‘Get up out of there!’ a man shouted and pulled me upwards before I had barely sat down. ‘With arms like that you can shovel coal. There’ll be none of that!’
Without much instruction I was set into the engine of a steam train and given a shovel. In no time at all, the state of my clothes and the stench was covered in coal dust. There was no need for small talk with the three others. The noise of the engine meant we had to shout and I had nothing to roar about. The rhythmic work was soothing.
The men left me be for thousands of miles. I hadn’t much time to think or look around. The work was hot and hard, and appreciated. The breaks were short. I had a clean bunk with hot water to wash in when my long shift was over. I rinsed through some of my clothes and hung them in the moving air from the train to dry. I only lost a pair of good socks using that method. The food was basic, tasty and plentiful. The cool, clear water we got to drink reminded me of home.
‘Money,’ the chief stoker announced about three days into my train-journeying. I shrugged and this made him laugh. ‘Make sure to get deals struck before you take on work again. I’m a fair man – many aren’t.’
‘I need a bed, food and a way to move. I would work for free. I like this work. Anything to help me settle into Canada would be fine. Thank you.’
‘We can’t keep calling you Irish. You are Irish, I take it?’
‘Aye.’
‘What’s your name? You’ve no papers?’
‘None.’
‘We have to shout something at you when we need you.’
‘Randal Hamilton. That’s me.’
‘Fine name. Randy, are you?’
‘No!’
‘We’ll call you Hammy then.’
‘Aye. That’ll do.’
‘Ham for short.’
‘Grand.’
That was the way of life for that fortnight train ride all the way to the prairies of Manitoba. The lady on the platform had given me a name, a destination and target to reach. I wouldn’t have known any place names until we were passing them on the train tracks. I’ll be forever grateful to that nice stranger. Knowing one place and having one particular destination made it easy to focus.
Not talking had become a way of protecting myself from lying. I could also hide from telling the truth. The men asked very little about my life. They themselves didn’t want me to pry into theirs. It suited us all to haul and shovel coal and stay quiet.
At some point on that journey, I got hold of a stack of recent newspapers. They might have been to clean my arse – I saw my real name in print. I ripped it out and kept it. I never found any other reports. This one was enough.
I open my wallet and hand the crumpled slip of old newspaper to Rhonda. She reads the entire article for us. Then reads it again without crying.
Murderer on the loose
Young Bridget Fahy is shot by Barnardo’s Immigrant Charles Quinn
New Brunswick Sept 27th – Bridget Fahy (8 years) was fatally gunned down on the property of Mr Fran Daly, by immigrant boy Charles Quinn, yesterday evening. The bloodstained clothes and loaded rifle were left beside what remains of tiny Bridget Fahy. Following an extensive investigation and search, Quinn is still missing and considered deranged and dangerous. He is not registered with the nearest Barnardo’s receiving home and the authorities have no record of him entering the country.
The name Charlie Quinn (aged 18 years from Tyrone) is on the manifesto for the ship, The Lady Rose, from exactly a month ago. A considerable amount of cash is also missing from the Daly home. Quinn is described as ‘a quiet menace’. Mr Daly and the authorities believe that Quinn was found out in a robbery by young Bridget Fahy and that Quinn shot her in the head before escaping.
22
Rhonda Irwin
Earlier, I watched Faye’s breathing for a long time. She sleeps soundly and it’s a joy to witness. I cannot take my mind to a time where children were herded like cattle, exported and left to the whims of others. As hard as motherhood is, how could I give Faye away? Or harm her? As bad as the blackness surrounding me has been, I cannot imagine not watching Faye breathe.
Joe didn’t speak much since he came home. Functional communication is becoming the order of the day again. I’ve had a long phone call with Margie, my amateur genealogist. I played her some of the tapes.
‘He sounds genuine,’ she said. ‘I believe him. They were different times, Rhonda. He was young and alone. I feel bad for him. What makes you worry? It sounds like you’re making it even worse than it is.’
