‘Frenchmen lick your teeth when they’re kissin’, Cathy Dowdall says,‘ Cathy added.
‘Stop that talk! That Cathy Dowdall has too much to say for herself,’ Agnes snapped.
Agnes intended to use her little breaks from the stall each day to scour the shops around Moore Street for something suitable to wear for the date. It was hard to decide. Nothing too fancy, not for Foley’s anyway. Nothing too skimpy, she didn’t want to give the Frenchman the wrong idea. Then again she didn’t want to look like a housewife. It was so hard to decide. On top of this, it was the week before Halloween. It was a busy time and the fruit and nuts were flying off the stall. Along with the fruit, Agnes would shift a few fireworks. These were illegal, but she would sell them under the counter - or from under the skirt to be exact. In case of a policeman stopping and searching a dealer, the dealers would keep the boxes of ‘bangers’ in their knickers. Agnes still laughs at Marion’s comments - once when she had her knickers full of fireworks she said that if she sat on a cigarette end by accident, ’They’d find me fanny in America!‘
So, what with the fruit sales and fireworks, Agnes got precious little time to look. She eventually settled on a navy midi skirt with a cream twin-set. She left her good coat into Marlowe’s Cleaners, so in essence she was all set.
Agnes began getting ready at six o‘clock on the Friday. She was hoping for a relaxing bath, but it wasn’t to be. No sooner had she filled the bath and got it foaming, thanks to the Quix washing up liquid she added, and immersed herself, than Trevor came into the bathroom and began to strip. Within minutes, Cathy too was in the bath. ’No rest for the wicked,‘ Agnes said aloud as she washed Cathy’s hair.
By half-past-seven she was dressed and putting the finishing touches to her make-up. In the sitting room the children were waiting for Agnes to make her grand entrance from the bedroom. There was an air of excitement about, although Mark showed no signs of interest whatsoever. When Agnes emerged she sailed into the centre of the room and did a twirl, saying, ‘Well, what do yis think?’
The children were dumbstruck. Cathy said ‘Wow!’ and began to clap, and the others joined in. Mark couldn’t believe his eyes. Was this beautiful woman really his mother? Agnes looked stunning! He stood up and walked towards her, his eyes wide.
Agnes stood straight and awaited his rebuke. ‘And you, Mark, what do
you
think?’
The boy smiled. ‘I think Dublin has a very lucky Frenchman tonight. You’re beautiful, Ma, really, just beautiful.’
‘Thanks, love.’ Agnes hugged him in relief.
The other children jumped up and they all hugged each other, cheering loudly!
‘Mind me frock, for Christ’s sake,’ Agnes yelled. They went to the door to see her off. She walked to the top of the stairs and turned back to them. Six glowing faces, with smiles as wide as the doorway. She was as proud of them as they of her.
‘Straight to bed with yis, and I’ll see yis in the morning,’ she ordered.
They all nodded with a chorus of ‘Okay, Mammy!’ and Agnes turned to descend the stairs.
Mark called after her: ‘Mammy!’
Agnes turned. ‘Yes love?’
‘Don’t take any liquorice off him!’
‘What? I don’t like liquorice.’
‘Good!!’ Mark smiled and closed the door.
Agnes turned a few heads when she made her way through the lounge in Foley’s to the snug. PJ brought her over her glass of cider. ‘I take it you’re not going to the Bingo tonight then, Agnes?’
‘No PJ, not tonight.’ Agnes gave little away.
PJ didn’t enquire any further. Agnes hoped that the French fella would slip in quietly and they could leave with as little fuss as possible. She could see the entrance from where she sat. She decided that as soon as he walked in she would wave at him. Bang on the rendezvous time the door opened and in walked Pierre. His dark hair was slicked back with Brylcreem. He wore a tan polo-neck under a dark brown jacket and cream pants. He stuck out like a sore thumb. He was carrying a huge bunch of flowers. He glanced around the lounge.
‘Sweet Mother of jaysus!’ Agnes said aloud when she saw him. ‘He thinks he’s fuckin’ Elvis!’ If only Marion was here now for moral support! She slid down in her seat hoping he wouldn’t see her, and that he might leave, thinking she hadn’t shown up. He didn’t see her. His face changed to a disappointed expression and he turned to leave. From behind the bar PJ called to him, ‘Hey, Sham!! She’s in the snug!’
‘Snook?’ Pierre held a hand to his ear.
‘No, the snug, back there.’ PJ gestured with his thumb.
Pierre made his way to the snug. He stood at the doorway, transfixed.
‘Sacre bleu
! Agnes Browne, you are a veesion of heaven!’ he said aloud.
