a child I wanted desperately to help girls like Jess Carbery, but there was so little I could do. But now I ought to be able to do my bit. Yet when I talked about getting a job Mother and Father said I should wait until I’d settled down in Liverpool again and when I wanted to offer my services to one of the charitable institutes I was told I would be doing someone else out of a job. And at the back of my mind there’s this skinny young girl who didn’t have enough to eat, who spent all her time and energy trying to keep her little sisters alive – and whose life was brought to a terrible close because no one cared enough. I’m sure if she could do so Jess would say to me now, ‘Find Mollie! Look after Grace! And all I do is what everyone else does – I go to parties, attend church services, and tell myself that one day I’ll find out what had happened to the Carbery family and perhaps do my bit towards helping them. But life’s never that simple – I’m still a child so far as my parents, and authority, are concerned.