by Charles Egan
A whistle sounded, and the train began to move. They ran and pulled themselves into a carriage, laughing. Murtybeg threw a paper to Roughneen.
‘Might as well keep up with the news, Johnny.’
Murtybeg was reading the Stock Market reports, when Roughneen exclaimed, ‘see this, Murteen!’
‘What’s that?’
‘Something about the Leeds & Thirsk line. I wonder how the lads are doing over there. The Thirsk to Ripon part is done. The Bramhope to Leeds part is to open by the end of the year.’
‘That’s where Gilligan and the lads are?’
‘Dead right, it is,’ Roughneen said. ‘Your father too.’
‘I know.’
‘How they’ll get by when the contracts are over?’
‘There’ll be work enough for them. There’s plenty of work in Bradford, and that’s only a few miles from Leeds.’
‘But what kind of work?’ Roughneen asked. ‘They’ll be reckoning on four shillings a day, and who in the name of God will give them that?’
‘Not us, for sure,’ Murtybeg said.
The train stopped at Ashton.
‘This is where the riots were a few weeks back,’ Murtybeg said.
‘Pretty rough too, I understand,’ Roughneen said.
When they reached Bradford, Roughneen stared at the forest of chimneys around them, as they spewed tall columns of smoke into the sky, forming an umbrella of black and yellow clouds, which nearly obliterated the sun. An acrid stench of smoke and sewage, tore at their nostrils.
‘Damn it,’ Roughneen said, ‘even Manchester isn’t like this.’
‘No. Quite something, isn’t it? There’s hundreds of mills here. More woollen mills than anywhere in the world. That’s what they say.’
Roughneen coughed. ‘By Christ, they stink.’
‘Oh, you’ll get used to it.’
As they walked towards the Mackenzie works, there were torrents of raw sewage pouring into the River Beck.
‘I don’t know, Murteen, but I think this is worse than Little Ireland.’
‘Could be.’
They had come to the Mackenzie office on the Colne Extension. Murtybeg entered and asked for Ackroyd. A minute later, they were sitting at a desk in Ackroyd’s office.
‘Delighted to meet you again, Mr. Ryan.’
‘You too, Mr. Ackroyd. I know you want to get started on this contract as soon as possible. I thought therefore I’d introduce you to my foreman, Mr. Roughneen. He’s our top man. I know Mr. Mackenzie would expect nothing less.’
‘Of course.’
For some time, they discussed the contract with Ackroyd.
*
When they left the office, they found a small bar. A wooden sign swung outside – The Grenadier Inn painted over a red-coated grenadier leaning on a long-barrelled gun.
They each ordered a pie and a beer.
‘So now there’s the question of workers, Murteen,’ Roughneen said. ‘Where’s the workhouse?’
‘I don’t know yet, Johnny, and I’m not even sure it’ll be needed.’
‘But sure what else can we do? Go back to the Liverpool Docks, find Mayo men there? That’s sixty miles away.’
‘No, Johnny. We’ll find them right here. Look all around you. Whether you know it or not, this is County Mayo.’
‘County Mayo!’
‘Just listen to the accents and the language. Not even English, the most of it. Now before we go any further, let’s have a word with mine host.’
Murtybeg went to the bar and ordered two more beers. He asked for the head barman.
‘Gentlemen.’
‘We’re looking for workers for the Colne Extension.’ Murtybeg explained. ‘We thought you might help us.’
The man was startled.
‘Why should I help you?’
‘To sell more beer,’ Murtybeg answered.
‘More beer? Just how would you do that?’
‘What I’m wanting is this. We should put out the word that we’re looking for new workers. We can use the table just inside the door here. That way, we’ll find workers, and you’ll sell beer.’
The man returned to pulling beer. He said nothing.
‘And when we pay them, they’ll be drinking ale by the keg,’ Murtybeg added.
‘How many are you looking for?’ the man asked at length.
‘Hard to say,’ Murtybeg answered. ‘Two hundred to start. What do you think Johnny?’
Roughneen nodded his head.
