by Peter Sirr
His impromptu performance seemed to put Kavanagh in better humour and he announced that he was now ready to encounter the world again. He had once had, he told James, the best dancing school in the city, and he had taught the better half of the city how to dance before he fell on evil times. He didn’t explain to James what brought the evil times, but James could guess as he watched Kavanagh take a swig from a bottle of gin. The dancing master pulled on his tattered wig and his hat, grabbed his cane and, with mock courtesy, took his leave.
‘What should I do?’ James asked as Kavanagh was leaving.
‘My lord should do as he pleases,’ the dancing master laughed, in a tone that made it clear that he really didn’t care whether James lived or died.
Left to himself, James took stock of his new surroundings and his new position. Was this to be his new life, hidden away in a rancid garret? The walls and the poor furniture looked back at him blankly. James felt a tide of panic wash through his body. He must get some air. He went down the stairs at a run, pausing on the landing where there was the room without a door. A man sat at a table tapping at the side of a shoe. Patches of leather were spread beside him on the table, and several ragged young children sat around listlessly. The shoemaker looked up sharply as James stood outside.
‘Who might you be?’
James had to think for a moment, as if this new life had robbed him of himself. ‘James Lovett.’
‘Well, James Lovett, what brings you to Coles Alley? You don’t look as if you’re related to the dancing master.’
‘I’m not.’
The shoemaker invited him in and waved to an empty seat at the table. ‘I’ll warrant he doesn’t have much more than gin in that room. You’re hungry?’
James was starving. The shoemaker’s wife brought him a bowl of broth. As James ate, the shoemaker cast a critical eye at his feet. James shifted uncomfortably under the gaze.
‘Those are not the shoes of a street boy, are they, James Lovett?’
‘They are now,’ James replied. ‘Since that is what I’ve become.’
Five
A Terrible Discovery
As often as he could, James made his way out of the Liberties and back into the old city to seek out Harry down by the Custom House dock. If Harry was busy, James contented himself with watching his friend at work, smiling at the easy way Harry had with his customers, chatting away with them, sharing the news of the city.
Harry sat on his three-legged stool and the men would appear as if out of nowhere and place a foot on his lap. Harry would take his old knife – his spudd, he called it – and scrape off the dirt. Then he would fish out a mouldy old wig and wipe the boot with it. Finally it would be time for the polish, a mixture of lampblack and eggs, which Harry would ladle on with a paintbrush. The mix would dry quickly, leaving the boot looking as if it just been bought, but if you smelled the boot before it was completely dry, you’d nearly faint with the stink of rotten eggs.
‘You know, Jim,’ Harry said to him later as they leaned against the arch that gave onto the dock, ‘I don’t think you should lie down so easily under your burden.’
‘What do you mean?’ James asked.
‘Just look at you. You’re getting shabbier every day. Next time you come here someone might hold up his boot to you and expect you to polish it.’
‘What am I supposed to do?
‘Everyone knows where you belong. Everyone knows whose son you are. Have you ever gone back to the house?’
Since the day that Miss Deakin delivered him to his new life, James had never thought about returning. He had put the house out of his thoughts, which had been easier than he had expected. So much else was happening, his old life had shrunk back into a small corner at the back of his mind. If he kept it there, maybe the pain would shrink too, and he could learn to face whatever came his way. Yet he sometimes thought of his father, and then he would drift back to the time when they had lived in the house in Wexford, when his mother was still there, before the fighting started, before his mother was driven out and they came to the house in Dublin. He even imagined that his father still looked out for him in some strange and secretive way, asking about him, perhaps following him in disguise or looking out from a tavern or coffee house doorway as James passed in and out of the old city. He felt sure he had seen his father once or twice, in the distance and not very clearly but still unmistakably him. Maybe he wasn’t completely abandoned; maybe there was a path back to the affections of his father.
Harry interrupted this thoughts. ‘Have you really never gone back?’
‘No,’ James said.
‘Well then, go, find out what’s happening. Maybe your father has changed his mind.’
