‘Catch being the catchword,’ muttered Bones, still searching.
Dickie watched his performance and his hand went unconsciously to his own pocket. He frowned. ‘Eh, mine’s gone too! I saved that tip the toff gimme, for a drink an’ summat to eat on the way home. What about you, Son?’
‘I didn’t have any. Serves ye both right anyroad.’ Sonny picked up the stoneware bottle and upturned it to his mouth – it was empty. He shoved it into his knapsack, then turned at his brother’s exclamation of rage.
Dickie surged back from the place where he had stowed the pheasant, flourishing his shirt. ‘The bitch! ’Tis her what’s taken our money – an’ she’s pinched my bloody bird an’ all!’ He kicked angrily at a grassy hummock while Sonny set his mouth and shouldered his knapsack. ‘Would ye bloody credit it,’ continued Dickie. ‘We share our dinner with the wench an’ this is how she repays us.’
Bones shrugged sadly. ‘Well, I suppose she was generous in her way.’ He started to lope miserably in the direction of the woods, Sonny after him.
‘Generous? Hah!’ spat Dickie from his angry stance, hands on hips, legs apart. ‘She didn’t tell us we’d have to pay for it, did she?’ He watched the others wend their way across the clearing, simmering with indignation, then with a last impulsive gesture he cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed, ‘Je-ze-bel!’ And the afternoon was filled with the whistle of startled wings as a pair of wood pigeons broke from the shelter of an oak tree.
Dickie threw his shirt over his arm and bent down to catch hold of his boots, using them to swing badtemperedly at the undergrowth as he followed the others.
Beth perched in the crook of a sycamore branch watching the three disappear into the woods. She wore a huge grin.
The sun was still mercilessly hot as they trudged down the stony cart track. Their hair hung limp with sweat, their throats were parched, their tongues seemed swollen to twice their size and had taken on the texture of sandpaper.
‘How’s your ankle?’ asked Dickie, adopting the role of legionnaire with the arms of his shirt tied around his forehead and the rest of it hanging in a cape to protect his burnt shoulders.
Sonny licked his lips. ‘’Twasn’t too bad when we set off, but it’s startin’ to throb like the very devil now.’ He hooked his hand over his shoulder to rub at the soreness that the sun had created. The moisture from the burst blisters trickled between his shoulder-blades to soak into his shirt. ‘Jazers, could I do with a drink though.’
Bones flapped his shirt-front and blew down the inside. ‘If I recall we passed a tavern on the way out here; it shouldn’t be far now.’
‘It may as well be a hundred miles for all we’ll get from it,’-replied Dickie. ‘We’ve no money, remember?’
‘But there’s sure to be a pump or a horse-trough,’ said Bones, and felt his throat turn even drier at the thought of cool, refreshing water.
Bones turned out to be right; around the next bend was a tavern, sparkling white with black timbers, which beckoned welcomingly. On reaching it Dickie sank gratefully onto a mounting block and flung down his boots and sack as the others lowered themselves to the cobblestones.
A buxom pot-wench appeared. She wore a peasant-style blouse which exposed pink shoulders, a brown skirt, its material far too heavy for this time of year, and a mob cap with which she had tried to contain her wild black hair. ‘And what can I do for you three gentlemen?’ She clutched a large jug of ale which the. boys coveted greedily.
Dickie turned on his charm. ‘Good day to ye, colleen. I wonder, could ye find it in your sweet person to help three young lads who’ve just been waylaid an’ robbed of every farthing?’
The wench raised untidy black brows. ‘Robbed, you say? Would you recognise the culprit?’
‘Ah, God that I would. He was the biggest fella ye ever saw. He …’
‘Only the one? Against three strong chaps like you?’ she asked disbelievingly.
‘Ah, but, lady ye oughta have seen the size of him. Why, he must’ve been all of seven feet tall, with hands like shovels an’ a cruel wicked look about him.’
‘Was he, by thunder? Seven feet tall, you say. My, it’s a wonder he ever got into that pretty white dress, isn’t it?’ She laughed loudly at his discomposure. ‘Oh, dear! I’m afraid you’ve been tangling with our Beth, young sir. She can see a half-wit coming a mile away, can Beth. Told me all about it only ten minutes ago.’ She smiled at the recollection of the plump, white-clad figure who had come tripping gaily across the pastures and had slapped a handful of coins onto the bar top. The girl’s invalid father would likely be enjoying his jugful of best ale right now. She was a rum one, was Beth. The pot-wench turned away still cackling to herself.
