When Agnes reached the bottom of the stairs she took Trevor from Cathy and placed him in the go-car. She fixed the straps around him and then asked Cathy, ‘Where’s the rope?’ The rope was used along with the straps. Because Trevor had mastered the art of unclipping the straps, Agnes now also tied him into the go-car. The rope was tied around one ankle, brought around the side bar, across his chest, around the back of the go-car, back across his chest, around the side bar on the opposite side and finally tied to the other ankle. The neighbours called the child ‘Houdini’.
Just as Agnes, Cathy and go-car were about to exit onto the street in walked Mrs Ward. She beamed at the trio.
‘Good morning, Mrs Browne,’ she said.
‘Good morning, Mrs Ward.’
‘Hello, Cathy.’
‘Hello, Mrs Ward.’
‘Ah ... and hello, little Trevor!’
‘Fuck off,’ answered Trevor with a smile, and with that the trio were out in the street.
Today was the day that the new carpet was to be chosen. Agnes headed down James Larkin Street towards the city. About one-third of the way down the street she noticed that there were builders working on a shopfront across the road from Foley’s pub.
‘What’s that goin’ on?’ she asked Cathy.
‘It’s a new chipper.’
‘A chipper? Sure we already have Macari’s! What do we want with another one?‘
‘No, it’s not that kinda one, Ma! It’s goin’ to sell pizzas.’
‘What are they?’
‘I dunno, but Cathy Dowdall says they’re lovely.’
‘Are they foreign?’
‘Must be.’
‘Well, the Brownes won’t be eatin’ anythin’ foreign, so they can keep it!’
They were now abreast of the new shop and Agnes glanced in the window. What made her stop was the carpet. She had never seen carpet in a chipper, for a start, and on top of this, the carpet on the floor was exactly what she had in mind for the flat. She backed up to look at it properly. A man came out of the shop. He was tanned and handsome and very attractive. He looked at Agnes standing there, her face pressed up against the shop window and at the same time trying to shield the reflection with her hand. He was French, had just arrived in Ireland to help set up his father’s pizza parlour and this was his first contact with an Irish woman.
‘Whee h’air nut h‘open yit, lady,’ he tried.
Agnes turned and stared at him. He was really handsome.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I say ... de place es anot h’open!‘
The place is not open, is that what you’re tryin’ to say?‘
‘Yes ... dis ees it!’
‘Do I look like I give a shite?’
‘Yes, that’s right, we h’open tonight.‘
‘No, I said shite ... sh ... ah it doesn’t matter! Look, where did you get that carpet?’
‘Sorry, you spik too fast.’
‘Too fast? Right. Where ... did ... you ...’ Agnes pointed,
‘getto ... that ... carpet ... eh ... carpeto?’ Agnes now was on one knee slapping the ground. Another man joined the first one and both looked at Agnes as if she were mad. Agnes tried again, this time to the second man. ‘Scuso meo ... the carpeto ... which shoppo did you get it in ... o?’
The second man wrinkled his forehead, turned his head toward the shop door and yelled, ‘Hey, lads! Come out an’ look at this wan! She’s a looney.’
‘You speak English!’ Agnes exclaimed.
‘I’m from Sheriff Street, love, we nearly
all
d up there.’
‘Well, he doesn’t.’ Agnes pointed at the foreigner.
‘Ah, he’s French, but he’s all right. They got the carpet in McHugh’s of Capel Street, love.’
‘Ah thanks. It’s nice isn’t it?’
‘Yeh, it is. It’s nice, all right.’
‘I’ll see yeh, thanks.’ Agnes took hold of the go-car and pushed on. But the Frenchman grabbed her arm and stopped her.
‘Hello! My name ees Pierre,’ he smiled.
‘Eh, lovely. I’m delighted for yeh.’ Agnes went to move on but he wouldn’t let go. She looked down at his hand. No wedding ring. He let go.
‘What ees your name, ladee?’
‘My name is Agnes. Agnes Browne.’
‘You ees fery beeautiful, Agnes Browne.’
Agnes blushed and pushed away from him. ‘You mind your mouth, yeh ... yeh ... Frenchman!’
Agnes scurried down the street towards town. Just before she turned the comer she looked back. He was standing where she had left him, one hand in his pocket, and looking after her. He raised his other hand and waved at her. Agnes threw her head back indignantly and went around the comer.
‘He’s nice looking, Mammy!’ Cathy said.
Agnes giggled and said, ‘Yeh, he is!’