She was referring to my usual pessimistic outlook which family circles gossip about.
‘I’ll fax over some documents and photographs for your file,’ she goes on. ‘There was a Randal Hamilton and Charlie Quinn on the ship’s manifesto. Also, Charlie’s mother was found drowned in the quarry. The family folklore hid that one very well! It seems logical that Charlie was blamed for what happened on that Canadian farm. I’m finding similar accounts of indentured servants blamed for crimes and running away.’
‘He says he’s an expert at that. Running away, I mean. Then, I wonder why is he here now? Is he escaping something in Canada?’
‘He’s trying to put all of this right,’ Margie replied. ‘I can hear it in his voice. He’s not running away anymore. He’s doing his best, Rhonda. Give the poor man a break.’
Margie knows that I’m hard on everyone recently. The whole family knows that Joe takes the brunt of it all and I think that last statement was meant to hit home for Joe’s sake as well as Charlie’s. She confirms my suspicions when she asks, ‘How is Joe through all of this? What does he think?’
‘He’s trying to get to Ella O’Brien. He wants to get permission for Charlie to meet her. Good old Joe has taken it on as his own private mission.’
‘That is typical. He’s a good-natured man.’
‘Are you implying that I’m not a good person?’
Margie is silent on the other end of the line.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to snap like that. Sorry. Joe thinks I’m a bitch too.’
‘Rhonda, we don’t think that,’ she says softly.
‘I’ve been thinking a lot about Ella O’Brien,’ I tell her. ‘What must she have gone through? Whether she is guilty or innocent of the crimes, she must’ve been in such a bad place.’
‘I’d say she is still in a terrible way.’
‘There’s been a lot on the television and in the newspapers. Everyone is speculating about it all. I pity her and I do feel for Charlie. I do. He’s not being totally frank though. He’s hiding something. I cannot put my finger on it.’
I didn’t want to admit that one liar can spot another.
‘He’s not finished though, Rhonda. He’s got at least fifty years to explain to you. Of course, there’s going to be more heartache. Are you sure you are up to hearing it all?’
I shouldn’t have sighed loudly but it saved me from losing my temper. I waited a few seconds to compile an answer. ‘I’m fine, Margie. Just because I’ve been to talk to a counsellor doesn’t mean that I’m on the brink of losing my mind.’
‘Of course not,’ Margie said and I knew she thought me a little bit unhinged. They all do. Joe revealed to her that he’d dragged me to talk to someone after Faye’s first birthday. I’ll never forgive him for that. ‘And Ella is no doubt very busy. All this publicity again will take its toll. And she’s to be on for an exclusive interview on The Late Late Show! The whole country will be tuning in for that. Charlie will be nervous for her, I’m sure. Worried for himself, too, no doubt. She might finally mention him, especially if she finds out that he is back in Ireland?’
I gasped.
‘Is he ready to reveal all to the nation, I wonder? Talking to you is one thing. Every paper in the country will be in a frenzy if they know he’s the father of Ella’s illegitimate baby. It won’t look well for either of them. Maybe that’s why Ella stayed quiet all these years?’
‘I feel like I’ve opened a can
of worms.’
‘This is not your fault. We all know Ella’s story is raked up every time there is anything even remotely similar in the news. Charlie coming home was his doing and you are lending a listening ear. You might not ever need to do anything with what you know.’
I couldn’t believe what she just said.
‘That’s typical! That’s what’s landed us in this mess in the first place. Everyone stayed quiet about what they knew. You want to hush things up, pretend they never happened? Everyone is dishonest with their silence. I’m not like that!’
I’d been harsh and loud. Faye murmured in the next room.
‘It seems that nothing I say is good enough. I’ll keep sending on all the genealogy documents and things that I’m finding, Rhonda. I’ll go,’ Margie said. ‘Goodnight now and get some rest. Ring me if you need anything else.’