There was a cheer and a round of applause from the lounge.
‘What’d he say?’ asked a deaf old man.
‘SHE’S A VISION OF HEAVEN!’ his wife roared in his ear.
Pierre wasn’t finished. ‘I would cross the h’Alps bare feeted, I would suffer torture, any pain to be with such a beeauty as you.‘ He proffered the flowers.
‘What’d he say?’ Again the shout from the deaf old man.
‘HE’S FUCKIN’ MAD INTO HER!’ his wife shouted back. This was received by another cheer and applause.
In a panic reaction, Agnes jumped up and walked towards him. ‘Come on you, yeh fuckin’ eejit, let’s go.’
They left to applause and cheers, Pierre giving salutes to all and sundry, Agnes as red as a beetroot.
It turned out to be the most magnificent evening Agnes had ever known. They went to a posh French restaurant, with tablecloths and candles on the tables. When they got out of the taxi, Pierre held the door open for her. Each time she came back from the toilet, Pierre stood and held her chair. Agnes didn’t eat much, half because of her excitement, half because she didn’t like eating anything she couldn’t pronounce. There was soft music and Pierre bought a bottle of champagne. Agnes wasn’t sure she’d like it, and was pleasantly surprised when she found it tasted quite like cider! There was a tiny dance floor in the restaurant and Pierre took Agnes up and they danced cheek to cheek. Agnes was thrilled - but wished that Pierre was Cliff Richard. Well, you can’t have everything. They left the restaurant, got a taxi to St Jarlath’s church, and began to walk home from there. Pierre slipped his hand into hers. He looked up at the clear winter sky.
‘I love the stars,’ he said.
‘Me too.’ Agnes answered. ‘Spencer Tracey, Olivia de Haviland ...’
‘No, no I mean the real stars.’
‘What d’yeh mean real stars? Spencer Tracey? He’s brilliant.‘
‘No, these stars ... in the sky.’ He pointed.
‘Oh, yeh eejit,
them!’
Before long they reached James Larkin Court, and the two stood at the bottom of the steps. Agnes let go of his hand.
‘Well, Pierre, that was the best night I’ve ever had.’
‘Me too. It was
fantastique!’
‘Thanks.’
‘No, no, sank
you.’
‘Ah no, thank
you!’
Then they were both silent. He smiled at her and put his hands in his pockets.
‘Well then ...’ he said.
‘Yeh, well then ... listen, good night!’
Agnes turned to climb the steps.
Pierre called after her. ‘Agnes!’
When she turned back to him, he had his arms stretched out.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘No keess goodnight to feenish such a beeautiful evening?’
Slowly Agnes descended the steps. Her legs felt unsteady, and her heart was thumping. When she stood face-to-face with Pierre he wrapped his arms around her and gently touched his lips upon hers. Her lips relaxed. His mouth felt warm and strong. Her eyelids fluttered and slowly closed. She was just about to melt into his arms when suddenly she felt something dart into her mouth. It was Pierre’s tongue. Her eyes opened quickly. He’s lickin’ me fuckin’ teeth! she thought. She let out a yelp and pushed away.
‘Ahh! Yeh dirty bastard!’
‘What? What is it? What did I do?’ He was shocked. Agnes’ slap had caught him by surprise and stung his cheek.
‘Yeh ... yeh pervert!’ Agnes took the steps two by two and slammed the door, leaving behind one very sore and confused Frenchman.
Chapter 20
IT HAD SNOWED OVERNIGHT, and the cart was difficult to push. It was empty now. What would it be like coming back from the depot, full of turf? Mark decided he would cross that bridge when he came to it. He parked the cart and shuffled across the icy road to Mr Wise’s house. He didn’t have to knock, he never did. Mr Wise would open the door just as Mark got to it.
‘Good morning, Mark,’ Mr Wise greeted him. Mark noticed that today Mr Wise was wearing at least five cardigans. Where does he get them? he thought.
‘Good mornin’, Mr Wise. Cold today!‘
‘Yes it is! Get it going quickly and I will make us both a cup of hot chocolate.’
Mark’s eyes brightened. ‘Yeh, lovely.’
When the fire was blazing and the chill gone off the room, Mark sat in a chair by the window so as to keep an eye on his cart. Mr Wise arrived in with two mugs of hot chocolate and the usual single biscuit - Mark reckoned it would be next Easter before he’d used up an entire packet.
He took the mug gratefully, and cupping his hands around it he took a sip. It was piping hot.
‘Have you any kids, Mr Wise?’ Mark asked.
