Pack Up Your Troubles

by Anne Bennett

  Syd just looked up from where he was serving a customer and grunted, ‘You’re back then?’

  Though he didn’t show it, Syd was glad to see Kevin. His sister had done the work well enough and he was grateful she was ready to do it when she said her brother was sick, but he didn’t think a girl was right for a paper round. The bags were heavy and if he’d had a daughter as well as Stanley, he wouldn’t have let her go out in all weathers with the heavy bag dragging her shoulder down.

  ‘He was all right Saturday,’ he’d said to Grace that first Monday morning.

  He’d seen the flicker of Grace’s eyes. Just a second and the look had been gone, but Syd had known in that second Kevin was not sick. Something else was keeping him away. But he’d said nothing to Grace. This was something he’d have to have out with Kevin himself.

  When Kevin got back from his round, the first rush had gone, and then the occasional shopper was buying one or two items. Finally the shop was empty. Syd followed Kevin to the door leading to the living quarters where he hung his bag and said sharply, ‘What was the matter with you the last three days?’

  Kevin, taken unawares, said, ‘Didn’t my sister tell you?’

  ‘Your sister told me you were sick,’ Syd Moss said grimly. ‘I know you weren’t and I want you to tell me why you saw fit not to turn up for three days.’ He peered closer at Kevin and saw the discoloured face and puffy eyes and added, ‘Have you been fighting? Is that it?’

  Kevin considered lying, but what would happen then if he began work and his father was to come raging into the shop? Kevin knew if he told him now Syd might think it was a bad risk employing him. But then he hadn’t a chance of keeping his job if he kept quiet. His father thought he’d beaten him into submission. When he realised he hadn’t, he’d be round raising Cain, he knew.

  ‘Not exactly,’ he told the shopkeeper. ‘My father did this.’

  He was unaware of the curl of his lip as he said this, but Syd was well aware of it and angry at the implied insolence. ‘And what did you do to merit it, boy?’ he barked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Kevin snapped back and then seeing Syd’s outraged face said, ‘Sorry, sir, but I really did nothing bad. I just told him I wanted to work here.’

  ‘Why should that make him angry with you?’ Syd asked in genuine bewilderment.

  ‘Because he wants me to work in the brass foundry with him.’

  All of Syd’s life he’d been taught respect for his elders and betters and most of all for his parents, and he glared at Kevin. ‘You’re Catholic, aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘Haven’t you been taught to honour your father and mother?’

  ‘No . . . I mean yes, sir, but it’s hard to honour my father, Mr Moss. He’s a bully who beats my mother and keeps us all short of money.’ Kevin hadn’t wanted to blurt that out and he knew his mother would be ashamed at a stranger being told their business, but it had burst unbidden from his lips. He hung his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I know this isn’t your problem.’

  Syd didn’t like the sound of the boy’s father and wondered if he could be exaggerating. Fathers, in his opinion, were a funny breed. Some miners, for example, would insist their sons follow their trade because it was the thing to do, regardless of how dangerous it was. Others would move heaven and earth to give their sons a better start. Maybe it was the same in the brass industry?

  But in truth the man sounded a brute, the very type of man Syd detested, the sort who raised his hand to his wife. But the lad was sorry he’d told him that bit, he’d seen it in his face, so he decided not to take that tack, but concentrate on the boy. ‘Was your father upset that you didn’t want to do the same job as him? Was that it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But not for the reason you might think,’ Kevin said. ‘Not because we’ve ever got on or anything and he wants to show me the ropes. It’s because he wants to take my money off me.’

  ‘Is the money good?’

  Kevin didn’t know yet how much his wages were to be for working in the shop, let alone the foundry, but he guessed not that much. ‘No. I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘At least not unless I work every hour God sends. But whatever I earn, my father will take off me on pay day,’ he cried out. Suddenly it was important that Syd Moss knew how bad it was at home. ‘I don’t want my wages for myself,’ he said. ‘They’re for my mammy. She’s nearly always short of money and has been for years, and her and the younger ones have often gone without. My father,’ he said with contempt, ‘spends all his wages on beer, fags and betting. My mother needs every penny, Mr Moss. Christ, the weans would have starved to death if my father had had his way.’

