by William King
Over her shoulders, Maureen wears a white cardigan, buttoned at the neck. Couples are nestling in every doorway and secluded spot along Cricklewood Broadway. ‘Around here,’ she says and slips her hand into mine, leading me to the rear of the hall, where cigarettes glow red and then fade. The murmur of voices, a fit of giggling or the rustle of clothes trickle out of the sensual darkness.
Here also, every nook and cranny is occupied, so we cross the street to Eddington’s Lane which leads to a glove factory, and search until we find a niche beyond the reach of the street lamps. My contact with girls until then has been confined to a few clumsy kisses in a neighbour’s hayshed and a chance meeting with a girl from Eccles Street Convent School during the previous Christmas holidays.
The first feel of Maureen’s eager body inside the summer dress scatters any lingering traces of guilt from talks about purity and purgatory and being temples of the Holy Ghost. As soon as I feel the moist pressure of her open lips, a powerful desire that needs no coaching takes hold. My heart is thumping in my ears as one hand begins to explore her silky thigh, and, meeting no resistance, continues until elastic gives way to my probing fingers. She lets out a faint moan and tightens her grip around my neck.
Afterwards, while settling down her dress, she laughs: ‘You must be learning more than sums in that college.’
‘Ah, no. I’m a fast learner.’
‘You can say that again.’
We kiss, but this time she grabs my hand: ‘Show’s over. I’ve to meet my sister.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s OK. Usually fellas want much more.’
‘There’ll be other times.’
‘Other times? No other times.’ She is running a comb through her hair, a gesture that sets off another wild impulse to go back to the doorway. I catch her combing hand and draw her close: ‘Can’t we meet next Saturday night?’
‘Not unless you’re in New York.’
‘New York?’
‘I’ve enough saved now, so I set sail in the Cunard on Wednesday. Here, you’re only a slave if you’re Irish.’
‘We can meet tomorrow night.’
‘No. Anyway, you’re a student. Students go back home and become doctors or engineers. No time for the likes of me.’ This is said in the same steely tone that declared that she has enough saved for the liner. She takes in the crushed look on my face and her voice softens. ‘I’ve come across a good few here – you’re a bit different, but I have to look after myself.’
‘Just once more. Just once.’
‘Come on.’ She kisses me again before drawing me out into the light where the crowd is now milling around the front of the Galtymore. We stand in the bright streetlights, arms around each other until suddenly she stiffens: ‘There’s Bridie. I’ve to go. Goodbye.’
‘Who?’
‘Bridie. My sister.’
‘Oh. Well, I hope you get on all right in New York.’
‘Right. Goodbye, Tommy.’
‘Don’t go yet.’
‘I have to. Bridie is waiting.’ She looks amused.
‘Another five minutes, Maureen.’ Against the clock, I’m desperate for the right words: that she can’t go to New York, because we will have a great summer around London, dancing and going on boat trips up the Thames every Sunday. She is my girl now. But all I salvage is one more hurried kiss and then she slips through my arms.
The following morning, I bury my face in the shirt which is saturated with Maureen’s perfume. She is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. I love her more than anyone else in the whole world: her face, the feel of her hands around my neck, her dark eyelashes. I’d give up everything for her. Her lack of real interest, too, makes me a slave to her charms. She doesn’t sail from Southampton until Wednesday. I still have a chance, but I have no name, no address – nothing, except that she works for Smith’s, the clock manufacturers in Cricklewood.
I phone Jody. ‘Slight hamstring injury at New Eltham.’
‘No bother. I’ll get one of the lads to drive.’
That day and the next, I catch a bus to the factory and wait for hours in the rain until all the skittish workers have spilled out through the main gate. Slouching back to Kilburn, I pass by a Galvin man on his merry way into the Crown. ‘Jaysus, you’re a right-lookin’ eejit.’ He bursts out laughing. ‘Like a drownded rat. You’d need the head examined, boy.’ He is tapping his forehead and leering his way to the pub door.
By the weekend my fever is subsiding; her perfume too is wearing off the shirt I’ve held back from Vera’s wash. I now go to the Galtymore every Saturday and Sunday night, alternating between the back ballroom for a céilí and the front for jive, foxtrot and quick-step. Once in a while, I catch myself looking out for her – the Tara brooch, the satin dress. Occasionally, on the dance floor, my invitation to lemonade or ice-cream meets with a flat refusal. A Cavan girl whose breath smells of drink glares at me. ‘Do you think I’m a child? Lemonade and fucking ice-cream!’ She turns away in contempt, leaving me empty-handed in the middle of the swaying dancers. When, however, success comes my way, in the dimly lit balcony above the flowing river of couples, or in Eddington’s Lane beyond the reach of the street lights, I live again the fortunes of the first night with Maureen from Claremorris, and, with probing desire, wallow in the dark recesses of a woman’s body.
