‘Hurry up, Ben, we’ll be late,’ called Granny from downstairs. Transferring his favourite conker into the pocket of his good trousers, Ben clumped down the stairs.
In the hall, ready for their annual Christmas Eve visit to Uncle Matt’s, the family was waiting, all dickied up: Dad, only just back from Jacobs’ biscuit factory’s annual Christmas dinner with his workmates, ‘with a few drinks on him’, in Granny’s words, uncomfortable in a white shirt and stiff collar; a scrubbed-looking Sean, hair slicked down with water; and Granny, her best shawl draped over layers of clothes, her button boots shining, a paisley-patterned scarf knotted around her wispy hair.
They were all acutely aware of the absence of Mam, in her velvet-collared coat – well past its best, as she always said wryly – who at this point would have inspected each of them with an approving word, before linking her arm in Dad’s as they set off.
As they trooped out into the street Ben glanced at Number 17, but to his relief there was no one to be seen. It was bad enough being a secret Shabbos goy, but since Dad had sent back the cake he felt even more uncomfortable in the Goldens’ house.
The street was alive with the shouts of children playing in the crisp wintry sunshine while mothers and sisters were busy with Christmas preparations. Two small girls twirled dizzily on a rope wound around a lamp post.
Ben stopped to talk to Smiler, sitting on the granite kerb trying to mend the ragged inner tube of his ancient bike. Inner tubes, along with tyres, were hard to find nowadays. ‘You can only get them on the black market,’ Sean told Smiler airily. ‘Cost you a small fortune, though.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Smuggled over the border from the North.’
‘Smuggled?’ Smiler was impressed.
‘Sure,’ said Sean, with a superior air. ‘And there’s people from the North comin’ down here buying clothes to beat the rationing.’
‘How d’you know?’ asked Ben. Since Sean had joined the ARP, he seemed to know everything.
Sean grinned. ‘Didn’t you hear about the fella who came down to Dublin in an oul’ suit, bought a new one in Guiney’s, and on the train back up he went to the jacks to change? He threw the old suit out the window so he wouldn’t be caught with two, opened up the parcel from Guiney’s’ – Sean paused for dramatic effect – ‘and then didn’t yer man find that they’d left out the trousers!’ He was laughing so much at his own joke he had to be called twice by his impatient father.
Further down the street a friend of Mam’s came over to ask, ‘How’s herself?’
‘Getting on,’ said Granny, as she always said when asked this question.
Sean ran off to chat to Joey Woolfson, and a neighbour who worked with Dad stopped to remind him about the trade union protest after Christmas. ‘Bring the young fellas,’ he advised. ‘Never too soon to learn to stand together.’
***
Ben usually enjoyed visiting Uncle Matt and jolly Auntie Bridie, who wore bright red lipstick and whose blond hair was thought – disapprovingly by Granny – to have been helped by a bottle of hair-bleach. Apart from that, Bridie was famous for her baking. She owned and ran a successful cake shop and could always be relied on to bring along delicious cakes for every occasion, even during the war.
Since their son Paddy had left, Ben called in more often after school to read the papers to his uncle, who followed the war news avidly. Having volunteered and been wounded in the Spanish Civil War, he reacted furiously against Hitler, and the Nazis and Fascists in Europe, and also the Blueshirts and other home-grown Nazi sympathisers in Ireland.
But today’s visit, without their mother, had an air of sadness, the sheen of brightness and fun dulled and flat, even though Uncle Matt, cheerful and balding, welcomed them to the already full house with cups of Cream Soda from the Taylor Keith factory where he used to work, a treat that tasted, he always told them, like velvet on the tongue. Clay pipe in hand, he passed around bottles of Guinness to Dad and the other men, and small glasses of port for the women. Auntie Bridie and Granny anxiously exchanged news of Mam and Paddy. Then Uncle Matt shepherded the boys upstairs for the ritual visit to his beloved pet birds.
Mounting the stairs they could hear the familiar chirruping and twittering, like an insistent dawn chorus. Sean, who hated birds, put his nose into the back bedroom, grimaced, and backed off downstairs. But Ben, always charmed by the exotic room his uncle had created in the ordinary little house, went in, despite the smell.