I sit on the carpet next to the bed and sob a little into the towel. It’s a relief and release to be alone and let out the anguish. I’m going to have to join the men downstairs and pretend that all is as it should be.
This was all supposed to help me better myself and my situation. It is making shit worse. Instead of dealing with anything, I curl into bed and pull the duvet high over my head. Where might Ella O’Brien be right now? I cry hard for her, for myself and for the children who have been cruelly used in the world.
23
Charlie Quinn
Ella has been in the newspapers again and mentioned on the television. In Ireland, everyone notices the national coverage. There is no escape.
The plans are for Ella to appear on the most-watched television programme chat show this Friday night. The Late Late Show is watched by the majority of the Irish population every week and there’s a frenzy of interest brewing. We don’t even put on the radio much during the day as Ella’s section of the show is advertised a great deal and it stunts my thoughts and speech.
‘What do you think Ella might say?’ Rhonda asks me over breakfast. Faye’s sucking the butter off long rectangles of toast. ‘Should we tell RTÉ that you have some information to share?’
‘I didn’t come back to be on the television.’
Rhonda stops eating and looks at me intently. She’s wondering what exactly I am here for. Still after the many hours of listening, she’s not sure about the man staying in her spare bedroom.
‘You’re right. You might get into trouble for travelling on a fake passport,’ she says. This makes me chuckle and gives an impatient gleam to her eyes. ‘Randal Hamilton might come forward,’ she says. ‘You might hear about what happened to him. If we ask will we find him alive and well?’
‘I am Randal Hamilton.’
Rhonda coughs and steadies herself before reminding me, ‘You stole his coat, and his box of belongings on the ship to Canada. Isn’t that what you said? And you thought that he had frozen to death in the bitter winters as a home-child?’
‘Did I?’
‘I can rewind the tapes and find it.’
I shake my head and hand. ‘No need. I know where Randal is.’
‘I’ve made enquiries, Charlie,’ Rhonda admits. ‘Each group of migrant children stood for photographs before they were sent across the sea to the receiving homes. Lists of names were taken. It was all very methodical up until that point in their journey. There was little follow-up of the children placed on Canadian farms. When I enquired they told me that a boy with the name Randal was in the photograph before departure from Southampton, and there’s no record of where he was placed in Canada.’
‘They didn’t care where he went. I’ve been telling you that.’
‘Explain to me, Charlie – where is Randal?’
‘He wasn’t the only child I stole from. I had nightmares about the others suffering because of what I stole. I’ve told you and Joe that I am a bad man. I’ve a great deal to explain and confess.’
‘What has all of this to do with Ella O’Brien?’
‘Once you know it all you will be able to help Ella. You will know what is the best thing to do.’
‘Did you take on the name Randal to hide from the Canadian authorities? To hide from the murder of Bridget Fahy?’
I reach out to switch on the tape recorder she has under my nose all of the time. Sitting back in the chair, I return to the train, the clack of the rails and to my transformation into Hammy.
Fate, providence or luck had Charlie Quinn taken from me. From when the generous woman with the heavy trunk mistook me for Randal Hamilton, it seemed a good idea to be him. Then, after I read the newspaper clipping, it became necessary for Charlie to die along with Bridget.
I couldn’t have changed the way things were, even if I did return. It was like when I left my Ella behind in Ireland – my word wasn’t good enough. My version of events would be seen as lies. And Charlie Quinn, like the rest of us, tells lies.
Randal Hamilton could start afresh. He would be a good person, work hard and make his fortune. Hammy had a goal, an ambition and a place to reach. I was going to start life over again. There were many others doing the same. Even after disembarking the ship, children had swopped the cardboard signs around their necks to become someone else. This felt no different. Quiet, kind Hammy, with a wicked wit was born. I was pleased to meet him in the mirror every morning.
The engine hoots into Winnipeg, Manitoba, and Randal Hamilton steps off the train in a new set of clothes and an old coat.