‘Just one, my boy Manny. Well, he’s not a boy really, he’s ... oh, he must be forty now. He lives in England. He comes home maybe once, maybe twice a year. He’s a busy boy.’
‘Is he coming home for Christmas, Mr Wise?’
‘No.’
‘Is that why you’ve no decorations or Christmas tree?’
‘Oh no. That’s because I am Jewish.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Well, you see, we don’t believe in Christmas.’
Mark laughed heartily and was sure the old man was kidding. ‘Will yeh go on outta that! How can yeh not believe in something when it’s real?’
Mr Wise smiled, amused at the simple innocence of the boy. ‘It’s a long story, too long for me to tell, so let’s not go into it, Mark.’
‘Okay, Mr Wise.’
‘What about you, Mark. Are you ready for Christmas?’
‘Nearly. I got soldiers for Trevor, a doll for Cathy. I’m gettin’ a parachuter for Rory. I’ll get colouring books for Simon and Dermot, they’re twins and yeh have to get them the same, and I’m givin’ Frankie a Selection Box. I don’t know what to get me Mammy, though.’
‘Why not some perfume?’
‘Nah, I got her aftershave last year and she never uses it. No, I want to get her something different. I have to think!’
‘Yes, well, I’m sure you’ll think of something. How is she?’
‘Grand! She’s givin’ me a hard time about not gettin’ a job, but she’s grand. It looks like I’ll be goin’ back to school.’
‘You sound disappointed! School will be good for you.’
‘Not for me, Mr Wise, I’m no good at it - brutal. Some of the lads in me class were good at it, but I’m not, I’m poxy! No, I want to work!’
‘What about training as a carpenter?’
‘What about it?’
‘Would you like to do that? Make shelves, and furniture?’
‘Yeh, I would, but is it a trade?’
‘Oh yes, one of the finest of the trades.’
‘I built me cart meself, yeh know.’ Mark pointed out the window.
‘And a good cart it is too,’ Mr Wise complimented.
‘Best in The Jarro,’ Mark said proudly.
Mr Wise looked at the boy. His own boy, Manny, was a schmuck, spoiled by his mother. Manny never came home, not since his mother had passed away. He wondered if Mark had been given the education and attention that Manny had got, what could hold him back?
‘Mark, I will give you a job,’ he said.
Mark spun from the window. ‘Will yeh, Mr Wise? Will yeh?’
‘Yes, Mark, I will.’
‘Doin’ what?’
‘Apprentice carpenter in my factory.’
Mark jumped from the chair and hugged the old man, a man that had not been genuinely hugged for forty years. ‘Thank you, Mr Wise, thank you.’
‘Hold it, hold it. This will be a real job - and there is a catch.’
Mark’s face dropped. ‘What’s the catch?’ he asked sullenly.
‘If you train with me you must also go to school, for two half-days a week.’
‘Ah no!!’
‘Wait! It’s a carpentry school. Not like the school you have in mind. In this school they teach you to be a carpenter. What do you say?’
The boy smiled again. ‘I say I’m your bleedin’ man, Mr Wise.’
‘Okay. You start Monday. Be here at eight o’clock sharp. Your wages will be one pound and fifteen shillings a week.‘
Mark floated across the road to the turf depot. What should have been a difficult journey home was made easy by the excitement of getting a job. The snow melted beneath his feet and the cart felt like it was full of cotton wool. He couldn’t wait to tell his Mammy!
It was by accident on that Saturday morning that Agnes found out about the concert. She had done her usual rummage around the Hill market, then headed down Henry Street to do a bit of shoppin’ for the Christmas. She bought the seven sets of underwear and socks. She bought the guns and holsters for Simon, Dermot and Frankie; Rory had asked for an embroidery set in his letter to Santy, but she hadn’t decided on that yet. The shopping had taken it out of her a bit, so she decided to treat herself to a coffee and cake in Arnott’s. As she sat at her table nursing her coffee, surrounded by bags, Agnes couldn’t help overhearing the two women at the table beside her. They were southsiders and talked posh.
‘I don’t know why we shop on this side, Deirdre, it’s so difficult to get the shops over here to deliver.’
‘Oh come now, Philomena, it’s fun. All the dealers calling out and the hustle and bustle - come on!’
‘I suppose.’ There was a lull in the conversation, and Agnes stopped listening and returned to her own thoughts. Buddah promised he’d get her the tricycle for Trevor, so that should be all right. Mark was a different kettle of fish. What to get him was a problem. After the disaster with the tent she had to be careful. He had made her suffer for that. Then she heard it:
‘Harry got me tickets for the concert as a surprise.’