James hesitated. The word ‘father’ produced a strange sensation in him, a kind of sickening, in which fear and sorrow were the main ingredients. Was it really possible that there might be a way back to his old life? It had not been a happy life, but at least he knew where the next meal was coming from and where he would lay his head at night.
‘Only if you come with me,’ he said finally.
Later that evening, after Harry had finished his work for the day, the two boys crossed the river and made their way towards James’s father’s house. The streets were dark and lifeless, with just the occasional carriage trundling past. James grew more agitated the closer he came to his old home. He had no clear idea of what he would do when he got there, and was beginning to regret the impulse to go back. It did not feel as if he was coming home, but more like he was entering a dark cave full of hidden danger. He felt like Hansel following the bright stones back to the house where no welcome was waiting. He had to force himself onward. At last they arrived in the street. There was a sudden flurry of noise and activity as the coach from Newry pulled in and the passengers descended as the coachman set down their luggage. Harry and James hid in the shadows until the last passenger had gone, then James walked on the other side of the street, glancing across at the terrace where his father’s house was. As he approached his old home James suddenly started. A black wreath hung on the front door. James’s heart thumped uncontrollably. He walked past the house, then turned on his heel and went back again. It was the right house, and the wreath was still there.
‘Looks like somebody has died,’ Harry said.
James stood rooted to the pavement. In the upstairs windows he could see the glow of candles, but he couldn’t make out any figures. He couldn’t bring himself to knock on the front door.
‘We’ll go round the back,’ he whispered to Harry, and led him to the laneway at the back at the houses until they came in by the stable and crept up to the kitchen window.
Mrs Rudge and Smeadie were sitting down to their supper at the table and James rapped on the windowpane to attract their attention. Both looked up at once, and James watched the colour drain from Mrs Rudge’s face as she looked at him. After some hesitation, Smeadie opened the door a crack and hissed, ‘What do you want?’ He looked in distaste at Harry.
‘Smeadie, it’s me,’ James said. ‘And Harry is with me. Let us in, can’t you?’
‘It’s more than my job’s worth to let you in, sir.’ Smeadie looked embarrassed by his confession, but he didn’t open the door any further.
Then they heard Mrs Rudge’s firm voice behind him. ‘Let them in.’
Reluctantly, Smeadie admitted the two boys. Mrs Rudge took one look at them and sat them down at the table, without a word, then produced two bowls of steaming food and commanded them to eat. After they had swallowed a few mouthfuls, James asked about the black wreath he had seen on the door.
Smeadie and Mrs Rudge looked at each other awkwardly. Finally Mrs Rudge spoke. ‘It’s given out that you died, master. The wreath is for you.’
James almost choked on his stew. ‘Dead? How can I be dead? Look at me!’
Smeadie gazed at him, as if not quite convinced that he was real and not a ghost returned to cause trouble for his master. ‘His lordship was greatly dis
tressed,’ he said. ‘It was said that you had drowned in the river in a most unfortunate accident.’ He said this in such a way that James felt he had inconvenienced the household by not having the grace to perish quietly.
‘I never believed it meself,’ Mrs Rudge said. ‘I always thought your going away was her doing, and since no body was ever produced I never believed you had gone to your reward.’
‘Was there a … funeral?’ James asked, hardly daring to utter the word.
‘Aye, there was,’ said Smeadie, enlivened by the memory. He described it in some detail and with unmistakable relish: the solemn procession, the onlookers, the grave voice of the archbishop in the cathedral, the tears of Miss Deakin and his father.
‘Oh be quiet man, can’t you!’ Mrs Rudge interrupted, irritated. ‘Young James doesn’t need to hear all that.’
‘How shall a dead man live?’ asked Harry, who had been sitting quietly, eating and listening. His question was met with silence. But James wasn’t defeated yet.
‘It’s a trick. They know I am alive. They know where I am.’ He stopped suddenly, as if he had just realised something.
‘The last thing they’ll want is you turning up now,’ Smeadie said.
