Rose of Tralee (10 page)

As he approached the Halfpenny Bridge the wind gave an extra loud shriek and spattered what felt like small stones, but was probably hail, into Colm’s face. He could feel it rattling on his cap and hear it clattering on the metal bicycle basket – empty now, thank the good Lord, Colm thought reverently, remembering the weight of the huge turkey and how difficult it had made steering earlier.

He had dismounted his bicycle to cross Bachelor’s Quay and because of the fierceness of the wind, did not attempt to remount, though the Halfpenny Bridge was empty of people for once, and no one would have stopped him. But the wind, howling up the Liffey, was simply too strong; Colm and his bicycle might well have been blown over, and it was bad enough to be frozen with cold without adding a nasty tumble and numerous bruises to your woes. So Colm sank his head between his shoulders, half-closed his eyes against the stinging sleet and trudged on, enduring. Half-way over, a pleasant thought occurred to him. His daddy was supposed to be coming home today, but surely he would not have been able to make the crossing in such weather? A glance down into the waters of the Liffey showed that
it was as high as he had ever known it and that waves were crashing right over the quay in places. No weather for a sea voyage, Colm told himself with guilty satisfaction. There was even a chance that his father would be stuck in England for the whole of the Christmas holiday ... it would be a real treat for him and Caitlin if they were to have the mammy all to themselves, and no father to boss them around and tell them what they might and might not do.

But it was no good thinking about it just yet, for no doubt Mr Savage would have further deliveries for him when he reached the shop once more. So Colm fought his way over the bridge, which was surely the most exposed part of his journey since the foot-bridge curved up to cross well above the river, then hurried along Wellington Quay and dived down Capel Street with a moan of relief, for the buildings of either side of the road protected him, to an extent, from the bitter wind.

He crossed Dame Street, where the snow lashed at him again for a moment, and then he was in Great George Street and on the home stretch. He stopped for a moment to tug his dripping cap further down over his eyes and to remount the bicycle, then he wobbled at the best pace he could manage in the direction of York Street and Savage’s shop.

‘Well and aren’t you a sight now, young O’Neill?’ Mr Savage sounded more contrite than amused, though Colm guessed that he looked a real orphan of the storm indeed. ‘Did you get to St Lawrence Road wit’out dumpin’ that bloody gurt turkey on the carriageway now? I hope the cook gave you a Christmas box for cyclin’ all that way.’

‘She axed me in for a warm be the stove, so she did,’
Colm said through his thick scarf. ‘An’ she give me a slice o’ gur cake to line me stomach, but not a penny-piece had the old girl left for me, just the right money. An’ isn’t it a grand house now, wit’ a motor car standin’ in the drive an’ the place all lit up wit’ electricity an’ holly wreaths an’ glitterin’ paper chains in every window. An’ I never tipped the bike over once, though I had hard work to keep upright once the storm really got goin’. But we got there wit’out a stain on either meself or the turkey.’

‘Well done, lad,’ Mr Savage said. ‘I’ll put an extry bob in your pay-packet, for I’d not ask a dog to go out in that . . .’ he nodded towards the doorway where the snow whirled faster than ever ‘. . . in the normal way of t’ings. But it was an emergency, so it was, an’ you came up trumps, young feller.’

‘Thanks, Mr Savage,’ Colm said gratefully. ‘Is there anythin’ else to go tonight? Only I’m wet to the skin.’

‘No, not tonight, though I’ve had orders for tomorrer,’ Mr Savage said. ‘We’ve done well, I’ve near on sold out o’ capons an’ geese, but everyone who bought this evenin’ either wanted ’em delivered on the twenty-third of the month or they took ’em themselves.’

‘How’s my goose money goin’, Mr Savage?’ Colm asked, taking off his dripping scarf and trying to wring it out through the doorway. Ice crackled against his fingers and he shook it so that a tinkling shower fell onto the step. ‘Janey, d’you see that, Mr Savage? Me scarf’s got icicles on it!’

‘Aye, I see. Come through into the back an’ have a warm before you go home,’ Mr Savage invited. He kept a small paraffin stove in the back and though he liked to keep the door between the back room and shop shut, so that the warmth did not invade the shop
itself and thus turn the meat, he usually allowed the lads to warm themselves whilst they ate their carry-out.

‘No point, Mr S., ’cos I’ve got to go out again into the storm. I might as well go straight away an’ be home the sooner,’ Colm said through chattering teeth. ’’Sides, me clothes is so wet I’d only steam the place up. No, if you’ve no more deliveries for me tonight I’ll mek me way home, so I will.’