‘Oh, and one other thing,’ Murtybeg added. ‘Mayo men only. That’s all we’d be wanting.’
‘I understand,’ the barman said. ‘And, by George, there’s enough of them around.’
Murtybeg thought he detected a hint of contempt in his voice.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Most from the west of the county. And that’s most important too. We’re only looking for fellows from the far west. Erris, Achill, the Killaries and Partry. Nowhere else. Here, I’ll write them out…’
‘No need. We’ve heard enough talk of Erris and the rest of them. Dirt poor too.’
‘You know what we’re talking about, so,’ Roughneen said. ‘You’re well-informed…’
‘For an Englishman, you mean.’
‘Well…yes.’
‘We have to know our customers. And near half of them are Irish, Mayo or Sligo, as they never cease telling me. They drink our beer, so I listen. But enough of that. What next?’
‘What we need now,’ Murtybeg said, ‘is one clean table, two chairs, two pens and a bottle of ink.’
‘Fair enough, but first, how much are you offering to pay them?’
‘A shilling a day.’
‘A shilling!’
‘Do you think we should offer less,’ Murtybeg said.
‘No, no,’ the barman said. ‘It’s just…’
‘It’s just nothing,’ Murtybeg answered. ‘We’re offering full board and lodgings too. Now if you just start telling some of the fellows around the bar, we’ll see what happens. Tell them they can tell their friends too.’
The tables and chairs were set up, as Murtybeg and Roughneen spoke to the drinking men at the bar.
Response was rapid.
Soon there was a long line of men winding out the door and along the street. Progress was painfully slow, though. For each man, Murtybeg or Roughneen wrote down a name and address, and then gave each a docket with a name on it.
Soon the bar was crowded. Murtybeg called the barman over.
‘I know you’re busy selling beer, but do you know anyone here can read and write? We’re getting behind on this.’
‘My sons. They’re well able.’
He brought over two young men, fifteen or sixteen years old, Murtybeg guessed. They sat down beside Murtybeg and Roughneen, and began to write out dockets for those who could speak some English. When questions were asked of them in Irish, they referred to Murtybeg or Roughneen, but most of the time the signing-on proceeded without any break.
Murtybeg was startled when three women joined the line. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in Irish, ‘no women.’
‘They always take women on the roadworks,’ one of them said. ‘Back in Mayo…’
‘This isn’t Mayo.’
The women left.
‘I thought you said it was Mayo,’ Roughneen whispered. ‘Sure you were only joking at me.’
‘Arra what,’ Murtybeg replied. ‘We might be paying little, but it’s not famine relief. Now just keep working.’
After some time, he stopped. ‘How many left to two hundred, do you think, Johnny?’
Roughneen did a quick count. ‘About fifty.’
Murtybeg walked along the line from the desk, and out to the street, counting. When he came to fifty, he stopped.
‘No more needed,’ he said.
There were protests, but Murtybeg stood his ground. ‘Two hundred is all we need. There’s no point in staying here.’
Afterwards, Murtybeg and Roughneen found an inn
close to the Colne extension, and stayed there for the night. Next morning, he left Roughneen with a draft for fifty pounds, drawn on the Manchester & Salford Bank.
‘I’m leaving you in control now, Johnny,’ he said. ‘God knows; you’ll have lots of work to do now. In the meantime, I’ll just be heading over to Leeds to see how mother and father are getting on. The rest of Gilligan’s gang too.’
‘That mightn’t be a bad idea,’ Roughneen said. ‘We might get some notion of the kind of fellows we’ll be up against back here in Bradford when the Leeds & Thirsk closes.
*
Murtybeg walked to the Leeds & Bradford Railway Station. Roughneen had been right, the sheer stink of Bradford was disgusting. Everywhere he went, sullen people watched him. Once he heard a woman point him out.
‘That’s the man. That’s Ryan.’
But he knew he was safe. He would not be attacked. Bradford was under military occupation, with soldiers everywhere.
He reached the station and took a train for the short journey to Leeds. Once again, he walked out the Leeds & Thirsk line to Bramhope, and found the Gilligan gang.