An entire wall was lined with wooden cages, handmade by Uncle Matt before his sight dimmed. Hopping from floor to perch, the linnets, canaries and goldfinches warbled and trilled, their glossy plumage glowing green and golden in the rays of sunlight streaking in through the window.
Ben had once asked his uncle if it wasn’t cruel to imprison them in cages.
‘Well, people are always saying that – your auntie and Paddy included,’ he replied. ‘But I let them out in the room sometimes. Anyway, look at them, lad – what do you think?’
And indeed, whenever Ben saw them they were preening or singing or splashing in a saucer of water, or pecking greedily at their special food, thistledown – the feathery down and the seeds from thistles gathered for two pence a sack by the local children from the fields further along the canal, a job the younger children loved. Ben often did it too in the summer holidays.
***
When Ben came downstairs, sandwiches of thick bread filled with tinned salmon, potted meat and egg were being served. In the kitchen children were playing jacks and marbles, and Sean and the older ones were greedily surveying the sherry trifle, about to be borne in proudly by Auntie Bridie in her precious cut-glass bowl. Ben’s mouth watered at the sight of this sweet concoction of sherry-soaked sponge, red jelly, custard and cream – no red cherries, though, complained Auntie Bridie, not since the war had begun.
By this time the neat front parlour, crammed with relations, friends and neighbours, resounded with talk and laughter. As the evening drew on, everyone did their party piece – a song or a recitation, or they played the mouth organ or the tinny, upright piano with its yellowing ivory keys. Uncle Matt, as always, belted out his favourite song, ‘I Dreamed I Saw Joe Hill Last Night’, and Granny and her friend Josie sang ‘Just a Song at Twilight’ in high, quavering voices. And later the crowd roared out the chorus of ‘A Nation Once Again’.
Ben recalled that as the night came to a close each year people would always beg his mother, slender in the floaty dress that he had watched her stitching: Marie, before you go, give us ‘She Moved Through the Fair’, and his mam would sing in her sweet, soaring voice, ‘… it will not be long, love, till our wedding day …’ bringing a tear to every eye while his father, smiling, watched her proudly.
***
The remains of the trifle arrived back in the kitchen and Ben and Sean and the others scraped the bowl clean. Through the doorway they could hear the clatter of cups and glasses, snatches of conversation and a few raised voices, fuelled by drink.
‘And now they want to outlaw strikes–’
‘The only way for us to fight for decent pay,’ someone interrupted heatedly.
‘Big Jim Larkin’ll tell ’em at the protest,’ said Uncle Matt firmly.
Then their Dad’s voice, slightly slurred. ‘And if any of these foreign refugees get in here, they’ll make it worse, taking our jobs …’
Ben listened carefully.
‘They say they’re refugees,’ a plump woman in a fluffy sweater said through a mouthful of cake, ‘but they could be spies!’
Her husband, a Guard, put down his pint. ‘We know there’s illegal refugees here in Dublin, so keep your eyes open.’ He lowered his voice. ‘The immigration fellas are after them – one’s a young girl.’
The party was winding down. But as people started getting up to leave, Ben heard Uncle Matt declare, ‘Chasing out the few poor sods who manage to get out of that Nazi hellhole – especially a young one – it’s no credit to us.’
In the kitchen, Ben an
d Sean exchanged glances as Dad wandered through, unsteadily, on his way out to the privy. Ben ran upstairs to get Granny, knitting and chatting with her friend Josie amid the birds, now silenced for the night with cloths over their cages. On the way down he told them what he’d heard about refugees.
‘Well, I can’t see that it’d harm us to have some new blood,’ said Granny. ‘Immigrants can help build up a country – look at America!’
‘But they might be spies,’ put in Josie. ‘You can’t be too careful.’
As they put on their coats in the hallway, Auntie Bridie appeared with a heap of sandwiches wrapped in paper. ‘Here, take these,’ she said, ‘they were only made fresh. Young fellas are always hungry.’ She added a hunk of Christmas cake. Dad, flushed and beery, flung his arms around her, and she planted a red, lipsticky kiss on his cheek.
Uncle Matt handed the boys their presents – pocket-money for both of them, and for Ben, whose birthday was at Christmas, a tartan-covered autograph book with ‘All my love to Ben’ already written in it in Mam’s familiar writing, though a little shaky, followed by a quote: ‘Never send to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.’ Uncle Matt murmured, ‘It’s from one of our Paddy’s schoolbooks that I showed her.’