  Syd couldn’t help but be moved by the emotion in Kevin’s voice and the worry on his face. ‘And when your father was told you wouldn’t join him in the foundry, he punched you?’ Syd asked.

  ‘If he’d only punched me I’d have been able to come to work; I’m taller than my father, Mr Moss, but he fights dirty. He kicked me . . .’ Kevin stopped and wondered how he could explain. He couldn’t bring himself to say where he’d been kicked. His face flushed crimson at the thought and Sydney Moss deduced a good deal by the flush. ‘He kicked me all over,’ Kevin finished lamely. ‘I couldn’t walk too well. That’s why Grace offered to do the round for me.’

  Syd was shocked. He’d spanked Stanley when he was a child and he’d like to bet there wasn’t a boy in the land who hadn’t had one good spanking, but it was always with the flat of his hand. And when he got to an age to understand, corporal punishment was needed less and less. He’d never have laid into Stanley at thirteen or fourteen years old.

  But what should he do about Kevin? ‘How do you feel about your father now, Kevin?’

  ‘I hate him. I’m sorry if that shocks you but I don’t remember a time when I didn’t hate him.’

  ‘So when does he want you to start at the foundry?’ ‘Monday.’

  ‘The very same day as you were due to start here?’

  ‘I’ll be here.’

  ‘How will you do that? What if your father refuses to let you come?’

  Kevin felt a moment of despair. He knew his violent father would try to show him who was master in the home. But he couldn’t physically drag Kevin down the road to the foundry as if he was a child in a tantrum. He was too big now for his father to manhandle him. But really he shouldn’t involve Syd Moss in his quarrel with his father. So he sighed and said, ‘I know it’s asking a lot. You shouldn’t be mixed up in this. I’ll understand if you don’t want to employ me now.’

  ‘That’s my decision, boy,’ Syd said. ‘You just turn up for the papers this afternoon.’

  ‘You mean I still have a job here?’

  ‘Let’s see how you shape up on Saturday,’ Syd said, and Kevin smiled for the first time. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, and he went out of the shop whistling.

  SIXTEEN

  Kevin couldn’t believe his eyes. It was almost four o’clock and dusk was settling already on that second wintry Saturday he’d worked for Syd. He was just about to call to him that he would be off on his paper round, for he’d insisted he keep that up too, when he caught sight of his father outside the door.

  His father was never around at that time of day; on Saturday he was sleeping it off usually, but he must have been made suspicious by the fact that Kevin refused to be drawn into an argument about his future employment. Since Monday evening, Brendan had been at him, goading and taunting him and reminding him who it was who made the decisions in the house, who was master, who he was answerable to. Who indeed, Brendan claimed, Kevin owed his very existence to.

  God, it had been hard to be silent, but Kevin had managed it just as he’d managed to hide from his father how much pain he was in. Maeve thought because Kevin hadn’t reacted to Brendan’s jeering comments he’d given in to his father’s demands. Only Grace guessed he hadn’t, for she knew her brother well and was scared for him, even though she was also proud.

  Friday was his birthday and that morning, as Maeve made him hi
s cup of tea before the paper round, she presented Kevin with a card and a parcel wrapped in tissue paper.

  ‘A wristwatch, Mammy!’ he exclaimed with pleasure on opening the parcel. ‘You shouldn’t have gone to such expense.’

  ‘Ah, Kevin, you give me so much,’ Maeve said. ‘It’s a pleasure to give something back, so it is. And you’ll need a watch now that you’ll be a working man from Monday.’

  ‘Aye,’ Kevin said, ‘but I’d always know the time as Syd has a clock on the wall.’

  Maeve’s face paled. ‘Surely to God, Kevin, you’ve given up all thought of work in the shop?’

  ‘No, Mammy. You didn’t seriously think I should because my thug of a father demands it? Did you think he’d beaten the notion out of me? Oh no, Mammy. He’s had his own way too long.’

  ‘Kevin, for Christ’s sake, please will you listen to me?’