Doyle put his pick down, as he spotted him.
‘It’s Murtybeg!’ he said.
Gilligan walked across.
‘By God, you’re becoming a common enough caller.’
‘Why not. I was just over in Bradford; thought I’d come across and say hello.’
‘How’s it with Bradford, then?’ Doyle asked.
‘Going well.’
‘When will you be enlisting men?’ Gilligan asked.
‘We already have. But don’t worry, lads, the work isn’t for the likes of you. We’re only paying a shilling a day.’
‘A shilling a day!’ Gilligan echoed.
‘The same as always. But there’ll be plenty enough contracts around Bradford. You know that as well as I do.’
‘Won’t be none worthwhile,’ Doyle said. ‘Not if Edwardes & Ryan are undercutting all the navvy contractors around.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that, neither. You’re ten times stronger than any of our fellows, the whole lot of you. Like I said, there’s plenty of other contracts, and the Mackenzie one is the only one we have. Or are likely to have, for that matter.’
‘And are you using Mayo men, as before?’ Gilligan asked.
‘We are.’
‘Straight off the boat at Liverpool?’
‘No need. There’s thousands of Mayo men in Bradford. Tens of thousands of them.’
‘Yes,’ said Gilligan, after a pause. ‘I’d heard of that right enough. Kirkgate, Broomfields and around, isn’t that it? None of us fellows would ever go in there. Rough places, I believe.’
‘Rough enough,’ Murtybeg said. ‘I wouldn’t worry though; you’d be safe enough. The military have it under martial law after the riots last month. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word with my father. Any idea where he is?’
‘Back in the boarding house, working. You know the way?’
‘I do.’
Murtybeg continued down the line towards Bramhope. He could see, as the newspapers had said, that the Bramhope Leeds section was coming to an end. Bright, parallel rails snaked over parallel wooden sleepers for most of the distance. Navvies were still working on one siding, though even here the sleepers were already bedded in, and rails were being carried to finish the works.
He knocked on the door of the boarding house, and was brought into the parlour where Murty was working at the table. He looked up, astonished.
‘Murteen. Here again, so soon?’
‘I was over in Bradford. Sure it’s no distance. But before anything else, tell me, how’s ma?’
‘Oh, you know, the same as ever. She’s up in the bedroom for now. Danny’s death shocked her something terrible.’
‘Yes, I can understand that. But what can we do?’
‘There’s only the one thing for it. I’ll have to get her out working.’
‘Working! But sure there wouldn’t be much around here.’
‘No, over in Bradford, I’m thinking. The lads are talking of contracts there when our work on the Leeds & Thirsk ends. I know there’s many a mill in Bradford, and from all we hear, they’re taking on workers.’
‘Yes,’ Murtybeg said. ‘They had a bad crash last year, the mills did, but I understand they’re doing very well now.’
Murty put down his pen and rubbed his eyes.
‘So tell me, Murteen, how’s business with you fellows?’
‘Well,’ Murtybeg said, ‘the business is going well, there’s no doubt about that.’
‘Still working the same way, paying the workers nothing?’
‘Not quite nothing, Pa, but little enough you might say. Still, we’re keeping those fellows alive. We feed them well.’
‘That’s the way you might think of it Murteen, but no matter how much you feed them, the fever kills them at a terrible rate. But enough about that. How do you find working with this Irene woman? Or have you sacked her already?’
‘I’m afraid not, Pa. In fact, if there is any question of sacking, it’s me that might be sacked.’
‘Sacked! You! But how…? Who sacked you?’
‘Irene.’
‘But she couldn’t. She doesn’t own the business.’
‘Oh yes, she does. She’s the one that owns Edwardes & Ryan.’
Murty stared at him, wide-eyed.
‘But how can that be?’
‘Simple. There’s this notion they have here of a common-law wife. She maintains that because she lived with Danny, she was his wife under common-law, whether they were married or not, and so she inherits the lot.’
‘But that’s nonsense. She’s still not his wife.’
‘She’s not, but she has the same rights.’
‘But that’s mad.’