‘Play the field,’ Deano advises, when he splits up with Kim Novak. ‘We’re too young to be tied down.’
I do. I play the field, take my pleasure and move on to the next girl who likes lemonade and ice-cream. And while I am swept along on a carousel of pleasure, my resentment against M.J. and dead men and hard rock evaporates.
Again a place beside him at the table beckons. ‘You’d be rollin’ in it in no time,’ he had assured me during a flying visit to Ardglass the previous Christmas. With the engine of his Corsair running, we were standing at the driver’s side before he set off for the ferry. In the frosty air, the smell of petrol mingled with farmyard manure. ‘Come over in the summer, hang around the sites – the best university you could go to,’ were his parting words before he sat in and drove in a low gear down the boreen to the main road.
Now after discovering the rare pleasures of Eddington’s Lane, I try to bury the rector’s words of a mild evening in early May: ‘If you have a calling, then at least put it to the test, but, don’t foreclose on your interest in engineering.’ We are pacing the gravel apron in front of the college; one of the caretakers is weeding flowerbeds around a flagpole. ‘You’ll be better placed to decide after your summer in London. One shouldn’t make hasty judgments about such matters. But it’s a noble calling to follow in the footsteps of the fishermen. And remember, Thomas, an imperishable prize is in store for those who sacrifice everything for the sake of the kingdom.’
‘Yes, Father.’
From the playing fields comes the smack of a cricket bat. ‘Yes, go to London, Thomas. But remember: the fishermen left their nets and followed the Lord without delay.’
I manage to suppress all thoughts of fishermen and their nets as I thrust and throw shovels of sand and cement into the mixer and fill the hod with wet concrete. Whenever I’m not playing football with Erin’s Hope in New Eltham, I catch a train to Leicester Square with Deano. Sometimes we go to a film or visit one of the art galleries or just mingle with the sightseers and the strollers: a planet away from headers and stretchers, and Garryowen, and the rumble of trucks and diesel fumes. Over the summer both of us have toughened up and are well able to keep up with the frenetic pace; of course, we are working in the knowledge that we are not prisoners to this drudgery. At times I am on the point of revealing to Deano the dilemma that faces me, but fear that any talk of seminaries and priests would pull the plug on the sight of spangled dresses and the magic of Galtymore nights. So I try to convince myself that I am made for the rough-and-tumble of life on a building site. The doubts, however, like weeds between flagstones, keep pushing to the surface.
And th
ey are fed constantly by moments that set my teeth on edge. Like the evening I pull up outside The Highway and the men are jumping off the pick-up and heading for the double green doors. Deano remains chatting with a few of the men who are in a weekend mood while I park up a side road. When we go in, the men, like homing pigeons, have settled themselves at their regular places at the counter, others at one of the round tables where one man is shuffling a pack of cards. Too jaded to talk, Deano and I sit near a window and sip glasses of lemon-and-lime. The smell of cooking drifts from the kitchen when one of the staff appears from the back with steaming plates, causing the men at a round table to shout at Sandra to hurry on with their ‘mate and cabbage’. Indifferent to the scattered rise and fall of voices from the men playing cards, we sit there, letting the fatigue drain from our tired limbs.
‘Look who’s coming now!’ says Deano. He is pointing to the front yard where Horse Muldoon has driven up and reversed a truck just outside our window. We watch him storm through the front door and stride across the floor towards the counter, kicking sawdust as he goes. For a belt, he has a necktie around his wide girth. Midway he stops and looks around. The card players stop too until Horse’s red face creases into a ridiculous grin: ‘Great for some people that can sit drinkin’ pints and playin’ cards.’
At his usual spot near the far wall, Garryowen taps the side of his head: ‘You have to be able to use your nut, Batt.’
‘Pity you don’t use your nut as much as you use your nuts over in Richmond Street, Garryowen,’ he shouts across, and makes a snort when he guffaws. Some of the men join in. Sandra places a pint of Watneys in front of Horse; he raises it to his lips and drains it, then he wipes his forehead with the loose sleeve of his shirt. ‘Blessin’s ’a God on you, Sandra,’ he says while she is filling another. Nearby, a youth of sixteen or seventeen is standing at the counter; he is protecting between his shiny brown shoes a paper parcel tied up with twine. Horse saunters over and takes his measure. After a while, he says: ‘You’re out of the nest, young lad.’