  ‘No, Mammy, not in this.’ He kissed his mother’s cheek and went on, ‘He got the better of me last time because I didn’t realise the dirty fighter he was. Next time I’ll be prepared.’

  ‘Kevin—’

  ‘See you later. I’ll have to go, I’ll be late,’ Kevin said. And he made sure there was never time later that day to speak of it.

  The second Saturday morning Syd told Kevin to go up for a bite of breakfast as he came into the shop after having his own.

  ‘I had my breakfast before I came away.’

  ‘It’s a long time since then,’ Syd said. ‘Go on up, for God’s sake. If there’s one thing the missus goes off about it’s good food going cold for the want of an appetite.’

  He watched Kevin go up the stairs and hoped he’d never know what a battle he’d had for Gwen even to see the boy, let alone give him a meal. Syd had taken to Kevin Hogan and had plans for him, but his plans needed Gwen’s approval because it was her home too. The first step to it all was for her to meet the boy, which up until now she’d refused to do.

  ‘The family are as poor as church mice,’ Syd had said. ‘He’s lucky if he gets a crust spread with dripping for his breakfast and that would be just after half-six because he’s here well before seven.’

  ‘He’s no different from any other boy round here then.’

  ‘No, except that this one is working for us and till six o’clock tonight,’ Syd had said. ‘Come on, lass. We don’t want the lad fainting in the shop.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re asking me.’

  ‘I do.’ He’d put his hands on his wife’s shoulders. ‘For God’s sake, Gwen . . .’

  ‘I don’t want other people here, and especially a boy,’ Gwen had spat out.

  ‘It isn’t Kevin Hogan’s fault Stanley died,’ Syd had said, and heard Gwen gasp at the mention of their son.

  And then Gwen had crumpled and the tears she’d not yet shed had poured in a torrent from her, coming from deep within. Syd had comforted her, but when her tears were spent, Gwen had looked at her husband and though her eyes were still bleak and sorrow-laden, she’d said resolutely enough, ‘All right, Syd. Ask the boy up for a bit of breakfast.’

  Despite her brave decision, she was apprehensive that Saturday, but when Kevin burst into the kitchen she was glad she’d asked him. He looked nothing like her son and for that she was glad. His hair was lighter than Stanley’s and his eyes blue, his skin paler and freckled and his frame larger and more muscular where Stanley had been small and slightly built, like Sydney. She found herself thinking Kevin would have made a much better-looking soldier than Stanley had.

  Kevin gazed at Mrs Moss. Her hair was iron grey and compressed into a bun at the nape of her neck. The skin on her face looked paper thin and it had lines scored across it, round her mouth and down her nose, that made her face appear longer than it was. Her eyes were dull, and her face full of sadness. Her mouth was thin and compressed, and an undetermined chin hovered above her sagging neck. Kevin looked her full in the face and knew that for Gwen to ask him to her home had taken great courage.

  The thought made him feel great compassion for the sad woman before him. ‘Mr Moss asked me to come up, Mrs Moss,’ he said. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  Gwen was impressed by Kevin’s manners and told Syd so later, and Kevin couldn’t help but be impressed by the breakfast she set before him. The eggs were dried, it was true, but made up like scrambled eggs and piled on the two thick slices of toasted bread, there was a mug of strong tea to wash it down, and Kevin tucked in with relish.

  The food gave him energy and he worked tirelessly in the shop. Syd was delighted with him. Many of the customers remembered him from the previous week and greeted him, and most seemed pleased when Syd said he’d be working there full time from Monday.

  Kevin wondered when his employer would mention the question of wages, for nothing had been decided between them as yet and he’d have to have it all arranged between them before he left that day.

  He needn’t have worried: Syd had it all in hand. Generally shop work wasn’t as well paid as work in a factory, and here Kevin would also get his meals thrown in. This wasn’t totally altruistic on Syd’s part. He knew how hard it was to work on an empty stomach and he knew he’d get more out of Kevin if he was well fed. This would have been difficult to do with rationing as tough as ever if the Mosses hadn’t owned a shop. As it was, they were able to wangle quite a few under-the-counter items and so the breakfast and dinner Gwen would supply would not pose much of a problem to them.

