Meanwhile Tomas was half way across the bridge. His shouts brought other people running. A uniformed soldier started down the towpath, with three other men trailing behind. The boy who clambered out of the canal ran away, followed by the lad with the cracked shin. The bloody nosed youth panted after them, with the fourth boy on his heels. But Sean still pinned one enemy to the ground.
"Sean!" Tomas gasped, "Sean, it's all right now."
Sean took no notice. His left hand gripped a handful of the boy's hair, while his right fist hammered again and again into the boy's face.
"Sean!" Maureen wailed, on her knees next to him.
It did no good. Sean's white face was a twisted mask of fury.
"Give over boy," shouted the soldier, pulling at Sean's shoulders. Sean shrugged him away.
Another man burst past Tomas. "For God's sake! Stop him!"
It took four men to pull Sean off. Even so he delivered a tremendous parting kick to the youth's ribs. Afterwards one of the men said it was like wrestling with a caged animal.
It was five minutes before the boy on the ground could sit up, ten before he could walk. The soldier called two of the youths back from where they watched twenty yards away. They advanced cautiously, watching Sean all the time.
Maureen sobbed quietly now, as frightened by Sean as by anything else. Her lip was cut and she sucked it noisily between gasping for breath and wiping her eyes.
Sean's eyes glittered like chips of steel. He watched the youths retreat down the towpath. Afterwards one of the men said, "He was trembling all over, but none of us dared let him go or he'd have been after them again."
Finally Brigid arrived to hold the sobbing girl in her arms. "There there, no damage done. Merciful heaven, I've never seen the like." Whether she meant the attack on her daughter or Sean's counter-attack was not clear.
Not until the wounded youth had reached the bridge did the men loosen their grip on Sean. He pushed them away and took a deep breath, while casting a glare down the towpath. Brigid gave Maureen a quick kiss, and hurried to Sean's side. "All right, Sean. Sure now, it's all over ... best forgive and forget."
He seemed to come out of his trance then. The soldier mistakenly reported afterwards - "When the Mammy spoke to him he gave her a weak smile. He even had blood on his mouth - I tell you, he tried to rip that kid's throat out with his teeth." An exaggeration, but they were all shaken. The soldier went on - "He looked at the Mammy and said, 'I'll maybe forgive, we'll see about that, but I'll never forget. Sure I will not, I'll never forget.'"
No more would the witnesses forget what they had seen. Death had been seconds away for that boy in the dirt and everyone knew it, including Brigid. There was no mention of the church after that, not as far as Sean was concerned.
Tomas called at Ammet Street later, anxious to explain the full circumstances in case Pat heard the tale elsewhere. When he reached the end of the story, Pat gave a start of excitement, "What's that you say? When Brigid talked of forgiveness - Sean said what?"
Tomas frowned in concentration. He was still upset and liable to muddle things. "Something like he would maybe forgive, but he'd never forget. I don't recall the exact words ..."
Pat sucked his breath and rocked back and forth with excitement. "The rules," he whispered. "Forgive if you like, but never forget. God Almighty, the boy has learned one of the rules!"
"Did you say the rules?" Tomas asked, puzzled. Pat froze. He gave Tomas a sharp look, "Sure I said nothing of the kind. What sort of damn fool thing would that be to say?"
So there the matter ended, and Tomas took himself off home shortly afterwards.
But Pat sat staring into the darkness for hours.
Chapter Five
The following years were full of change for Pat Connors. Almost against his wishes he was drawn to the forefront of Irish politics. Dev's Fianna Fail won the General Election in '33, but they only heightened the tension. The election was rigged. The muscle boys of the officially outlawed IRA had put Dev into office. Pat had evidence of Fianna Fail men voting a hundred times, even five hundred times, using names from half the tombstones in Dublin. Few prosecutions were brought because people were afraid. Some who did speak out were found in back alleys afterwards, dead, with IRA warning notes pinned to their bodies.