‘He’s right,’ Harry said. ‘You’re in great danger now you’re … dead. It would suit them very well to have the reality match the lie.’
‘You must never come back here,’ Mrs Rudge said.
‘Can we trust you not to say anything?’ Harry suddenly asked Smeadie.
‘How dare you, you little get!’ Smeadie spat back.
‘He won’t say anything, don’t fret,’ Mrs Rudge said. ‘But you must take great care, Master James. Don’t go down any dark alleys at night. Keep your wits about you and be careful who you talk to, and don’t let anyone know who you are.’
Everyone knows who I am already, James thought to himself. I can’t remove myself from their knowledge without destroying half the city.
He could see that Smeadie and Mrs Rudge were growing more uncomfortable the longer the visit lasted, so he got up from the table, thanked them and took his leave, and he and Harry slipped back down the lane and down by quiet streets towards the river.
Six
The Faction Fighter
It’s hard to keep cheerful when you’re dead. From the night of the black wreath onwards, James’s life seemed to spiral downwards as if, being thought dead, the city had decided to wash its hands of him and no longer offer him any protection. But he wasn’t dead, James told himself, even if there were those who wished it. For the first time in his life James realised what it meant to have enemies, deadly enemies who wished him harm. After they left the house, Harry and he kept clear of the main streets and avoided the bridge, crossing the river by ferry instead and making their way circuitously westwards.
‘You can’t go back to the dancing master’s,’ Harry insisted. ‘He’d sell you for a quart of gin.’
‘But where can I go?’ James asked.
Harry indicated with his thumb a window at the top of a ramshackle house. James followed Harry upstairs to a garret not unlike the dancing master’s but a good deal smaller. Harry’s mother, a frail woman with a heavily lined face, and his two younger sisters were seated on the floor. There was no furniture that James could see.
‘Who’s this?’ Harry’s mother asked gruffly. ‘And what’s he doing here?’
‘It’s James, Lord Dunmain’s boy,’ Harry began explaining.
‘Oh la deh da,’ one of the girls piped up, suddenly interested.
‘Spare some change, m’lud,’ the other added.
‘Don’t mind them,’ said Harry. ‘He’s in trouble, that’s why he’s here. They buried him in Christchurch last week.’
‘That’s what I call trouble,’ the first sister grinned.
‘Doesn’t look too bad for a corpse, does he?’ said the other.
‘Dead or alive, he can’t stay here,’ Harry’s mother was adamant. ‘We don’t keep a hotel here, your honour.’
Harry prevailed on his mother to let James stay for that night, but as soon as it was light, James rose and left, walking out into the still sleeping city. He felt a wave of hopelessness wash over him as he walked down the hill towards the river with no particular purpose in mind. How could his father have abandoned him so utterly? How could he have had the heart to attend his funeral service and accept the condolences of his friends and acquaintances as if his son were really dead? There could be no way back now; there was nowhere else for James to go. This was life now – this grey morning, these streets and whatever happened in them.
In the days that followed James learned the life of a street boy, prowling around the city from need to need. Hunger drove him towards the markets, hoping for a discarded hunk of bread or a stray piece of fruit. He earned the curses of the market women and, often, a hail of stones from the other boys who haunted the streets and whose territory he was encroaching on. Sometimes a milk woman might take pity on him and give him a ladle of milk, or a baker might toss him a loaf that was on its way to becoming a brick. He learned to live with constant hunger, and sleep with half an eye open. The nights were dangerous, as anyone sleeping in an exposed place was liable to attack by passing footpads or beggars, and James sought out the shelter of the Phoenix Park. Even here he had to be careful, as many criminals also found its seclusion irresistible. Under cover of darkness, he would move slowly from tree to tree until he found a spot where he could hear no voices or nothing that sounded like human footsteps in the undergrowth. Only when he had had sat for a long time in silence did he eventually allow sleep to take hold.
