Cold Is the Dawn

by Charles Egan

  ‘Danny!’

  ‘Even worse, I reckon the Molly Maguire gang was part of it.’

  Pat sat back in silence, looking out at the streets of Stockport. There were beggars on every corner. Irish? What else?

  What Murtybeg said had really stunned him. Had Danny really been in trouble with the Bank? And with the law? Working with the worst Irish gang in England. Impossible.

  They were coming to the morgue.

  They paid off the cabbie and went inside. The mortuary attendant brought them down a long corridor and opened a steel door into a long, white-tiled room. Light poured in through six windows along one wall. Along the other wall were six benches, two with uncovered cadavers, one male, one female. Two canvases covered more cadavers, feet protruding. Each had a label tied to a toe. On one bench, there was only one foot, bloodied and broken. The label read ‘Daniel Ryan. Male.’

  Even with all he had seen of famine in Mayo, Pat was not prepared for the shock when the canvas was whipped back. Danny’s body was shredded and covered in dried blood, turning brown. What remained had been pushed together to give some appearance of a human form.

  ‘It’s what happens to all of them,’ the attendant said. ‘Step in front of a train and they think it’s all over, just like that. What they forget is what happens to the body afterwards. The train takes hundreds of yards to stop, and rips them to bits as it does.’

  ‘You think he killed himself?’ Murtybeg asked.

  ‘That’s what I heard. It’s what the driver said. He just stood out between the tracks, of his own free will.’

  Murtybeg slumped forward, but caught the edge of the bench and steadied himself.

  ‘How did you know his name?’ Pat asked.

  ‘There was a contract of some sort in his pocket, with his name and address on it.’

  ‘Where is it now?’

  The man shrugged. ‘The police might have it.’

  ‘No letter?’

  ‘None.’

  Murtybeg was weeping. Pat wondered how long it was since he had last done that. Not since they were children. Or was it? He remembered the time he had brought Murtybeg to Knockanure Workhouse to recruit inmates as railway navvies. Murtybeg had broken down on that occasion, but the sight of the mass grave at the back of the workhouse was enough to break any man who was not used to it.

  He put his arm around Murtybeg’s shoulder.

  ‘Come on, Murteen. Time to go.’

  ‘You haven’t identified him,’ the attendant said.

  Murtybeg couldn’t speak, but simply nodded his head.

  ‘That’s Daniel Ryan right enough,’ Pat said. ‘No doubt about it.’

  The man took a pen, dipped it in ink, and handed it to Pat.

  ‘Sign here.’

  Pat signed. He passed the pen to Murtybeg, took his hand, and brought it to the paper.

  ‘Just here, Murteen.’

  Murtybeg signed, and they left.

  Pat hailed a cab.

  ‘Well, what do you think, Pat?’ Murtybeg asked. ‘Did he fall, was he pushed, or did he do it himself?’

  Pat shook his head in bewilderment. ‘There’s only one answer, Murteen. He did it of his own wish. But damn it to hell, I still find it hard to believe.’

  Murtybeg said nothing more and was silent all the way back to Stockport.

  *

  Dinner too was a silent affair. Murtybeg said little, beyond confirming to Irene that he had identified Danny’s corpse. Pat was thinking of their shock when the attendant had shown them the corpse. Did men like that enjoy the drama of that moment. A body torn asunder under a train. Many a tougher man would have found it hard to take the sight of a train-kill. Worse than the fever dead in Mayo? Perhaps.

  But he was thinking of other things too. He could not take his eyes off Irene. Yes, she was a good-looking woman, with a striking figure, and the black dress highlighted her figure far more. Once, he thought he saw Murtybeg looking at Irene in the same way, but dismissed it from his mind. Murtybeg had been too overcome by the day’s events.

  But what of Irene? No tears! He had always reckoned her a tough woman, but this poise, this self-control, was something he had never seen in a woman before. Coldness in the face of death.

  Had Danny really been frightened of her? He had reckoned Danny as being a tough man, and Irene was surely tough too. A match made in heaven? Perhaps not. He could think of marriages that were poisoned because both husband and wife had been like that, and could never agree. What Murtybeg had suggested was different though. Irene was the tougher one, and she had controlled Danny in a way that drove him to kill himself.