They were violent times all over the world. Fascism prowled Europe's grey streets like a marauding jackal. Hitler rose to power in Germany, Moseley formed his squads of Blackshirts in London - while in Dublin General O'Duffy founded the Blueshirts. Duffy had been chief of police until Dev sacked him - so he teamed up with Cosgrave to form a new party - Fine Gael they called it, meaning Tribe of Gaels. Events were predictable after that - in the Dail the Tribe of Gaels clashed with the Warriors of Ireland (Fianna Fail), while on the streets outside their supporters fought even more violently.
Few voices were powerful enough to be heard above the turmoil, but one such belonged to Pat Connors. He abandoned his shadowy role, and stumped the country, from one public meeting to another. "Is this the Ireland Pearse and Connolly died for?" he demanded. "Mob rule. Is that what you want? A place where decent people cannot live in peace ... when men fear an IRA bullet or a Blueshirt knife? Must this island of ours always lust for blood? I say this ... Ireland needs democratic government ... deserves democratic government ... and by God must raise up and demand such a government before it is too late."
But there is little drama in moderation. The offerings of Pat Connors looked dull when compared to the excitement of communist type revolution, or the glitter of Nazi-style rallies. Acts of violence increased every day. Yet despite such intimidation, or perhaps because of it, Pat Connors applied himself as never before. He was no longer Michael Collins's disciple, he was his own man, shouting his own message, and people were beginning to listen.
For Sean too, they were years of change. He was growing up fast, but had not yet grown up. He knew of his father's widening influence because he heard people talking - he was proud and loved his father more than ever, but he was still just a boy. Every day was a magical adventure.
Weekends were solid with happiness. The magic started first thing after Confession on a Saturday, when he and Michael took themselves off to the stables. Then Sean spent an exciting afternoon with his father before hurrying home to tea and dashing back to the stables for another hour in the evening. Sundays were even better. Sundays were best of all. His first job after mass was to take the donkeys for their weekend bath in the Liffey. That was riotous. A donkey called Merlin was the clown of the stable. Each donkey was a character - talkative Charlie hawed the others to death every night with news of Old Seamus - Garth was greedy and bad-tempered in the mornings - Molly was quiet and shy - and so on. But Merlin was the clown. His favourite trick was splashing the others on a Sunday morning - especially Garth who detested the water. Merlin sidled alongside, giving gentle nudges of encouragement until Garth forgot his fears and relaxed into a paddle. Then Merlin kicked out his legs and rolled over into the water with a tremendous splash. Poor Garth bellowed and screamed with panic - while Merlin hawed with helpless laughter. It happened every Sunday, all the year round, and if Merlin was stopped from soaking Garth he was teasing the others a minute later.
Bathing took all morning, and by the time the donkeys were back in their stables Maureen would have arrived with soda bread and cheese for lunch. In the afternoon Michael and Maureen groomed the donkeys, while Sean mucked out and did the repair work around the stables. After which he washed and went up to the farm to pay another week's rent and to buy feed. That always took time because Farmer O'Flynn was forever trying to add a penny to the price of oats or charge extra for the hay. But he treated Sean with elaborate respect. So did Mrs O'Flynn. It was Mrs O'Flynn who first started to call Sean "Mr Connors". She had called him "that boy" until he was thirteen. "That boy's back for the donkey feed," she shouted to her husband from the back door. But one day it changed. She was carrying a pail of water across the yard when he fell in
to step beside her and took it from her - just took it out of her hands and went on talking like a grown man. Her quick glance of surprise caused her to catch her breath. Of course he was still just a boy, she told herself - but he had a man's way somehow, and a man's manners. And she breathed a little faster when he smiled at her like that.
So she had called him "Mr Connors" from then on, as a sort of joking acknowledgement that he would soon be more than just a boy.
Sean's visits developed into a little ritual after that, but the new arrangements unnerved him to begin with. Especially the first time that Mrs O'Flynn met him at the door and guided him into the kitchen with her hand on his arm. She had walked so close that her body brushed his, and he had tingled all over and gone red in the face without knowing why. She had sat him down and poured him a mug of hot tea. Freshly baked bread was on the table. She spread a slice thick with butter. "Working the hours you do, Mr Connors," she smiled, "sure now, won't you be fading away unless I take you in hand."