He often went to see Harry at his pitch. Sometimes, Harry would lend him his spudd, polish and wig and let him tout for customers. Some of his first customers complained that he wasn’t quick enough and one or two clouted him about his ears for sloppy work, but he soon improved, and the pennies he got allowed him to buy bread and fruit. There was one brutish client James would not forget quickly. The man was well dressed, a nobleman of some kind, with straggly black hair and narrow eyes and a look of permanent disdain etched on his features. He looked like someone born to be cruel. He thrust his boot into James’s lap as if he meant to injure him and, as he worked, James could feel the man’s merciless eyes boring into him. The boots were of the best leather and didn’t need much work, but the man was quick to find fault.
‘Call yourself a shoeblack, you dirty little caffler. I’ll blacken your eye for you!’ He pulled his boot away and walked off, throwing a coin over his shoulder as he left, causing it to land right in the middle of a filthy puddle.
James felt himself sinking in this life. Every day he seemed to be filthier, more degraded. What would Master Naughton think of him now? He must find of way of getting back to the school, or he would live and die on the streets like so many of the beggar boys he saw every day. But how? When your life was changed for the worse, there didn’t seem to be an easy way to change it back again. He was thinking these dark thoughts one morning as he stood on the quays watching the murky waters, when he became aware of a sudden commotion in the streets that led down to the river. He heard drums, whistles, and rhythmic chanting, and then suddenly they appeared, a long line of men bearing sticks and knives, including some men James recognised from his days with the dancing master. They were dressed in their work clothes: tailors, weavers, buckle-makers, farriers, but their faces seemed to belong to different men: they were hard and angry, set to a common purpose. These were the Liberty Boys, James realised, one of the city’s most feared gangs, fired up now and spoiling for a fight.
‘Up the Liberty Boys!’ some shouted, and the chant was taken up by the whole company. Without knowing exactly how it happened, James suddenly found himself caught up in the rush and swept along the quays, part of a menacing column of violent intent whose cause was mysterious to him, but to which he seemed, now, to belong. The anger that been welling up inside him for many weeks, as his life plunged remorselessly into the d
epths of the city, seemed to flow out of him all of a sudden, matching itself with the mood of the rushing crowd. As well as anger, there was a current of pure exhilaration. He was, now, a Liberty Boy, a fully functioning member of this streaming mass of clubs and knives and bloodthirsty howls. Whatever their purpose was, it was now his too and he was glad to be part of it.
‘Come on, ye Liberty Boys!’ He heard a strong voice raise itself out from the mass, and realised it was his.
He now became aware of another commotion, a low rumbling undercurrent as if the very streets were responding to the noise of the Liberty Boys. When he looked ahead, he could see that this was in a way the case, except that the noise was coming not from the streets but from a throng of butchers, all in aprons, brandishing cleavers and milling around one of the bridges in large numbers. Many of them also had stones, and these began to rain on the Liberty Boys.
James was frightened now, and wished he hadn’t shouted out. He realised that the purpose he was caught up in was a bitter fight with these strong, armed and vicious-looking butchers. The Ormond Boys! Another gang, Catholics this time, and mortal enemies of the Protestant Liberty Boys. He was about to enter a battle between the most notorious factions in the city. He noticed that they seemed to have the city to themselves; all the shops were shuttered, the windows closed, and the stalls taken in from the street. There were no Charlies or redcoats to be seen. The streets were a battleground, deserted by everyone except the fighters. Stones landed on the column James was in; the man beside him screamed suddenly, his face an ugly mess of blood. Someone pulled him roughly to one side, and he lay on the quayside moaning. James’s mouth was dry. Instinctively, he ducked as more missiles landed beside him. Men from behind him rushed forward, pushing him out of the way, and attacked the butchers head on with clubs, fists and knives. Screams tore at the air, blood spurted from legs, arms, faces. The bridge was a melee of bodies locked in combat. James could see white-aproned reinforcements coming from the direction of the Ormond Market. He wondered for a second if he would live to see the end of this day. He had no weapon to protect himself with and, although he had been happy to join the seething column of marchers, he had no particular desire to fling stones at the butchers on the bridge.