‘That was a lovely party, so it was,’ said Granny.
‘It’s not the same without poor Marie,’ said Auntie Bridie softly, kissing them all. ‘Please God, she’ll be home soon.’
As they walked home, boots clattering on the frosty cobbles, Dad put a hand on Ben’s shoulder to steady himself. Unexpectedly, he ruffled Ben’s hair affectionately, just like he used to before Mam got sick and his angry black moods seemed to take over almost entirely.
9
News of the Refugee
The next week, Eddie, looking very excited, called around early to Martin Street, before Ben’s arrival on Saturday morning. When Hetty came downstairs, he silently beckoned her into the parlour. ‘I’ll follow you to the synagogue,’ she called to Ma, as Eddie closed the door softly behind them.
‘I’ve some news,’ he whispered. ‘You know that girl refugee who’s on the run? I’ve an idea where she is.’
‘Where? How did you find out? Can we …?’ Maybe, at last, they could actually do something to help, even rescue her.
‘Keep your voice down,’ muttered Eddie. ‘When Da came back from the Refugee Committee, I heard him tell Ma the immigration authorities might be on to her. Her visa’s run out, and she’s to be deported.’
‘What’s her name?’ demanded Hetty. ‘How old is she? D’you know her address?’
‘Hush,’ murmured Eddie. ‘I saw an address scribbled on Da’s desk – St Patrick’s Avenue or Square in Dalkey, no name though …’ He hesitated. ‘Da won’t like us interfering. I think the committee wants to find her and help–’
‘But they’ll take ages, with talk and meetings, and then it’ll be too late,’ Hetty argued. ‘Let’s go to Dalkey and find her ourselves.’ Increasingly excited, she went on, ‘Tomorrow after Hebrew class, it’s Mabel’s turn to mind Solly. We’ll say we want to get sea air–’
There was a sound from the living room. ‘What’s that?’ hissed Hetty. ‘I thought they’d all gone.’
Very quietly Eddie opened the door. Ben, with his back to them, was on his knees at the hearth, shovelling out the ash. When had he arrived? Eddie and Hetty exchanged anxious glances, but absorbed in his task he didn’t appear to have heard them. Still, they’d have to be careful.
When Ben finally rose and turned around, his eyes met Hetty’s accusing gaze. Then Hetty looked away and hurried upstairs. She was already annoyed with the Byrnes, though Zaida, surprisingly, had said there were worse things than sending back a cake. But, now, what if Ben had heard the secret?
Below she could hear Eddie chatting to Ben. When she descended they were talking about Eddie’s favourite football team, Shamrock Rovers, which was also Ben’s. ‘I go with my Da to their matches at Milltown sometimes–’ Eddie was saying, but Hetty interrupted. ‘We’re late,’ she told him, almost pushing him out the door.
Over her shoulder, Eddie called goodbye to Ben.
***
At the synagogue Hetty’s mind was not on her prayers. How had this girl got to Ireland – and to Dalkey? How must she feel, alone and on the run? If they found her, could they somehow shelter her in Martin Street?
Outside after the service all the talk among the young people, to Hetty’s disgust, was about the hop that evening after the Sabbath. Mabel, with her friend Rebecca, was in the middle of a crowd of girls who twittered like surprised birds when Michael and a couple of his friends came over. Michael had invited Mabel to the hop and she was ecstatic.
Hetty stood stony-faced waiting for her parents and Zaida, with only faithful Gertie beside her. ‘I’d love to go to the hop, wouldn’t you?’ whispered Gertie. But Hetty’s mind was on how soon she could talk privately to Eddie about Dalkey. Knowing Hetty as she did, Gertie didn’t expect an answer.
That evening the excitement mounted at Number 17. Mabel was finally decked out in the blue dress, complete with ribbons, frills and lace, pronounced ‘beautiful’ by her parents and ‘shayn’ – the Yiddish equivalent – by Bobba and Zaida. Yuk! was Hetty’s silent comment, but no one asked her opinion.
Mabel’s friends Carmel and Maureen called round to see her dressed up, and upstairs in the bedroom Carmel surreptitiously offered her a tiny box of lip rouge to put on when she got to the hop, which she’d have to rub off before she got home in case Da noticed.