Sean thought it very good of her to address him as Mr Connors. It made him feel grown up. Not as grown up as her of course, even though she was so much younger than her husband, but it narrowed the gap and made it easier to talk to her. And it was pleasing to sit there at the end of the day, especially with her so interested in donkeys and knackers like Old Seamus. After tea she fetched her husband. Sean rose politely as she left the table, and she squeezed past as if the kitchen had shrunk, which was silly really because there had seemed plenty of room earlier. When she came back she told Farmer O'Flynn, "Tea's in the pot. I had a cup with Mr Connors so I won't stop." She stood ironing her dress over her hips with her hands. "Well then, I'll leave you men to your business." And she gave Sean such a smile that he quite overlooked that she had left without drinking her tea.
He got to know her well. She always made tea on a Sunday and sat chatting before fetching her husband. Invariably she gave Sean a little hug at the door, and somehow things were always spread over the floor so they never could pass each other without a bit of a squeeze.
Maureen grumbled on the way home, "You were over an hour up at the farm today."
Sean tried to explain about Mrs O'Flynn being interested in donkeys, but Maureen snorted and refused to listen, so they walked in silence until Michael made a joke or challenged Sean to race the last hundred yards. Then they arrived at Brigid's all out of breath, and Sean's Da was there to greet them, to make the perfect end to a perfect day.
The strange thing was that once Mrs O'Flynn started to address Sean as Mr Connors everyone followed her lead. Farmer O'Flynn took it up and gradually it spread to Old Seamus and the other knackers. Sean liked it when he grew used to it. He called all the men Mister anyway, even Old Seamus, not deferentially but politely enough. Respectful but firm was the best description. He did most things without giving offence, which perhaps was the secret of his modest success ... he rarely gave offence unless he had to. The men rather liked him. Old Seamus and the others had heard of his temper - even seen it spark once or twice - enough for them to take pains to avoid a repeat performance. But even that was unlikely, because Sean weeded out potential trouble-makers after the first year. So in a way it became almost a status symbol for a knacker to be seen driving a Connors and O'Hara donkey ... which was perhaps another reason why Sean's business prospered.
And prosper it did - though there was little money about. Most weeks Sean was paying for new donkeys, so he was left with only Brigid's two pounds. But half way through 1935 Sean called a temporary halt to buying more animals. The net income from the stables rocketed to seven pounds a week. True earnings were apparent for the first time. Sean felt like a millionaire, and he and Michael were planning their next move when Maureen fell ill.
Her consumptive condition had worsened since Christmas. The doctor said, "It's a good summer she needs, plenty of sunshine." But it had been a poor summer again, and Brigid grew so worried that Maureen was stopped from visiting the stables - and by September Maureen was confined to her bed for days at a time.
Sean had an idea. He discussed it with his father at one of their Saturday afternoon conferences. "Uncle Tomas has got a brother in California, hasn't he, Da? And another one in Australia? Wouldn't you think Maureen would be better off there?"
"Aye," said Pat, who had been worrying about the same thing, "but it's the fare. Tomas was saying the other day - a voyage like that costs money, even if she's met and taken care of at the other end."
"How much money, Da?"
Pat scratched his head. "Wouldn't America be cheapest - but if she's to have a penny in her purse when she gets there even that would cost a hundred pounds."
A hundred pounds! After paying Brigid, Sean was left with five pounds a week. Twenty weeks at five pounds made a hundred. But Sean already had eighteen pounds which he was about to spend on another donkey. A hundred take away eighteen ... left eighty-two ... fives into that ... sixteen and a half. Maureen could be sailing to America in sixteen and a half weeks!
The words came out in a rush. Pat listened as calmly as he could with his heart bursting with pride. Then he said, "But what about Michael? Half the money's his. Here's you throwing it about -"
"Mick will agree," Sean said promptly.