‘Right. I’ll gi’ you the extry bob here an’ now, an’ a packet o’ mutton chops for your mammy,’ Mr Savage said, producing a brown paper parcel from under the counter and sorting out a shilling from the money in the till. ‘Can you be here at seven o’clock tomorrer mornin’? I’ve a feelin’ Herby won’t be back yet awhile, so if you could serve in the shop until it’s time to start deliveries you’ll be doin’ me a service.’

‘Sure, Mr Savage,’ Colm said, but all he was thinking about was getting home and warming up. He took his shilling and his parcel, shoved both in the pocket of his overcoat and set off for the door where his bicycle still leaned. ‘S-seven in the m-mornin’, then.’

With chattering teeth, now, he mounted the bicycle and turned left into Aungier Street and then right into Kevin Street, which led to the Coombe. The snow was still falling and the wind howled, but at least he would be within doors quite soon and able to get dry and warm, and to relax. Let tomorrow morning take care of itself, Colm thought as he pedalled. After a night’s sleep I’ll probably feel up to anything, so I will!

Caitlin was sitting on the bit of a rug by the Murphys’ fire, reading to Paddy, the youngest Murphy, out of
her school reading book, when her mammy knocked on the door. She knew it was her mammy because there were three quick little knocks and then two slower, harder ones, and the mammy never came in but went straight on to their own place, so she could have the lights on and the fire started before her daughter arrived back. So Caitlin jumped to her feet at once and called across to Mrs Murphy, who was scrubbing the spuds for supper, ‘T’anks, Mrs Murphy, I’ll be off, then. See ye tomorrer.’

The door opened a crack and Caitlin’s mother’s face appeared round the edge of it. ‘I’m poppin’ to the shop to buy a screw o’ tay,’ she shouted. ‘You wait for me downstairs, Cait, there’s a good gorl.’

‘Awright, Mammy, I won’t be after hangin’ about tonight,’ Caitlin shouted across the room, running to fetch her outdoor things from where they were hung on the hook on the back of the door. ‘You go an’ get your tay. Are you goin’ to Donovan’s?’

‘Sure I am. But don’t come after me, alanna, it’s wild out there.’

Mrs O’Neill withdrew her head and the door closed behind her.

Mrs Murphy half turned towards Caitlin, her hands still in the bowl. ‘Oh, are ye off awready, Caitlin? Ye wouldn’t like to hang on for a few moments, so? Only I just sent Dervla on a message an’ little Paddy’s only quiet when youse is readin’ to him.’

‘You could read to me, Mammy,’ Paddy suggested. ‘Or tell me a story . . . tell me the one Cait telled me yesterday, about the big ould boggarty giant what catched the chisellers ’cos he wanted ’em for his supper, only brave wee Paddy knew what big ould boggarty giants like mostest, so...’

‘You’ve telled it yourself, so you have,’ Michael Murphy remarked. He and Billy were sitting up to the table, biting their pencils and occasionally scribbling a line or two. Michael was ten and Billy twelve, which meant that they had schoolwork to do most nights. Michael, who was a good friend of Caitlin’s despite the fact that she was a much-despised girl, turned and grinned at her. ‘You stayin’, Cait? If you are so, I’ll walk you home later, ’cos it’s mortal dark out there an’ the wind’s a bleedin’ hurricane be the sound of it.’

‘I can’t, Michael, not tonight, you heard what me mammy said, an’ besides, me daddy’s comin’ home for Christmas tonight,’ Caitlin said importantly, pushing her arms into her coat and tugging it around her. She buttoned it and turned her coat collar up to give her some protection against the rain which she could hear lashing against the window. ‘He was catchin’ the ferry from Liverpool an’ should ha’ been down on the quays this afternoon, but he said he wouldn’t go straight home, not wit’ the mammy an’ Colm both out workin’, so he was goin’ round to see Gran first. But I ‘spect he’ll be home by now,’ she added.

‘Can I walk Caitlin home, Mammy?’ Paddy squeaked, dancing up and down on the linoleum at his mother’s side. ‘Aw g’wan, Mammy, say I can walk her home!’

‘Paddy, you’re five years old, much too little to walk anyone anywhere,’ Michael said, winking at Caitlin as she donned her woolly gloves and crammed her red tam-o’-shanter well down over her eyes. ‘Besides, you know Caitlin, she never walks if she can run, an’ her mammy’s waitin’ on her, an’ if her ould feller’s really home...’