‘Ah, come on, girleen!’ begged Dickie. ‘Would ye see a young fella die o’ thirst?’
‘Nay, I wouldn’t. You’re welcome to as much as you can drink.’ She pointed to a water pump. ‘From that’ She smiled archly and left them. ,
‘Cow,’ muttered Dickie and slipped from the mounting block to stick his head under the pump. The others, laughing at his failed tactics, also took their turn, one scooping his hands underneath the flow while another worked the handle, appreciatively gulping the lukewarm water.
Sated, they sank down once again, each turning their head in the direction of home. ‘Why is it always further on t’way back?’ grumbled Sonny, pulling his stockings from his haversack and picking at the knot in his bootlaces. The flowers lay upon the dusty cobbles, a limp and unattractive bouquet.
Bones, too, had picked some, if only as an afterthought. It had perhaps been asking too much of his father to keep the secret. Once Jimmy was in his cups he would likely blab about his son’s absence from work. The flowers might act as a palliative when dealing with his mother. He pulled on his stockings and laced his boots.
‘Bones should be home in no time in his seven-leagued boots,’ observed Dickie wryly.
Bones sighed patiently. ‘I know they’re a mite too big …’
‘A mite?’ laughed the other. ‘They’re like battleships.’
‘Sure, ’tis all right for you who doesn’t have to wear hand-me-downs,’ objected Bones. ‘Our Brendan grew out o’ them an’ me mother isn’t likely to be throwin’ them out, is she? Anyways, I’ll grow into them.’
‘When – in eighteen-eighty?’ Dickie was in the process of donning his shirt when the sudden sound of music made him cock his head. ‘Listen! There’s somethin’ goin’ on round the back there.’
Inquisitively they crept around to the rear of the tavern to investigate. In the ale-house’s rose-hedged garden men in white shirts and trousers danced in formation to the accompaniment of fiddles and a squeezebox. Their clothes were decked with long trails of red and green ribbons, their hats embellished with flowers. Each man held a stick which, in accordance with certain notes in the music, they laid across the opposing man’s stick with a hearty thwack.
There was also another man but dressed differently to the rest who went among the good-natured crowd of villagers and beat them about the head with a pig’s bladder on a stick. They seemed to enjoy this greatly for when the music ended they voluntarily dipped into their purses to supply the dancers with ale. The three boys watched agog at the Morris Dancers’ mode of drinking; well-seasoned in this art they simply poured the entire contents of the tankards down their throats with barely a trace of resistance from an Adam’s apple. Then with an appreciative gasp and a wipe of their upper lips they were off and entering yet another formation dance.
The boys sat down on the grass to watch the show, keeping well back from the main body of the crowd so that they would be in no danger of being asked for money.
The Morris Dancers tripped up and down the sun-baked lawn to the sound of the squeezebox and the jingling bells which encircled their knees. They danced in pairs, bearing between them a pliable hoop of flowers with which they weaved in and out of the other dancers. At the close of each dance the men swilled down the ale
that the crowd had provided, thus making it inevitable that with each new dance their movements became a little merrier. By the seventh or eighth dance Dickie noticed that the tankards were not being drained so expertly; the men would leave an inch or two at the bottom. He pointed this out to his partners and suggested that they move around to the table which bore the dancers’ tankards, in the hope that the men would soon be too drunk to notice if any was missing. His idea was rewarded. By the time the Morris Dancers were onto the twelfth dance of the afternoon – due to the crowd’s demand for encores – they had imbibed so freely that one could almost hear it slopping about in their bellies as they danced.
The idea of going home soon left the boys as they sat down to share the dregs from the tankards, sniggering at the hilarious antics of the dancers. The Morrisers pranced leadenly up and down, their eyes like frosted glass. One of them made a wrong move, throwing the whole routine into confusion and making the crowd howl as the inebriated ‘fool’ swooped down upon the dancers and laid into them with the pig’s bladder. Sonny thought his sides would split and the fun dissipated all bitter thoughts of Beth.