  And really Syd didn’t want meals taken into account with regard to Kevin’s wages because he liked the lad himself but, more importantly, because Gwen had taken to him. Syd knew Kevin had broken through the icy barrier she’d put round herself and Syd saw it as a small step towards her recovery. For that reason alone he would like to keep hold of Kevin. The fact that the lad was a good worker and polite to everyone, even the most obnoxious of customers, was a bonus.

  So it was over their dinner of creamy mashed potatoes and fat brown sausages that Syd talked to Kevin. ‘Now, young Kevin, we’ll have to decide on your wages.’

  Kevin swallowed the piece of sausage in his mouth and said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  Syd glanced at his wife, whom he’d already discussed the matter with, and said, ‘A pound all right for a start?’

  Kevin nearly fell off his chair. He’d thought the man would offer him perhaps twelve and six, he might be persuaded up to fifteen bob, but never in a million Sundays did Kevin imagine he’d get so much. He could still do the paper round, which would mean he would earn one pound, three and six a week.

  The surprise and shock of it almost took away his power of speech. ‘It . . . that . . . would be . . . would be grand, Mr Moss.’

  ‘You’ll have to work for it, mind, seven o’clock to six most days. Wednesday you’ll finish at one o’clock, but Friday we don’t close till nine or ten.’

  ‘I don’t mind hard work, Mr Moss.’

  ‘I’ve seen evidence of that, lad,’ Mr Moss said, and as any praise from him was unusual, this further silenced Kevin. The man went on, ‘If I didn’t think you’d work, you’d not have been offered the job in the first place.’

  Kevin rejoined the shop full of good food and gratitude to the Mosses, who had been so kind to him. It had been a lucky day when he’d gone inside and asked Syd Moss to give him the job of paperboy.

  He surveyed the shop with pride. It was a fine place to work, light and airy, and in the main the customers were fine, always ready for a chat and a joke. Some took the mickey out of his accent, but he didn’t mind that. He often felt if he had to choose between an Irish brogue and a Brummie accent, he’d know which one he would pick, but not wishing to offend, he didn’t share his thoughts.

  He couldn’t wait for the afternoon to end. He wanted to go home and tell his mother that soon her money worries would be over. He knew better than to leave her money, but he could do other things like buy the coal for the family and many things could be picked up cheap at the Bull Ring. He could go down there on his half-day, or
on Saturday after work, for the Bull Ring stayed open till late. It was lit with gas flare lights now, but his mother had told him that during the war a strict blackout had had to be observed and he’d thought it must have been a dismal place then.

  He wondered whether he should go down that night and squander some of his three and sixpence on a treat for them all, if he could find anything. He always gave it complete into his mother’s hands, but now there would be a proper wage packet at the end of the week.

  But his ponderings fled from his mind when he saw the figure outside. The sky had been overcast all day. Dusk had come early and a fine mist had begun falling as drizzle. But even in the murky gloom, Kevin was pretty sure who it was and as the figure swayed his way forward, he was lit up for a moment in the light from a streetlamp outside the shop. Kevin knew his father was well aware of where he was and had come to settle the score with him.

  He felt the sweat break out under his armpits and the palms of his hands grew sticky. He knew his father would be drunk, possibly very drunk, and he was glad there were no customers in the shop. He turned to the slight figure of Syd Moss and knew he’d never match up to his father’s bulk, but he had to be warned.

  ‘Mr Moss,’ he said, ‘my father is outside.’

  Syd looked up. He knew after what Kevin had told him on Thursday that this moment would come. It had come sooner rather than later, that was all, and maybe just as well. He looked out at the man just the other side of the shop window and wondered why he hadn’t come blundering in and why he stood staring that way.

  But Brendan was biding his time, checking there were no customers, for he wanted no witnesses to what he intended to do. It was pay-the-price time and, by God, he’d enjoy extracting his dues from his lily-livered, work-shy son. His bloody son had made a laughing stock of him, as his mother had years before, and that had been brought home to him that very lunchtime at The Bell.