  There was another factor though. Danny’s parents had left him. Murty was Danny’s own father – Murtybeg’s too – and he held that the way Edwardes & Ryan was being managed was wrong. Immoral, even. He saw the way Danny and Irene were importing cheap, starving Mayo labour from the west coast of Ireland. In the end, Murty had not been able to take it, and working with the Gilligan gang on the Leeds & Thirsk railway was far preferable to working with Edwardes & Ryan, Danny’s own business. That must have been a real slap in the face for Danny.

  And Murtybeg, for that matter.

  After dinner, Pat and Murtybeg stayed behind.

  Murtybeg fetched two glasses from the cupboard. Crystal glass, as Pat noted. Waterford perhaps? Danny had been trying to create an impression, essential, as he had understood it, to a man who was rising in the world as a labour contractor on the railways.

  Without asking, Murtybeg poured brandy. His hands were trembling, and the neck of the bottle rattled against the glass as he poured. He handed a glass to Pat.

  Pat sipped at it. Even with no knowledge of brandies, he knew it was of a high quality.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Murtybeg said. ‘That all gave me a hell of a shock.’

  ‘I know,’ Pat said, ‘Sure I wasn’t much better myself.’

  ‘And father and mother. One way or another, I’m going to have to tell them. I’ll have to write.’

  ‘What’ll you say?’

  ‘Just that Danny met with an accident. We don’t need to say any more.’

  ‘It’ll be a terrible blow to them.’

  ‘I know,’ Murtybeg said. ‘Father is strong, though. But Mother? You know how feeble she is.’

  When Murtybeg had finished, Pat wrote to Michael in Carrigard, only saying that Danny was dead, without any further information. As he was writing, Murtybeg sat on a chair by the empty grate. Then he gulped back the rest of the brandy.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll follow after,’ Pat said.

  At last, he finished the letter. Then he went and stood outside the house, staring at the stars over the viaduct and the mills.

  What was his future now? Could he work alongside a woman like Irene? Could Murtybeg?

  *

  The next morning, Pat was surprised when Murtybeg told him there was to be a meeting with Irene in the boardroom. He was more surprised to note that Irene sat in Danny’s seat. She was still dressed as a widow. But she was no widow. She and Danny had never married.

  Murtybeg made to speak, but then said nothing.

  ‘Well,’ Irene said, ‘back to business. Let’s see what the figures are looking like now. Pat – you’ve been going through them, haven’t you? Eighty men gone. What’s our nett outgoings now? Are we still losing cash?’

  ‘We are,’ Pat said. ‘The drop in prices on the Anderson contracts will be more than we had supposed.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, ‘and we’ve another problem too. The loan is on overdraft only. The Manchester & Salford could call it in at any time.’

  ‘Danny never told me that.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t want you to know.’

  ‘So what should we do?’

  ‘There’s only one thing we can do. Let more workers go. Will you see to it?’

  ‘I’ll have a word with Johnny Roughneen straight away.’

  Murtybeg had said
nothing. He was staring at Irene in an odd sort of way. Wondering perhaps at how a woman could control her grief like that. Or have none.

  *

  At Danny’s funeral, Irene put on a superb performance. Again, she was in black. Her dress was tight, and she wore a black, translucent veil, swept back with her long hair.

  Pat was a little surprised that she could weep after all, but was it genuine? She sat in the front pew, accepting condolences alongside Murtybeg and Pat – the line went on forever.

  He thought it odd that she could do all this in a Catholic Church. Perhaps it was all a front. Many of the men and women in the line were sub-contractors to Edwardes & Ryan, and Pat had little doubt they were concerned about the future of the business.

  There were others too. Roy Anderson was there. He was a larger contractor in the Manchester area. He was the man who had given Danny his first contract in 1846. How Anderson & Co. might be doing in the present market was an open question, but Anderson did not seem to be concerned. He was the one who had reduced prices to Danny. He did appear to be genuine in his sorrow though.