Then Michael arrived, with a flower in his buttonhole and a box of Mackintosh’s Double Centre Chocolate Toffee Assortment for Mabel. Da shook his hand and quickly disappeared upstairs, leaving Ma trying to make conversation. Mabel blushed and giggled; everyone except Hetty kept smiling, and Michael patted his waved hair.
Hetty finally escaped to the kitchen where she fed Solly chicken soup and mashed potato, most of which he happily dribbled out again.
When Gertie arrived, Hetty rushed her up to the bedroom before she could have a proper look at Mabel’s dress. Gertie was disappointed. ‘I came over to see them off.’
‘See them off?’ snorted Hetty. ‘They’re not getting married!’
‘Not yet,’ Gertie put in coyly.
‘Come on,’ said Hetty, ‘let’s have a game of rummy.’
‘Honestly, Hetty!’ Gertie’s pretty face was puzzled as Hetty dealt the cards. ‘I don’t think you have a romantic bone in your body.’
‘Just as well,’ retorted Hetty. ‘Mabel’s romantic enough for both of us.’
But to please Gertie, they went downstairs and as the couple left, Hetty, catching Ma’s eye, forced a smile and mumbled through gritted teeth, ‘Have a nice time.’
Gertie went home too, and as the front door shut behind them all Hetty heaved an exaggerated sigh of relief and waited impatiently till Eddie arrived to plan their day by the sea.
10
The Spy
But Ben had overheard the discussion about the refugee. On that damp, chilly Saturday morning as he’d started on the fire, glad he was wearing Sean’s old Aran jumper under his thin jacket, he’d heard sounds from the parlour. Surely the family had gone to the synagogue? Then he recognised the voices of Hetty and Eddie, lowered but still audible through the thin wooden door.
They were discussing a refugee on the run from police and immigration authorities, and making plans to search for her in Dalkey and hide her in Portobello! As he listened, Ben’s mind flashed back to the talk of spies at Uncle Matt’s at Christmas. But surely this girl couldn’t be a spy?
The door opened suddenly. Without turning round, Ben carefully hung the poker and tongs back on the brass stand. After a few seconds the fire flamed up and he rose, chatted to Eddie, then took his payment from the mantelpiece and turned to leave.
For a second his eyes met Hetty’s before she headed upstairs. Her gaze was fierce and determined and at first he thought she suspected him, but then
he recognised that passionate expression – just like with the puppies, he recalled, except this time she was focused on saving the refugee. He thought, Hetty’s on the warpath again!
***
As Ben had left, mulling over what he’d overheard, he spotted Sean in the street outside, wearing his ARP armband over his raincoat, a knapsack slung over the handlebars of his bike. Ben, his heart sinking, tried to stroll past casually, but Sean enquired loudly, ‘What were you up to in there? Dad’ll be hopping mad.’
To give himself time, Ben said, ‘Where’re you off to?’
‘ARP exercises,’ said Sean importantly. ‘We’ve been drafted to help cut turf up in the bogs in the Dublin Mountains.’ He got on his bike. ‘Granny made me sandwiches and I took some of your comics, Magnet and Gem. We’re meeting up the Ballyboden Road.’
If Ben could keep him talking Sean might forget what he’d seen. ‘How long for? What about work?’
‘I’ve a week’s leave,’ said Sean shortly, ‘and you’d better tell me what you’re up to.’
Even though Dad, after his most recent visit to the sanatorium, had seemed sadder but also a little softer and kinder, Ben knew he’d be in real trouble if Sean revealed that he was working for the Goldens.
‘Spit it out, Specky,’ jeered Sean. ‘You look like a fish on a hook.’
Reluctant and fearful, Ben gabbled out the story – the cost of the broken window, the job as Shabbos goy, the money to help Mam …
At first Sean, astonished, said, ‘C’mon, you’re coddin’ me!’ And to Ben’s surprise, his brother, for a moment, looked at him in a different way, almost with – could it be respect?
Sean said defensively, ‘I give me wages to Granny – some of that’s for Mam too, y’know.’ He added, curious, jerking his head towards Number 17, ‘Anyways, what’s it like in there? I mean, do they talk to you?’
17 Martin Street Page 6