Tell Them I'll Be There (2 page)

Aunt Molly kissed him on the cheek and the stale whiff of what the locals called ‘red biddy' filled his nostrils. ‘So sad you have to go. Sure 'tis breaking your mother's heart.'

Aunt Clare did the same and clung to him as if it was she who was losing a son. ‘You're a good boy, Danny. Always was. Write us now, soon as you can. Tell us all about little ol' Noo York.'

He nodded and promised he would and made his escape.

It was dark among the sheds and the outbuildings and at first he could make out only shapes and shadows. Then against a wall he saw Michael and Moira Hegarty.

‘What are you doing?' he asked, though it was clear enough what they were doing. ‘We have to be off early in the morning.'

Michael's speech was slurred. ‘I'll be with you in a minute.'

‘Michael—'

‘In the name of God, can you not leave us now?'

‘Well, just hurry up, will you?' Dan went back to the front of the tavern and was stopped by a little man named Teague.

‘I been to America, Dan, when I was your age,' Teague told him. ‘Wonderful country. Big an' empty just waiting for young fellas like you to open her up.'

‘Oh yes?' Dan said politely, though he suspected Teague had scarcely been out of the village. ‘So why did you come home?'

‘Ah, well.' Teague pushed his cap to the back of his head and pulled at the red choker at his scrawny neck. ‘'Tis a long story.'

Michael emerged, swaying slightly as he tied the string that held up his rough work trousers, and some of the younger men and some of the not so young laughed and cheered.

Dan gripped his arm and hurried him away until they were well out of earshot before remonstrating with him. ‘You'll go with anyone you, won't you?'

‘She's all right,' Michael insisted.

‘All right?' Dan echoed. ‘She's been with half the men in the county. Half the men in
country
, I wouldn't wonder.'

‘So what does it matter? We're leaving tomorrow.' 

‘It's what you might be leaving behind.'

‘What?'

‘What if she gets pregnant? Would you want a child of yours to be dragged up by the Hegartys?'

‘If she gets pregnant? Why, it could be anybody's.'

Dan shook his head in despair. Sow your wild oats if you must, his mother's brother used to say, but don't go spilling your seed all over the place. It has a nasty way of taking root where you wouldn't want it. ‘Do you not remember what Uncle Pat said?'

‘Ha!' Michael laughed dismissively. ‘That old reprobate.' He staggered to a halt on the moonlit road and gripped Dan by the arm. ‘God help me,' he said. ‘I've a brother nearly a priest and another a blessed saint, so I have. Well, come on “keeper”, tomorrow we're off to see the world.'

Keeper. It was a legacy of childhood. Once, when Michael was in trouble in the village, Ma had given Dan a good clout around the ear and scolded him for not keeping an eye on Michael.

‘Me?' Dan had replied facetiously. ‘Am I my brother's keeper?'

And Ma had rounded on him. ‘Yes! You are, Daniel, and don't you forget it.'

‘Where's Tim?' Michael asked.

‘He went home,' Dan said. ‘He's got a bit of sense.'

‘Sense, is it? If he had any sense he'd be with Kathy O'Donnell. He'll never find another girl like her.'

‘He won't need to, will he? He'll be a priest.'

‘Ach, he's never a priest. The Dolans are not priest material.'

They were at the front door now and again Michael pulled Dan to a halt. ‘We can't let him do it, Dan,' he said and he suddenly sounded sober. ‘It's not right.'

‘It's what he wants.'

‘It's what Ma wants and you know it.'

Dan nodded in agreement.

‘Well, it's not going to happen,' Michael said. ‘We'll not allow it, do you hear? He's coming to America with us. Even if we have to knock him cold and smuggle him aboard the bloody ship.' 

T
HEY WERE UP
with the dawn. Ma shook Dan first and he saw that her eyes were already blurred by tears. It would be like that until they left, tears and more tears and tears no doubt at regular intervals long after they had gone. She was happy that Tim was going off to the seminary in England. He would not be too far away. But she worried about Dan and Michael sailing across a great ocean to begin their lives again. Dan would probably be all right. He was the one with the brains and the common sense. He would have to take good care of Michael.

She didn't want them to go but recently she had been worried that Michael was getting a bit too involved with the Maguires and the McGees and the rest of those no good Fenians. Those boys are right, Ma conceded. The English have no business to be here. But, as far as Ma was concerned, guns and bombs were not the answer. The only way to get rid of the English and their lordly ways was through the politicians, useless bunch though they were.

To her shame it was through Ma that Tim was to go to England. He could have gone to St Patrick's in Maynooth but that would have meant waiting for six months and it was too much of a risk. She wanted him away, for her woman's instinct told her he might waver over Kathy O'Donnell and that would never do. It would be a terrible waste if he put aside his
vocation
for what was surely no more than a passing fancy. It was not that Kathleen was a bad girl – far from it. She would make for someone a wonderful wife. It was just that she had got it 
into her head she wanted Tim. It was understandable, of course. Tim was a good-looking young man. But she couldn't have him. He had his vocation.