  Murtybeg’s parents had not been there, but as they carried the coffin down the aisle, Pat saw Murty usher Aileen into a pew at the back of the church. Murty nodded to them as they passed. After they had lowered the coffin onto the hearse, Pat found them in the crowd. Roughneen was already talking to them. He went across. Aileen was weeping. Pat embraced her.

  ‘I’m sorry we’re so late,’ Murty said. ‘The trains were running late, and with this crowd, it was near on impossible to fight our way into the church.’

  ‘I understand,’ Pat said.

  Murty took his arm, as they made their way out of the crowd.

  ‘How could this have happened, Pat?’ Murty asked. ‘Danny was careful, not a man for accidents.’

  ‘It was no accident.’

  Murty’s eyes opened wide. ‘Murder!’

  ‘Madness, more like, Danny killed himself.’

  Murty’s chin dropped. He took some time to compose himself.

  ‘Killed himself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why…but how could they know?’

  ‘We can’t be certain,’ Pat said. ‘That’s what the train driver said, I understand.’

  ‘But why in hell…?’

  ‘Sure you know enough about it yourself. The markets are dropping, the railways are cutting back, the business is in a tough way. That’s if Danny showed you what was going on. I know you had some idea, but from what I hear, there were other things too. The Manchester & Salford Bank – there was a lot of money owing.’

  ‘But did no one know about this?’

  ‘Irene did. And I reckon she was another burden on him.’

  ‘A burden?’

  ‘One hell of a burden. He was just a few weeks from marrying her. Murtybeg reckons he wanted out of it, but he couldn’t see how.’

  ‘But why not?’

  ‘Who do you think is running the business? And always was, ever since she arrived.’

  ‘A tough lady, eh?’

  ‘Damned tough. But sure we always knew that.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘God only knows,’ Pat said. ‘But tell me this. Aunty Aileen? How’s she taking it?’

  Murty turned away from him for a moment. He turned back, not looking at Pat.

  ‘Well, you know what Aileen’s like. Do you know, she hasn’t said a single word since we left the house? No crying, just hush.’

  Murtybeg ran over.

  ‘Would you come over, you two. We’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

  They returned to where the cortège was forming and mounted the carriage behind the hearse. Irene and Aileen were already sitting side by side in silence. Pat observed Aileen closely, all the way to the graveyard and during the interment. He knew the silence was only a passive surface hiding the turmoil beneath.

  But what was Irene thinking?

  *

  Murty and Aileen stayed in the hotel beside Stockport Station. The next morning, Pat and Murtybeg joined them for breakfast in the hotel.

  Again, Pat embraced Aileen. ‘I’m sorry, Aunty Aileen.’

  ‘He was my son,’ she murmured in Irish. ‘Whatever he’s done.’

  Murty looked up, surprised that Aileen had spoken. ‘He was, alanna,’ he said. ‘He was our son.’

  They sat down to breakfast.

  ‘How are you finding the Leeds & Thirsk?’ Murtybeg asked.

  ‘As good as can be,’ Murty answered. ‘As you know, I’m working as a clerk with Gilligan and the lads. They ask no labour of me, though sometimes I give them a hand out with the shovelling. Nothing near as fast as those fellows though. Not at my age.’

  ‘Your age?’ Pat asked.

  ‘Sixty. Sixty-one close enough. Who cares?’

  ‘You’re better than most, so. There’s many a navvy would be well past it by that age.’

  ‘Me too,’ Murty said. ‘Still, digging the potatoes back home gave me some amount of practice. But I’ll never know how those fellows can keep going the way they do. They’re all powerful men. There’s only one snag though. Our contract on the railway will be coming to an end. We’re hoping that Gilligan will be able to get another one for us, but who knows.’

  Murtybeg looked at him in alarm. ‘But could ye get another contract with Brassey? That’s the question, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. There’s talk of contracts in and around Bradford, but I don’t know if they’d be Brassey contracts. And if they’re not, we’d not be able to work as a gang in the way we’re used to. And there sure as hell wouldn’t be any call for a clerk.’

  ‘Yes,’ Murtybeg said, ‘it could be a difficult state of affairs.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Would you not come back working with Edwardes & Ryan? I know it’s a hard thing to say, but Danny’s gone. Wasn’t it him you had the differences with?’

