The Chisellers (12 page)

The door opened and yet another young applicant left the room. This one looked a little dejected. Simon chastised himself for feeling glad at the applicant’s expression. The secretary entered the office and closed the door. She had brought in a new batch of applications. Minutes later she opened the door again and called, ‘Mr Simon Browne, please.’

Simon had been quite calm up to that — bordering on confident. He couldn’t explain what happened the minute he heard that young lady call his name. His legs turned to jelly, his stomach went queasy and he felt light-headed. He suddenly found himself closing the office door from the inside without remembering how he had got up and walked to the door at all. The room was sparsely decorated. There were four filing cabinets, dark green in colour, and beside them was a table stacked up with even more files. There was a huge map on one wall which took in counties Dublin, Kildare, Wicklow, Louth and Meath. The title on the map read Eastern Health Board Area. In the centre of the room was a well-worn dark brown wooden desk behind which sat a rather gaunt-looking man, wearing thick black-rimmed glasses. He had on a navy suit, blue shirt and tie, and had a head that refused to believe it was bald, with a thick growth of hair on each side and what looked like twenty banjo strings across the top. Without speaking, the man indicated a chair on the opposite side of the desk on which Simon promptly sat down. He remained quiet for a couple of moments while the man read the application form he held in his hands. Simon recognised his own writing on the back page. The bald man gently placed the application form on the desk in front of him, looked up at Simon and began.

‘Su ... su ... so ... yo ... yo ... you are Si ... Si ... Simon Ba ... Ba ... Browne.’

For a moment Simon was stunned. He slowly nodded his head in assent.

The man went on. ‘Su ... su ... so, wa ... wa ... why do you want to leave sa ... sa ... school, Si ... Simon?’

For the first time Simon spoke. ‘I wa ... want ta ... to wo ... work, and eh, an ... anyway mi ... my teacher sa ... sa ... says I’m a sl ... sl ... slow pupil.’

Simon started work as the new trainee porter in St Patrick’s hospital the following Monday.

That same week Agnes received a letter from her sister Dolly. Before even going on to tell Agnes of her latest complaint - a constant headache which she suspected was a brain tumour - Dolly expressed great delight that Agnes would be coming on a visit with young Trevor; and although Agnes had told Dolly in her letter of her bingo win, the two crisp $20 bills accompanied Dolly’s letter yet again. Within hours of receiving the letter Agnes set off to book her flights.

Constellation Travel in Liffey Street was owned and run by the Donegan brothers, Joe and Tim. Along with the two men, bachelors and in their fifties, the company had only one other employee and that was Margaret Sharp, who did secretarial work for the men. On the day Agnes arrived at the office, Margaret was out sick and Joe was delivering tickets to a client across town. Tim was a little disgruntled - dealing with members of the public was not his forte, and he dreaded being left to mind the store. Tim was on the ‘phone when Agnes entered the office. He indicated as much to her and he hoped by the time he was finished his call that Joe would have returned. In the meantime, Agnes browsed through a couple of brochures, speaking the names of the destinations aloud.

‘Mag-a-loof. Jesus!’ She picked up another brochure. ‘Santa-pooz-na. Mother of God!’

Tim was now standing at the counter and by way of opening the conversation, he said to Agnes, ‘Well, Madam, fancy a trip to the sun?’ He smiled.

Agnes spun around to face him. ‘Oh God no, luv! I’d never go anywhere I couldn’t pronounce.’

‘Well then, what can I do for you?’ Tim suspected this lady was here to enquire about a trip to Lourdes. Another miracle-chaser, he thought.

Agnes placed her handbag on the counter and smiled at the man. ‘I want to go to Canada.’

Tim returned the smile. He took a pad and pencil and began to make notes. ‘Right, Canada. And where in Canada?’

‘Me sister’s.’

Tim looked up from the pad. The lady was still smiling, so this obviously wasn’t a joke. He tried again.

‘And where does your sister live?’

‘I told yeh - in Canada.’

‘Yes, but whereabouts in Canada?’

‘Oh sorry, luv.’ Agnes began to root in her handbag and extracted Dolly’s letter. She read the address aloud. ‘1202 Ironwood Court.’

Tim nodded at the lady slowly in a silent gesture for her to go on with the rest of the address but she didn‘t, she just looked again and smiled.

‘And where is Ironwood Court
^?
’

Agnes was now getting towards the end of her tether. ‘In fuckin’ Canada.’

Tim made a gentle tug at the letter. Agnes hung on.

‘May I have a look at the address, please?’ he asked, exasperated.

Reluctantly Agnes let him have the letter, but folded it in half before handing it over so he couldn’t read the whole page.

Tim said aloud. ‘Ah! I see - in
Toronto
in Canada.’

Agnes nodded her head. ‘Good man.’

Tim bent under the counter to get himself a fare-and-route manual. He placed the huge book on the counter and began flicking through the pages. He eventually stopped at a page and ran his finger down a column.

‘Right, then. You could go by Geneva.’ He looked up.

Agnes thought for a moment. ‘Geneva? Is that like a jumbo?’

‘No, Geneva is in Switzerland.’

‘I want to go to Can-a-da for God’s sake.’

‘You will be going to Canada - but if I send you through Geneva it would be the most cost-effective way.’

‘But I’ll get to me sister’s?’

Tim smiled a broad smile. He wished this woman would just disappear. ‘You will of course, madam. Have you decided on a date yet?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘Ah! So, really, you’re just looking for the fare?’

‘No, no, I have the fare, I just need to know the price.’

‘I can get you a charter price of £199 return - that’s really good value, believe me.’