‘Oh, it’s common enough over here,’ Murtybeg said. ‘And sure didn’t we have it in Mayo for long enough. How many people in Mayo were married proper in your grandfather’s time, do you think? And they took over their farms, no problem. It was only the landlords and the like had to get married, and that was all because they had so much money and land. No, I can see the point. And you know, the worst about it is this. If she hadn’t been living with Danny as husband and wife, the family would have gotten Edwardes & Ryan direct.’
‘The family!’
‘You, me and ma,’ Murtybeg said. ‘Yes, pa, we’re the ones who would have owned the business. We’d be wealthy now. No need for you or ma to work either way.’
Murty looked at him, half in horror.
‘And make money out of the sweat of poor starving Mayomen? Damn it to hell, Murteen, how could I do that.’
Before leaving, Murty brought Murtybeg up to the bedroom. They opened the door.
‘She’s still asleep,’ Murty said.
Murtybeg crossed the room and kissed Aileen on the forehead.
Then he left Bramhope and travelled back through Leeds, Bradford and Manchester to Stockport.
*
Next day, he and Irene spoke for hours about the contracts with the East Lancashire, the Colne Extension and the smaller contracts they held. She was even courteous, but still treated Murtybeg as an employee, even if a senior one.
In many ways, it was a bizarre situation, as if both sides were held in check by the other, and neither could move.
Still he mulled the matter. He began to think that he was accepting the Rothwell opinion on common-law marriage. Was he afraid, perhaps, of the legal profession? One way or another, he would have to seek professional assistance. But could he afford it?
If the expenses were handled through Edwardes & Ryan, there would have been no problem. But as the family no longer owned Edwardes & Ryan, there was no way he could do that. Irene certainly would not permit it. And his own cash at bank would not stretch to legal fees.
One morning, he read through the Manchester Times. There were references to various legal cases, and names of solicitors in
Manchester. These he discounted – a firm of solicitors in the centre of the city could be quite expensive and, in any case, that was where Rothwells were based, and they might talk. Another problem was that he had no idea of what other legal arrangements Irene might have had. Did she have other contacts in Manchester? Or Stockport? He began to look further afield.
At last, he found what he wanted, when he saw a reference to a solicitor in Oldham. His name was Abraham Sternberg. He took a note of the address and the following day, he took the train to Oldham.
He found the address easily enough and knocked. An elderly woman answered the door.
‘I’m looking for Abraham Sternberg,’ he said.
She ushered him into a room with a table and six chairs. ‘A moment please.’
A minute later, the door opened.
‘Abraham Sternberg’s the name. I’m told there’s someone looking for me.’
‘Murtybeg Ryan is my name. I don’t know if you can help me, but I have a legal problem, and I’m looking for some kind of lawyer.’
‘Fair enough, let’s be seated.’
Murtybeg sat and began to outline the situation with Edwardes & Ryan. He noticed that Sternberg had heard of the business, though, with Danny’s reputation, he was not sure if that was a good point or a bad one. When he was finished with the explanations, he passed the letter from Rothwells over to Sternberg.
‘In confidence,’ he said.
‘Of course,’ Sternberg replied. He glanced through the letter, and returned it to Murtybeg.
‘I might be able to help you,’ he said, ‘but not in the way you might expect. First of all, I and my partner, Mr. Wolfson, are conveyancing solicitors. We specialise in the legal aspects of property transfers.’
‘I see,’ Murtybeg said. ‘So there is no way you can help me?’
‘Can I ask you, Mr. Ryan, if a case were to be taken against Miss Miller and you lost, what would be your financial circumstances personally?’
‘Not very good.’
Murtybeg was becoming more depressed as the meeting went on.
‘Yes,’ Sternberg said, ‘that’s exactly what I thought. And the other point is, what you need is a barrister. Solicitors cannot take actions in the higher courts. Even we must be represented by a barrister at this level. But I can tell you, barristers do not come cheap. Solicitors are cheaper, but even so, anyone on Rothwells’ level would be expensive. Miss Miller is hardly stinting on expense.’