The flustered pot-wench slammed more foaming tankards on the table as the Morris Dancers swore and bickered at each other’s inability to keep to the practised routine. Those foaming vessels were just too inviting to be left alone. While the crowd’s attention was focused upon the fiasco on the lawn the three boys hooked sly fingers into the pewter handles and vanished behind a laurel bush.
Finally, amid a great deal of argument, the dancers staggered across to claim their drinks. Here another row broke out when it was discovered that three tankards were missing. The pot-wench swore they were there a minute ago, which led the intoxicated dancers to start accusing members of the crowd. The culprits listened, unrepentant, to the vociferous outburst and smiled into their tankards as the sharp ale struck the backs of their throats. Before long the disagreement had evolved into a full-blown battle with tankards being dented over heads and tables overturned. With the residue of ale licked from their lips the boys thought it expedient to take their leave and slipped unnoticed back to the road, laughing uproariously at the trouble they had stirred up.
Further along the road they came upon a haywain, trundling mirage-like through the heat-haze. They summed up what little energy remained to run after it and throw themselves into the sweet-smelling hay.
Dickie chewed on a stalk and chuckled. ‘Begod, what a bloody good lark that was!’
Bones agreed, his recumbent form draped over Sonny’s knees, his long spindly legs dangling over the side of the cart. He imagined the hot sun on his naked skin, the smell of crushed pine – crushed by Beth’s body, as he had crushed hers. ‘Ah, it’s been a grand day altogether,’ he smiled, fingering the pathetic bouquet that lay on his chest. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever forget it as long as I live.’ The sun peeped through the leafy barrier, dappling his radiant face as they were slowly transported back towards reality.
The hay cart turned off before it reached the main road into the city, leaving them still quite a fair way to travel. The street was quiet and bathed in shadows when they finally reached it; everyone was having tea.
‘Bye, Bones!’ shouted Dickie cheerfully. ‘See ye at Confession.’
‘’Tis more likely to be my Requiem Mass ye’ll see me at,’ parried Bones. ‘The mammy’ll kill me when I get home. Goodbye!’ He hoisted his haversack and loped away.
Thomasin and Patrick looked up as their sons entered. ‘By, there’s no need to ask if you enjoyed yerselves,’ laughed their mother, then called Erin in from the scullery to come and view her brothers. ‘Have yer ever seen owt like these two?’ she asked amusedly, pointing at the grimy, sweat-stained shirts, the burrs that clung to their trousers, the sun-kissed faces perimetered by tousled hair.
Sonny proffered the bunch of flowers which were now draped pitiably over his fist Thomasin kissed him and tried to smooth the defiant red hair. ‘Flowers, eh?’ she said cynically. ‘I hope that doesn’t mean yer’ve been up to mischief. What ’ave yer been doin’ with yerselves anyroad?’
‘Oh, nowt much,’ answered Dickie with ease, and vanished into the scullery to wash his hands.
How can he lie so effortlessly? thought Sonny, and was all at once deeply grateful for his sunburnt face as a blush swept up from his neck and turned his earlobes into throbbing beacons.
Chapter Eight
Monday hauled itself wearily over the embrasures in the city walls. It could almost have been a different season for the outlook was grey and miserable with a north-easterly wind creating dust devils in the rain-starved street.
Thomasin bustled in from the yard, cradling some tiny object on her outstretched palm. ‘Eh, aren’t sparrows careless mothers,’ she said to Erin who was bringing her ebony hair under control and who now smiled sadly at the pathetic little corpse on her stepmother’s hand. ‘That’s the seventh little golly I’ve picked up since Friday.’
Thomasin gazed down for a moment at the naked, ugly creature whose bulging eyes looked so out of proportion to its skinny body. Why should she feel so bogged down with sadness at such an insignificant death? Most likely because every summer with these numerous little corpses came the memory of the child she herself had lost. The child that had been of similar appearance to this naked sparrow when it had been torn from her body; unfinished, incomplete. Adjacent to the sadness was a feeling of anger. Why should she, a good and caring mother, be denied the right to bear any more children while the sparrows allowed theirs to die with indiscriminate ease? With a flick of her wrist she committed the dead sparrow to the flames and brushed her hands. ‘Aye well, if yer about ready, lass, we’d best get down town an’ open t’shop.’ Erin was proving a great asset at the grocery. It was a pity the partnership would probably have to end soon.