  ‘Him and his woman.’

  ‘But I’ll be running the place now.’

  ‘Will you?’ Murty asked. ‘Will you really? Will you end up the kind of man that Danny was? Or will that damned bitch of a woman break you too?’

  *

  For some days now, news had been trickling across the Irish Sea. Blight again? That was hardly surprising. There was already blight in the English potato crop, and Pat knew at some time it would have to arrive in Ireland. He was sending money to his own family, three pounds a few weeks ago. In some ways that settled his conscience. But what about all the other people around Carrigard and Kilduff? Who knows? And the rumours now were frightening.

  He walked into Stockport and bought another money order for two pounds to send to Carrigard.

  Should he be sending so much, though? Could he really afford it?

  Could he afford not to?

  But the Famine was not his only concern. Danny’s suicide would change Edwardes & Ryan. That was for certain. The thought of working under a woman like Irene disturbed him even more than before. He suspected there would be some kind of power struggle within the business. The question was – would Irene or Murtybeg come out on top? And even if Murtybeg won out, how could he do it? He would have to be rough to take on a woman like Irene. What kind of man could do that? Could Pat work under Murtybeg in the future?

  He decided to wait it out, and see. But then a letter arrived that changed everything.

  Murtybeg handed it to him.

  ‘Castlebar and Kilduff. It’s been redirected.’

  Pat took it. ‘Looks like father’s writing underneath.’

  He slit the envelope open.

  ‘It’s from Gaffney.’

  ‘The fellow we met in the Union in Castlebar?’

  ‘That’s right. Seems from his letter he doesn’t know I’m in England though. He’s heard I lost my job at the Union in Knockanure. That’s why he wrote to me at Carrigard. He’s offering me a post in Castlebar.’

  ‘In Castlebar!’ Murtybeg echoed.

  ‘Well, based in Castlebar perhaps
. They’re looking for someone to ride around the County and make reports back to Castlebar. He wants someone to talk to the Unions, talk to the priests, and observe.’

  ‘Observe? Strange word.’

  ‘That’s his word. He wants someone who’s not afraid to go into cabins, and see how the people are. Report back on hunger, fever, crops, burials, evictions – anything and everything. And I must say, the money isn’t bad either. Three shillings a day, by God.’

  ‘That’s far less than we’re paying you.’

  ‘It is,’ Pat said, ‘but even so, it’s a good wage, and I’ll be able to help father on the farm.’

  ‘But why you? There’s many another in Mayo would jump at it.’

  ‘He doesn’t say anything about that. Still, I’m guessing it’s because he knows me already from all the times I’ve met him and knows I’ve good practise at clerking in Knockanure Union. I think too, the fact that I’m Luke’s brother would have weighed in his thinking. He knew Luke well.’

  ‘So what will you do?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Once again, Pat was torn. In some ways, he had come over to England against his better judgement, especially in view of Danny’s ways of working. In the end, he had adjusted to this and had compromised in the very same way as Murtybeg had. He thought back to the navvy’s moll he had once met in a shack on the railway. ‘You’re no better than the rest of them,’ she had said, after he carried out Danny’s sackings. She had been right. Had he compromised too much?

  Irene was still in his thoughts. He was beginning to think, much as he and Murtybeg might resist, she was going to be the real power in Edwardes & Ryan. In many ways, she was at a disadvantage as a woman, since the rough-cut contractors and railway negotiators would not deal with women. But she had Murtybeg and Pat to do that. Roughneen and Lavan too. As against this, her tough negotiations with the horse dealers, the timber merchants and the other traders who supplied Edwardes & Ryan showed a ruthlessness that few men ever expected, but that Pat and Murtybeg knew all too well. Danny too, before he had killed himself.

  There were other good reasons for accepting Gaffney’s offer.

  Carrigard was one. He would be needed on the farm, if not now, later.

  And Sarah was another.

  Before he left Ireland, they were beginning to plan their lives together. Now, she was in Mayo, and he was in Stockport. Sarah was an attractive woman, there was no doubt about that. Would other men see her in the same way? Most certainly. If he really wanted to win Sarah, he would have to return.