He left the sentence unfinished. Caitlin, pulling a face at him, remembered how she had told everyone over and over how wonderful it would be to see her daddy at Christmas and had wondered aloud what he might bring back for them from across the water. She enjoyed playing with dolls and prams and similar things, but she had one particular dolly she adored, Long Meg she was called, and a nice pram made out of some old wheels and a stout orange box. No other doll could be as dear to her and a real dolly pram, she knew, would only make her different and arouse bitter envy in the breasts of other little girls. However, she and Colm had long wanted a sledge, a proper one, with runners which curved up at the front and a streamlined shape. Tin trays were all very well, but if you had a real sledge you could get some stupendous rides, so you could. She had confided in Colm that she wondered whether Daddy would bring them such a sledge but Colm, who was fifteen and had a real, six-day-a-week job, only codded her about it.

‘I know, like the Snow Queen’s,’ Colm had said. ‘So you’re too grand for a tray or a common old orange box. Do you fancy bein’ pulled be white reindeer an’ puttin’ a spell on some poor little chiseller, then?’

‘I’ll put a bleedin’ spell on you if you say one more word, Colm O’Neill,’ Caitlin had said wrathfully. ‘What’s wrong wit’ wantin’ a real sledge, ’stead of a miserable orange box, eh?’

‘Nothin’, nothin’ at all,’ Colm had said soothingly. ‘But the ould feller won’t be bringin’ sledges all the way across the Irish sea, alanna. It’ll be a story book for you if you’re lucky an’ a bit o’ money for me. So don’t go raisin’ your hopes, ’cos they’ll only be dashed down.’

‘Well, I don’t care. Whatever me daddy brings me is bound to be good,’ Caitlin said loyally. She was always torn when she discussed their father with Colm, because she was uneasily aware that the two did not much like one another and she found this terribly hard to understand. Wasn’t Colm the best brother in the world, now, and wasn’t Sean O’Neill the best father two kids could possibly have? So why couldn’t they like one another? She had asked her mother and had got only the sort of vague reply that was as difficult to understand as the problem itself.

‘They’re both men, alanna,’ her mother had said. ‘And men don’t always get along. But they’ll learn to appreciate each other one of these days, no doubt.’

But right now Caitlin was going home to see her daddy and had no time to mull over difficult questions. So she wrapped her scarf around her neck, pulled it up to cover her mouth, said cheerio to the assorted Murphys in a muffled voice and opened their door onto the landing.

Before she was married, Eileen had lived next door to young Bridget O’Mara and they had been inseparable. Even after their marriages they had been good friends, though Bridget Murphy had rapidly become the mother of a large family whilst Eileen and Sean O’Neill had only the two children. Then James Murphy died, and the family suddenly found themselves in dire straits. The eldest boy was fifteen and in work, and the eldest girl was in service with a rich family who lived just outside the city, but apart from what little the older children could provide, the five younger children were completely dependent on their mother. Mr Murphy had never saved a penny, so Mrs Murphy had moved out of her rooms in the Coombe and across to Marrowbone Lane where
she’d rented a couple of rooms over a small shop. During the day Mrs Murphy worked in the shop, but as soon as school came out she returned to her upper rooms to prepare a meal and look after her fatherless children, so when Mrs O’Neill wanted someone to give an eye to Caitlin until she got home from work, her friend Bridget Murphy was the obvious choice.

Caitlin, for her part, liked the arrangement. In summer she played out anyway and doing so in Marrowbone Lane was just as much fun as in the Coombe, and in winter she liked being in Mrs Murphy’s big kitchen, handing out cuts of soda bread like a mammy would have done and telling the little ones stories. She liked having Paddy and Kieran to boss about and amuse, too. They were the little brothers she had never had and appreciated her vivid imagination in a way which no one else did.

‘Cait tells the best stories in the world, so she does,’ the little boys would assure their playmates. ‘G’wan, get her to tell you a story . . . she knows a
million
, honest to God she does.’

But right now she was leaving the Murphys and returning to the Coombe, and she was anxious to go because of her daddy. Surely this time Colm will see how nice it is to have a daddy as well as a mammy, she mused, clattering down the stairs and pausing at the bottom to shriek a last farewell to the Murphy kids, clustered in the open doorway looking wistfully down at her. How Michael would love it if
his
father were to come home tonight for Christmas, how his face would light up! The Murphy boys had adored their father, fond of the drink or no, and missed him dreadfully. Even the tiny ones remembered him, or thought they did.