Thomasin laid a coin on the table and addressed her elder son. ‘That’s for the men who empty t’closet. Take it round to Miss Peabody if it hasn’t been collected by the time you go out – and don’t go spending it.’
‘’Course I won’t! Honestly, no one ever seems to trust me,’ complained Dickie, pocketing the coin.
‘I wonder why – an’ don’t sit lozzockin’ all mornin’ neither. Sonny, make sure he goes for that job, won’t yer? An’ the two of yer can wash up them pots when yer’ve finished quaffin’.’
Sonny acquiesced as his mother and sister left for work. Dickie rose from his seat at the table and selected a clay pipe from the mantelshelf, helping himself from his father’s tobacco bowl. The pipe lighted, he flopped into the armchair and swung his legs over the arm, puffing inexpertly.
‘Didn’t me mam say we had to do these pots?’ said Sonny, draining the teapot.
Dickie closed his eyes and snuggled back into the chair. ‘Sure, I’m not lowering meself to do women’s work. I’m takin’ some beauty sleep before I go see about that job.’
‘But me mam said …’
‘Me mam said, me mam said!’
‘You’re a warty old prick! Ye never go out o’ yer way to help anyone, d’ye? Ye deserve a good thrashin’.’
‘But you’ll not be the one to give it to me,’ replied Dickie slyly, opening one twinkling eye. ‘Else ye’ll not be gettin’ an introduction to Bertha.’
‘I’ll believe that when it happens! Ye keep promisin’ but I don’t see any results. I think yer just using it as a way to keep me at your beck an’ call.’ Sonny dashed the plates together noisily and knocked a cup to the floor.
‘If ye perform like that there’ll be no need to wash ’em,’ observed Dickie, then: ‘Ah-ah!’ as he staved off his brother’s attack. ‘Lay a finger on me an’ ’tis a life o’ celibity ye’ll be leadin’. Now go wash up like a good little fella an’ leave the man to get his rest.’
‘I hate you!’ said Sonny with feeling. ‘An’ it’s not celibity, it’s celibacy.’
Later in the morning, Dickie finally collected the energy to haul himself from the chair and go down to the i
ron foundry with his brother. They crossed the foundry yard where men shovelled great heaps of coal into trolleys and, after being given directions by the gateman, stepped inside the busy works. If they had thought the noise deafening from the outside then the stridency of the amalgamated forces inside almost shattered their eardrums.
‘Jazers, are ye sure ye can stand to work in this?’ yelled Sonny as he and his brother automatically slapped their palms to the sides of their heads.
His voice was lost in the medley of clanking and crashing, metallic hammering, the scraping of shovels that stoked the furnaces and the nerve-wracking hisssss! as the white-hot girders were lowered into troughs of cold water. Everywhere seemed bathed in an orange glow. In Sonny’s observation every man appeared to have a turnip lantern stuck on his shoulders instead of a head, as though there were a candle implanted in each brain, lending the eyes a feverish inhuman glow. Sweat gushed from the men’s brows. It marbled the grime-caked faces and fell from glistening noses to disappear into nothing as it dropped onto the hot metal on which the men laboured. Their arms strained with knotted sinews as they manoeuvred the great cast-iron boilers and machine parts, while others steered huge ladles of molten ore towards the waiting moulds.
The heat was indescribable. Even the very air seemed on fire. The boys were reluctant to breathe for fear of inhaling the angry red sparks that spurted like devil’s spume from all directions. They wandered, sweating, further into the womb of the foundry in search of the foreman fettler, who had just emerged from a small office when they eventually found him.
‘Could we be after askin’ ye for a job?’ bellowed Dickie. ‘Our friend, Martin Flaherty, said he’d have a word with ye. Me an’ me brother – have ye anything to offer us?’
To his surprise the man understood at once, which was more than could be said for his own response to the man’s reply. The foreman gestured for them to step into the office he had just vacated, then closed the door behind them.
For My Brother’s Sins Page 8