Buying the carpet was a cinch. They knew exactly what they wanted when they walked in the door of McHugh’s. It took all of five minutes. Cathy was a little disappointed, but she said nothing as she could see that Mammy was beaming.
Chapter 14
THE SUMMER BROUGHT A NEW WARMTH to Moore Street, in every sense of the word. It was busier for a start, and the wandering shoppers now strolled up and down the market street with a smile on their faces. The scent of strawberries and freshly picked raspberries hung in the air and the dealers’ melodious cries, interspersed with laughter, made Agnes feel good to be alive. No sooner had this thought passed through her mind than she glanced over at Marion and felt strangely guilty.
‘Are ye all right, Kaiser?’ she yelled across at her.
Marion looked up at the sound of her nickname and when her eyes met with Agnes’s they smiled, the tiny grey dots turning to tiny grey slits. ‘How could you be all right with all this shite you have to put up with here?’ Marion gestured with a wave of her arm to the four shoppers that were picking through the fruit on her stall. Realising she was the target of the gesture, one woman shopper looked up and snorted. Marion snorted back at her.
Yes, you’re all right, Marion, thought Agnes.
‘Pick me out three nice cooking apples for apple tarts,’ the woman ordered Marion.
‘Pick yeh out! D’ye want me to peel them as well? Sure, I’ve nothin’ else to do,‘ Marion replied.
The woman was startled at first, but then seeing the cheeky grin on Marion’s face she burst out laughing and Marion joined in. ‘Here yeh are, Missus, three of me best and that’s ninepence.’
The woman handed over the ninepence and moved on with a beaming smile on her face. Marion looked over at Agnes and gave a little wink.
‘I don’t know how ye get away with it,’ Agnes called.
‘Because I’m loveable and cuddly, and me apples is the best,’ answered Marion with a laugh.
Agnes smiled to herself. Marion’s spirits never seemed to flag even though little by little as the days went by Agnes saw her deteriorate.
Since that night in her prison cell Agnes had never mentioned the word ‘cancer’ to Marion, and Marion could boast likewise. Still Agnes’s heart sank a little every day. At first it was Marion’s skin colour. It had quite suddenly turned a yellowish tan. Marion explained this by saying, ’Ah it’s them bloody drugs I’m on, they have me banjaxed.‘ Agnes tried to get Marion to stay at home, to leave the stall for a while. ’Until you’re right again.‘ The lie stuck in her throat. But Marion was having none of it. Life went on as usual. Each morning at five o’clock, Marion would be there to meet Agnes and set off for a full day’s work. She worked as hard as ever and where at first Agnes would be watching her and worrying about her, eventually Agnes began to relax and just enjoy Marion’s company.
‘It must be that time,’ Agnes called again to Marion.
‘Yeh, it is. I’ll be over in a minute,’ Marion answered. There were only a couple of minutes now to the ritual morning break. They both looked forward to their morning chats. Agnes turned to serve a customer yet another 41b bag of potatoes. She often felt that her life was made up of nothing but 41b bags of potatoes. In all walks of life people measured their lives in different ways - well, Agnes Browne measure hers by 41b bags of potatoes. She made sixpence on a 41b bag, so if she wanted, say, a dress that cost £2 Agnes would immediately think: that’s 80 bags of potatoes I have to sell, and she would wonder was it worth it!
Within minutes Marion had arrived, the crates were upturned, the bovril was poured, the cigarettes lit, and the morning chat begun. It was Marion this morning who made the opening statement.
‘I was dead proud of you in that court room, Agnes, you were dead right.’
‘I was stupid!’
‘Stupid! No, you were right.’
‘Nah! Marion, the Judge or Justice or whatever he was was right. I should have gone to the Guards.’
Marion thought about this, took a sip of her bovril and another drag of her cigarette, then shook her head and said, ‘No! If it was my daughter I would have done the same.’
Agnes didn’t reply and for a couple of moments the two women glanced around the street. Although to the casual visitor Moore Street seemed to be a cacophony of voices, the two women could distinguish one from the other, and could easily pick out the response of Winnie the Mackerel when a customer asked if the fish was fresh. ‘Fresh!’ says Winnie. ‘Fresh! I guarantee yeh, Missus, if you bring that home to your fella ye’ll be putting him out with the cat tonight.’ They could hear Doreen Dowdall at her flower stall and the woman asking, ‘Do those flowers come from Holland?’ and Doreen saying, ‘No, love, bulbs. They come from bulbs.’ Even a hundred yards away they could hear the stuttering Robinson sisters as they yelled, ‘ripe st... st... strawberries! Ripe str... str... strawberries!’