That sounds grand. Yeh, that’s for me. I’ll be bringing me son as well, he’s dying to meet his new uncle. He’s a Canadian, yeh know, bank manager.‘

‘And how old is he?’

‘About forty-one, I think. Let me see ...’

‘Your son is forty-one?’

‘No! His uncle is forty-one. Me son is only eight.’

Tim Donegan had had enough. ‘Well, once he’s below twelve he’ll get a fifty percent reduction. That’s half price. So, there you have it. When you have a date, drop in and see us and we’ll look after you.’

‘What’s your name, luv’.

‘My name? Eh Tim, Tim Donegan.’

‘Grand, Tim, I’ll ask for you the next time I come in, because I couldn’t go through all them questions again.’

Agnes smiled, gathered her bag and left the travel agent’s office. As soon as she was gone Tim Donegan put on the kettle for a hot cup of tea and took a valium.

Chapter 9

FRANKIE BROWNE SAT ON THE SMALL two-foot wall that surrounded St Jarlath’s church. Beside him, down behind the wall, three other skinheads were playing poker. Although a keen poker player himself, Frankie didn’t want to join the boys in their game today, his mind was elsewhere. He had just ten days of his mother’s deadline left and still had nowhere to go. He had no intention of getting a job. Jobs were for ‘mugs’. He was no mug; he was too smart to be a mug. He thought about going to London — he had heard London was a great town for scams. Bunty Flynn said his brother was in London for three years and was signing on the dole at six different offices, making nearly £200 a week. That’s the kind of money Frankie was interested in, real money. He took a last drag on the cigarette and flicked the butt towards the curb. Just then from around the side of St Jarlath’s church another skinhead, ‘Copper’ Cullen, came running. He was breathless by the time he reached the group.

Frankie stood up. ‘What’s up, Copper?’

‘The lads - the lads have a queer cornered up Peck’s Lane. Come on!’

The card game was abandoned and the five of them took off around the side of the church. Peck’s Lane was just a minute’s run from where they had been. As they came to the entrance of the lane they could see six of their skinhead friends milling around a slumped figure. Because the figure was now on the ground the gang resigned themselves to just booting the young man.

Frankie was the last of the five to join the attacking gang. As he arrived into the group he saw a gap in their legs and rammed his boot through the space straight into the back of the figure. This elicited a sharp yelp from the young man and a whoop of joy from Frankie. Some of the others stood back to let Frankie have a good go. As he stood over the body he could see clearly that the left arm was broken, with the wrist bent backwards, the head was matted with blood, and what had probably been fairly decent clothes were now in tatters. He picked the back of the victim’s neck for his next target and drew his boot back. As he did so the body whimpered. For a moment Frankie hesitated - there was something about that whimper. It was babyish, and he recognised it! He had heard it before years ago. He had heard it just after his father had died and he and the other Browne boys still shared one bed. He leaned down, took the shoulder of the body, and turned it towards him to see the battered face of a barely conscious Rory Browne. Before he passed out, Rory said simply, ‘Frankie?’

‘So what do you think?’ Mark asked, unsure that he had done the right thing.

The two older men didn’t reply. They continued to walk around the dusty shop, glancing at the ceiling, stomping their feet on the floor. Mark looked at Betty. She was linking his arm. She gave him a little squeeze and smiled.

‘The rent is only £80 a month and we can do most of the fitting ourselves,’ Mark went on.

Still there was no reply from either Sean McHugh or Benjamin Wise. Sean had both hands thrust into his pockets, and Mr Wise had a hand up each opposite sleeve and looked as if he was wearing a muff. Eventually Mr Wise spoke.

‘Eighty pounds a month?’

‘Yeh, eighty pounds a month.’

Mr Wise turned to Sean. ‘That’s not bad, Sean, is it?’

‘Not bad at all, Mr Wise. Not bad at all.’

Mark moved from Betty’s side towards the two men and as he did he said, ‘It’ll give us our own retail outlet - just for the class furniture, the hardwood stuff.’

‘And you’re going to call it what? Tell me again, Mark.’ Mark spoke loudly and boldly. ‘Wise & Co. Bespoke Furniture.’

Again Mr Wise turned to Sean and spoke to him as loudly as Mark had spoken. ‘Bespoke Furniture, Sean! I like that. What do you think?’

Sean smiled. ‘I think it’s a great idea, Mr Wise. You and me run the shop, leave the factory stuff to Mark.’

Mr Wise did not reply. Instead, he looked at Mark, standing there, tall, broad and handsome. He envied the boy his youth and his energy. Of course it was a great idea. The young man waited expectantly. Mr Wise removed his hands from his sleeves and extended his arms sideways, pushing his palms in the air as if he were making an offering. ‘Well, young Mark Browne, it looks like we’ve got ourselves a shop!’

Mark smiled broadly and now launched into his plans for the shop, taking Mr Wise by the arm and showing him each of his ideas for the layout, inch by inch. Mark was in full flight when a rapping at the front door stopped his gallop. All three men turned to see young Tom Lewis, an apprentice from the soft furnishing side of the business, standing breathless at the front door, pointing to the lock and mouthing the words, ‘Open the door.’

It was Betty who opened it. Tom pushed straight past her to Mark’s side. ‘Mark, your Mammy’s been on the ’phone to the factory. You’ve to go down to St Patrick’s hospital, your brother’s had an accident.‘

Mark paled. ‘Which brother? Did she say which brother?’

‘Rory - she said it was Rory.’

Without another word to the elderly gentlemen or to Betty, Mark left what was to be Wise & Co.’s new retail outlet like a bullet from a gun. He began to feel light-headed as his feet pounded towards St Patrick’s general hospital.