Ma had discussed the problem at length with Father Delaney who had discussed the matter in turn with the bishop and it was decided that Tim would go across to England and to Ushaw College. ‘Ah, 'tis a fine an' lovely place,' the bishop said. ‘Wasn't I there myself? When the boy settles down he'll be overwhelmed by the love of Our Lord and the comradeship of the many new friends he'll make. He'll soon forget such minor distractions.'

So Tim was to go to England and on the same packet steamer that would take Dan and Michael across to the port of Liverpool where they would board the big ship for America. America! The word brought a sob to Ma's throat every time she heard it. It was a long way off, thousands of miles, and it would take the big ship days maybe weeks to get there. Dan had
promised
he would write when they got to Liverpool, but after that it would be ages before she heard from them. And all they had was just the few pounds between them and the tickets they had worked so hard to pay for.

They were young men now, no longer her babies, no longer her boys. She couldn't stop them from going and, though they had promised they would try to get home for Tim's ordination, she knew in her heart she might never see them again. It was hard but she had to admit there was nothing for them here. Death had taken her husband, the best man a woman could wish for, now life was taking her boys.

She would see Tim, of course. Even priests have holidays. But it could be quite some time. He would have his studies and, as Father Delaney said, he was a bright boy. He might be sent to the English College in Rome. He might even get to meet His Holiness himself. She was happy to indulge such daydreams, knowing that sooner or later she would see him again. She might never ever see Danny and Michael again.

They would have to work hard to establish themselves and she was sure they would. But it would take time and with time young men meet young women. They would probably marry 
and have children and they would then have their own families to think about. The cost of a trip home could be out of the question for years. And Ma knew she didn't have all that many years left.

Perhaps they would meet some nice Irish girls on the big ship. Try to find a good Catholic girl if you are in need of a wife, she had ventured one evening. Both Danny and Michael had laughed and Danny had said they were not looking for wives. Maybe so, she told him, but there'll be plenty of girls looking for husbands.

But it was not Danny she worried about. Danny was a good lad with a good head on his shoulders. It was Michael. Michael was like her brother, fond of the drink and far too fond of the girls. Hadn't he been in a few scrapes already? At least, according to Molly and Clare he had – though those two 'ould fools' were not exactly reliable sources. To hear that Molly talk it was a blessing that Michael was going while the going was good. But he was not a bad lad. He was a good worker. He would work hard and long to earn a living. Might turn out it was he who made a success in America. Danny was never one for dirtying his hands.

There had been many stories of success over there, some of them true, most of them not. One of the best known concerned a certain Patrick O'Doherty who had arrived penniless in America, worked as a labourer on railways and bridges and saved every spare cent he earned. Within a few months he had sent home enough money for his wife and family to join him. Within ten years he was employing his employer and he had more than $100,000 to his name. O'Doherty was a shining example to all of what could be achieved and Ma knew his story was true because her niece had read it in a magazine. The
magazine
, though, had pointed out that O'Doherty was a non-drinker and a non-smoker, something that could not be said of Michael.

Dan decided there was no point in lingering, best just to say goodbye and go, and they had all agreed. They had gathered up their worldly goods but none of them had much to carry. 
Dan had a small hold-all he had haggled over at a market stall. After walking away twice he had bought it for next to nothing. Tim had a trim little suitcase loaned to him by Father Delaney, ‘not to be returned until the bearer is wearing the collar'. Michael, in his usual state of disarray, had a carrier bag from the corner shop.

One by one they kissed Ma and left her standing at the door of the crofter's cottage where all three of them had been born. No looking back, Michael had ordered, and again they had all agreed. But it was Michael who was first to turn and wave from the crest of the road where the house would drop away and be lost from view.

As frequently happened with Michael's arrangements – usually made in a bar at the end of a session and in an alcoholic haze – this one didn't work out. They were supposed to walk over the hill and down towards Donadea where a friend of Michael's would pick them up at the crossroads and give them a lift in his battered old truck a good part of the way. They waited by the side of the road for over half an hour without seeing a soul or a vehicle of any kind before starting to walk. Almost an hour later they came to a village where they begged a lift in an old school bus and travelled the rest of the way in comparative style.

The driver said the bus was used to pick up his boss's workmen at six every morning and take them to the quarry. He wasn't really going this way, he said, but he could take them a little of the way. They looked at each other and knew their best chance of going all the way was to keep him talking and, once they told him they were off to America, this proved easy enough.

They were off to board the packet to Liverpool, they told the driver, and from there they were off to New York. The driver said
he
was going to New York one day. He was going to ‘seek his fortune' in the New World. There was nothing here. The old country was done for. But as he was already twice their age and more they merely nodded and accepted what he said, mentally consigning him to the army of dreamers they had left behind. 

He took them nearly all the way and as he was reversing to drive off he broke into
Give my regards to Broadway
and with a final flourish
Tell them I'll be there
. And they laughed and waved until he was out of sight.