Pat was bone-tired after a week's political battles, but he insisted on walking round to Brigid's place - where he shut himself away with Brigid and Tomas in the kitchen. Brigid was in tears by the end of it. Nobody could say whether they were tears of sorrow at losing her daughter, tears of joy at the thought of Maureen's improved health, or tears of gratitude for Sean's offer - but tears came in a flood and it was fully fifteen minutes before she recovered enough to be led into the living-room. Even Tomas's eyes were shining, and he kept clearing his throat as if coming down with a bad cold. Then the scheme was announced to the family. Maureen was going to her Uncle Rory in California!
Sean's donkeys had made a dream come true. Not that the boys were allowed to foot the bill entirely - Brigid returned one pound of the two they gave her every week, and Pat chipped in another pound a week ... but Sean's idea had made it all possible. He and Michael were the heroes of the hour, heroes to the whole family, except to Maureen herself. And she wanted to stay in Dublin.
She said very little that night. Not that she had much chance amid the excitement. Pen and ink were produced for an immediate letter to Uncle Rory, and Uncle Pat promised to see a man who would know about getting a berth. They even worked out her date of sailing. She would be on the high seas for Christmas. Cooey kept saying, "It's sunny every day in California," while Dary kept telling Maureen about the oranges. "You'll be able to pick one whenever you want. They even have orange trees on the streets in California."
But all Maureen could think of was that they were sending her away. Sean was sending her away. She had not asked to go. It would break her heart. Didn't they know that? Didn't they know she loved each and every one of them? Didn't Sean know how much she loved him?
So the evening was a nightmare for Maureen. And it was raining in the morning, so she was kept at home instead of being allowed to go to the stables. She knew she had to speak to Sean alone, to persuade him to keep his money. But privacy was rare in that little house. Moments alone were hard to come by. Sean was only there at meal-times and bedtimes, and the whole family was gathered then.
Maureen willed herself better. She even looked better. She was allowed up for an hour on Monday, and the same on Tuesday and Wednesday. But days slipped past without an opportunity for a private talk with Sean. Her anxiety mounted to fever pitch - until, on the Saturday afternoon, she engineered a chance to see him alone. Brigid allowed her to go to Confession - so, muffled up against the damp air, Maureen set out for St Matt's. But she went only as far as the towpath, where she stayed to waylay Sean. Thoughts of the Protestant boys made her tremble. She kept a watchful eye on the opposite bank in case her father should be walking back from his vegetable patch. She paced up and down to keep warm ... until her breath
caught in a flutter as she saw Sean striding towards her on his way home from Ammet Street.
She ran to meet him and clung to his arm. "Let's not go straight home," she begged. "Let's just sit and talk for a while."
Sean glanced at the darkening sky. He was planning another visit to the stables.
"Please, Sean. We hardly ever have a chance to talk ..." she forced herself to say the dreaded words, "and what with me going away soon."
They sat for a moment on the parapet of the bridge. Sean sensed her mood and began to encourage her, "Sure you'll love California when you get there. All that sunshine an' all. And Uncle Rory with a big house and doing so well for himself."
She cared nothing for Uncle Rory or his big house. Her heart simply ached to stay. She struggled to find the right words, but it was hard people had been going on all week about how lucky she was and how everyone was making a sacrifice for her. The whole street had heard by Monday. Father Murphy declared it a blessing and said Sean was growing up with every Christian virtue intact - thanks to Brigid and no thanks to Sean's Da. And Cooey said it wasn't fair because she was just as sick as Maureen and if Maureen was going, why wasn't she. Whereas the Da kept choking up whenever he looked at her, and gave her an extra hug every day ... and the Mammy was so proud that one of her children was going to the United States. This one said that and that one said this, until after a week of it Maureen felt bruised and bewildered. Only one thing stayed clear in her mind ... her love for Sean. And she knew he loved her too, otherwise why would he spend all of this money? He hadn't offered a penny to the others ... but Sean was sending her away.
She watched him skim a pebble across the canal. "I'm really a lot stronger than most people think," she began at last. "Sure it's just now and then I get poorly. Wouldn't you think everyone gets sick at times."
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 87