24
Charlie Quinn
The National Transcontinental Railway united Canada and brought the ordinary immigrant into the heart of the country. It cut through forests, mountains and farmland. We knew the damage the surge of disease and people was doing to the native tribes. But no one cared. We were each out for ourselves.
I’ve learned a little about the culture of the Cree nation. Back then, we all just thought of them as savages and things to avoid. They weren’t really people, you understand. They were like the animals – perhaps worse than that. Animals had value and the natives were more like vicious vermin. How I talked about and treated the Cree saddens me now. Over the years, I grew to respect and admire their ways. It will also turn out that I survived thanks to one of them.
In Winnipeg, I found a cheap hotel. The name of it escapes me. It was basic and clean, and had one of the prettiest serving girls I’d seen in a while. Polly Hollyridge was a beauty. As Ella was fair, Polly was dark-haired. Some Cree blood possibly coursed through the Hollyridge blood and I saw Polly as an exotic flower. She got some attention. The men were elderly compared to her teenage years and her father, who was the owner, kept his one watchful eye on his only daughter.
Mr Hollyridge was white and British (with literally only one good eye) and although I told him I was a Protestant from Tyrone, he saw me as a mucky, Irish Catholic. With him keeping Polly away from me, this made her even more enticing and again I had a goal to reach.
My Ella did come to mind when I was attempting a flirt with Polly. A young man has needs, though, and this creature was not a new love. It was lust. I suppose, too, she was a comforting conquest.
A few days into my stay, I took up the courage to ask Polly and her one-eyed father about work opportunities. I’d spent a great deal of time sleeping, eating, and practising my patter about who I was and where I was from. I’d made the mistake of mentioning Tyrone already, and when I said my name was Randal Hamilton, it didn’t feel like a lie. It was a British-sounding name and I went with that. More flavour and colour was added to the story of where I was from and going to. Lord alone knows what spouted out and it took me all my time to remember the fanciful story.
Polly didn’t smile a lot. I noticed that. There was little reason to be happy, and a smile was a rare commodity you didn’t just use for politeness. They were for real emotion or friendship and weren’t handed out to strangers. It became my daily chore to get Polly to smile twice. She wore her hair in a long plait and it reached to her arse. She wore floral dresses which covered those curves. I could make them out
if I studied her well enough.
I helped out about the hotel and brushed the wooden walkway outside. I shovelled horse manure from the wide, dirt road into the barrows and lugged them out the back for fertiliser on the small drills for potatoes. Winnipeg was expanding and the compacted dirt roads could take some more of the new robust vehicles. Horses, though, were still the best form of transport.
I liked the atmosphere, it was less hurried, less flustered than Ottawa. There was a friendliness about Winnipeg too. The prohibition on alcohol was gone and I found out about an old speakeasy saloon up a maze of backstreets. Behind a small hardware storefront there was a larger saloon. It had a wild-west style I recognise now from the movies. It was an amazing place and old-fashioned for the time. A large mahogany bar with mirrors behind it welcomed you inside, a man with a moustache served bootlegged gin and whisky. Smoke and sawdust lay down below with sex up the three flights of creaking stairs. Someone on a bad-sounding piano banged on in the corner and drowned out the disputes and disagreements. It was a place of refuge for a drunkard. I came to know it better than most places in the town.
Manitoba state in the early 1930s was still a wilderness for wanderers. Despite the woman on the platform saying it was full of the Irish, it took me a while to find one.
I took it as a good omen when Polly’s father introduced me to a fine man called Tom O’Brien. Instantly, I liked Tom’s tall, sturdy gait. He wore a new felt hat and a tailored suit with pointed boots. His beard was clipped tight and it led into long sideburns that had a red tinge to their blond hairs. Tom’s handshake could rattle your insides.
The Quiet Truth: a haunting domestic drama full of suspense Page 9