Standing in line, the boys had their first view of the people who would accompany them across the Irish Sea. The queue was made up mostly of men but there were several families, some with small children. Many would go to relatives in England but many would take the longer, more adventurous step and board the big ship to what those back home regarded as the land of promise.

The ‘little' steamer was the biggest vessel the brothers had ever seen and they wondered, if this is small, how big is the big ship? It would take about ten or twelve hours to Liverpool, they were told, depending on the weather. Michael took a look downstairs and came back, shaking his head. It was crowded down there and airless and the throbbing of the engine would hammer your head in. Better to stay up on deck, get the wind in your face. But the decks were crowded, too, and many were sick as they huddled together. It was probably a good thing to be seasick now, was the received wisdom. Then you might not be sick crossing the Atlantic.

A young man from Waterford told them to watch out for their bags when the steamer docked in Liverpool. He had been told there were fellows just waiting to snatch your belongings. Thieves they were who hang about the docks, like gannets, and prey on the incoming passengers.

‘We'll see about that,' Michael said, making a fist.

But the brothers had precious little to lose between them. Dan and Michael each had an extra pair of boots wrapped in a spare pair of trousers and a couple of work shirts. Tim had not much more. But some of the families had baggage and the boys cast a protective eye over their nearest neighbours, a young man from Courtown, his wife and his two small boys.

Michael yawned theatrically to express his boredom. ‘We'll have to arrange some entertainment on the big ship,' he said.

‘There might
be
some,' Tim suggested. 

‘For the nobs maybe,' Michael said. ‘Not for the cattle in steerage.'

The passengers were so bored and weary by now that when the grey outline of the Liverpool seafront began to take shape in the mist ahead a small cheer went up. People came to their feet and prepared to disembark. Children were called to heel, bags were drawn closer to their owners. But the seasoned travellers relaxed, aware it would be another two hours before the steamer docked.

The scramble ashore was hardly necessary. It was only four in the afternoon and the big ship was not due to sail until morning. But, as the young fellow from Waterfood said, there were plenty of hazards along the Waterloo Dock. It was a perilous place for those travelling with trunks or large cases that looked as though they might contain something worth stealing.

At the quayside men with handcarts offered to carry luggage to the nearest lodging-houses. A man in a shiny suit and a bowler hat was selling his ‘magic seasick remedy', a
dubious-looking
powder in a twist of paper. A boy of about twelve was surprising those who stopped to watch with remarkably
acrobatic
dancing before passing his cap round which invariably came back empty. Merchant seamen heading for a seafront bar passed through the uncertain knots of disembarking passengers and street girls in twos called coarse invitations to any man who might be a prospective client. Small children engulfed by the milling throng gazed upwards, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, at the seagulls that circled overhead.

Tim was to make his way to Lime Street Station and on to Manchester and St John's Church in Salford where
accommodation
would be found for him until he was due at Ushaw. He was in no hurry and he had agreed to stay with his brothers until their ship sailed before making his way inland. Michael had again and again attempted to talk him into accompanying them all the way. Now he was at a distance from home, he reasoned, and out of Ma's reach, he should give himself time to think. It was a lifetime's commitment, for God's sake, and there could be no going back. Once a priest, always a priest. 

‘You should come with us and then, if you decide it's what you really want, you can go into the Church in America.'

Tim had turned to Dan for support but Dan had simply told him, ‘Think about it. There's no rush.'

Dan had been disturbed by the depth of feeling, the
desolation
, he had seen in Kathy O'Donnell's eyes and he was not convinced Tim had confronted his own true feelings. He feared that one day, when it was too late maybe, his younger brother might regret this.

Tim had simply laughed when Michael suggested he should join them on their voyage to America. He didn't have a ticket for a start. That was not a problem, they told him. They had enough money between them to buy another. But Tim knew this was money they had saved and money they had been given to help get them started. Another ticket would take all their money. And anyway, he said, he wouldn't hear of it. It would break Ma's heart.

‘Let's get a drink,' Michael said in exasperation and he led the way to a dockside tavern.

The place was filled to overflowing with men standing shoulder to shoulder but Michael found the bar and soon returned with three gills of ale. As others had, they found it more comfortable to stand outside on the cobbled frontage where Michael renewed his attack. ‘You're stupid and
stubborn
,' he told Tim. ‘Come with us, make your fortune and in a year or two send for Kathy.'

‘Tell him, Dan,' Tim said wearily.

‘Well,' Dan said, ‘there's a lot of sense in what Michael says. But I think you should go home. Be honest with Ma. Tell her it's a big step and you need time to think it over.'

‘I don't want to go home and I don't need to think it over.'

Michael tried again. ‘Can you put your hand on your heart and swear in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost you never felt anything for that girl? Can you?'

Tim put his glass down on the tavern's window ledge. ‘All right. I
was
fond of Kathy. There might even have been more to it at one time. But I've made a choice. I'm going into the Church 
and that's an end to it. Now will you leave it, Michael, or I'll go this minute.'