Agnes’s gaze was drawn back once again to Marion - her tiny frame always a bundle of energy, never an unkind word to say about anyone, oh yeh, always with a caustic remark but never a bit of harm. Agnes couldn’t imagine how she would have managed the first four months of widowhood without Marion by her side. The Browne children all called her Auntie Marion and she loved them as if they were her own.
‘Marion,’ Agnes asked gently.
‘What?’
‘D’yeh ever regret not havin’ kids - yeh know, more kids.‘
‘Aw Jaysus, I do. But after Philomena died, I dunno ... Tommy didn’t seem interested. It wasn’t for the want of trying, I suppose, but his heart wasn’t in it and I suppose mine wasn’t either.’ Philomena was Marion’s first and only child. Since Philomena died Agnes had heard a lot about cot deaths, but up until then she had never heard of it. She recalled the horrible memory of that winter morning eight years ago when Tommo stood at Agnes’s door saying, ‘Agnes, please come down, Marion can’t wake the baby up,’ and the pitiful sight of Marion sitting on the edge of the bed and rocking back and forth, humming and going ‘Shhhh’, and then humming again and then refusing to hand the bundle over to the ambulance men when they came. The memory would live with Agnes all her life.
Marion leaned across and tapped Agnes on the lap, bringing Agnes out of her reminiscing. ‘Sure, I always have yours! God knows, they’re a big enough handful for both of us,’ and she smiled.
Agnes jumped. ‘Jesus, speaking of mine - Mark’s off on a camping trip. It’s this summer project camp and I’m supposed to get him a tent! Where would I get a tent?’ Agnes looked around as if expecting to find one there on the street.
‘D’yeh have to get it now?‘ asked Marion.
‘Well, he’s going in the morning. Buddha said he would pick me up an ex-army one - no sign of it though. Marion, yeh wouldn’t keep an eye ... I’ll go and see if some of the shops have them!’
“Course I will,‘ said Marion. ’Go on, take your time, love!‘
Agnes whipped off her apron, said, ‘Thanks, Marion,’ and disappeared up Moore Street.
As it turned out, it didn’t take too long. Agnes was back within half-an-hour smiling from ear to ear. She waved across at Marion. ‘I got it! I was told they’d be dear but I got one for only fifteen shillings. Massive! And brand new as well.’
Marion waved back. ‘Ah, that’s great. Mark’ll be delighted,’
The summer project was a great help in keeping the young Brownes out of trouble. It was Father Quinn’s idea. He was a young priest who came to the parish six years before and with him he brought a lot of young ideas. It was Father Quinn who started St Jarlath’s Boxing Club which Dermot belonged to. It was Father Quinn who got Mrs Shields, the old woman who played the organ in the church, to start up the Sunday afternoon ballroom dancing classes which Cathy went to. And Father Quinn managed the Saturday afternoon schoolboys football team, City Celtic, which Mark played for. Agnes Browne and the community of The Jarro had a lot to thank Father Quinn for. This summer project encompassed a lot of things. There was a sports day for the kids in The Jarro. There were painting mornings for the younger ones, and he even trooped thirty-five children down to the Tara Street baths where they all splashed about for an hour.
The camping trip was to be the final event in the summer project and Father Quinn was looking forward with relish to the three days away, as were the forty children he was to take with him. Agnes was thrilled when she heard Mark say he wanted to go. God knows, he earned the five shillings it cost, she thought. She had been troubled with Mark since Redser’s death and now that school was over Mark said he had no intention of going on to technical school and wanted to get himself a job. This upset her because she didn’t want Mark to end up as another Redser, but she knew that open confrontation would only make him more determined - after all he was her son too. So she had decided that gentle persuasion would be the way to go, and every day or so she’d drop a little hint about how important further schooling was. Mind you, it didn’t seem to be working. Mark seemed to be determined. Maybe the few days away camping with Father Quinn would change his mind.
Mark, as usual, was up at first light on the morning of the camping. He made a beeline for Agnes’s bedroom, shaking her gently. ‘Ma! Mammy! Ma!’
Agnes stirred a little at first, then slowly turned around to him. ‘What love? What! What’s up?’
‘The tent! Did you get the tent?’
‘It’s outside on the kitchen table. It’s wrapped in brown paper and there’s two pieces of twine that you can slip your arms into so it’ll be like a haversack.’
Mark liked the sound of that as he didn’t have a haversack. He had his swimming trunks and his towel ready, and some hard-boiled eggs, sliced bread and butter wrapped in tinfoil all packed into a plastic carrier bag. He sprinted out to the kitchen table and tried on the brown package.