‘I am.’
‘Where are you from, boy?’
‘Roscommon, sir.’
‘Roscommon,’ Horse roars, and thrusts his sweaty head in front of the boy’s face. ‘Roscommon is a big place, boy. Where?’
Wide-eyed, the youth draws back. ‘Strokestown.’
‘Dacent people. Have you a place to rest your head tonight?’
‘I was to meet a fella from home, but he’s gone off to Manchester.’ The youth blushes and a nervous grin appears on his face.
Horse stoops down and picks an empty Sweet Afton packet from the sawdust, tears it open and scribbles on the back with a pencil stub he has taken from behind his ear. ‘Now,’ he says, handing the youth the torn packet. ‘Go down to that woman. She’ll give you a bed.’ He turns to us and winks: ‘Maybe more than a bed, if you play your cards right.’
One of the card players shouts: ‘Ah Batt, you’re a boyo.’
‘Have you a job to go to?’ Horse asks the lad.
‘A fella in the boat told me I’d get work in a glove factory across the road from a dance hall. Around here somewhere.’
Horse snorts: ‘Don’t mind your glove factory. That’s only for women. Be outside this pub tomorrow morning at six and I’ll give you plenty work.’ He turns to Sandra. ‘Pull that young fella a pint, like a good girl.’
‘Ah no,’ the boy protests.
‘Don’t mind your “ah no” or I’ll change my mind.’ While Sandra is pulling the pint, Muldoon rests his two hands on the counter. ‘Is there anyone at all left in that fucken country now, boy?’
‘Only the oul people.’ The youth smiles in a shy way and raises the glass to his lips.
‘Tomorrow mornin’ at six, young lad,’ says Horse over his shoulder as he saunters towards us, holding the glass in a careless way so that the beer is spilling down the side and dribbling on the sawdust.
‘You’re leakin’, Batt.’ Emboldened now by Horse’s good-humour, Garryowen calls across and points to the glass aslant in the big red hand.
‘Ah, fuck you and your leakin’.’
Horse sits with us and chats. The Hitchin site is near completion and the flats in Islington are making good progress. ‘M.J. Galvin,’ he says, raising his glass, ‘best fucken outfit in town.’ The card players overhear him and shout, ‘Murphy.’
‘John Lang,’ says a man who has one foot resting on the rail at the base of the counter. He turns his ferret eyes towards us: ‘Irish subbies would fucken crucify you.’ Ferret Eyes inhales, and the cigarette smoke drifts up to the yellowed ceiling. But this evening no one feels like fighting. Through the open door a breeze raises a spiral of sawdust into the air. We talk football and good weather and racing. ‘Put a few bob, lads… hold on, a fella gave me this.’ Horse draws a scrap of paper from his pocket, peers at it, and, after a short silence, throws us a sheepish grin: ‘Here, Tommy,’ he says, ‘the oul eyes are … you read it.’
‘The Chancy Man for the Ebor Handicap,’ I read out.
Deano jots down the name on a corner of the Daily Mirror.
‘Where do they get them names?’ says Horse, and very quickly recovers from his failure to read the words on the scrap of paper. ‘Goin’ back soon, Tommy?’ he asks.
‘In three weeks. Paddy here is staying until September.’
‘You’re lucky bastards to be goin’ home. As soon as I have the price of a good farm, I’ll show the fucken Master at home who’s a pig.’
‘A pig?’ says Deano.
‘Kicked me up the hole he did. Made me walk like a pig on my hands and knees, because I didn’t know my catechism and the bishop was comin’ to the school. The children didn’t know if they should laugh or cry. One of them pissed in his pants. I could see the piss drippin’ beneath the desk when I was crawlin’ around the room. “What are you, Muldoon?” the fucker kept sayin’. “A pig, Master.” “Grunt Muldoon. Grunt.” And the bastard made me go around the whole school gruntin’ like a pig.’ Hair extends from his wide nostrils. ‘“Out and clean the lavatories, Muldoon, and make sure you bury it properly,” he orders me every Friday evenin’. “You won’t need algebra when you’re swinging a shovel for McAlpine.”’
He lets flow a tide of bitter memories. At fourteen, he had worked for a farmer who had made him sleep in the hayloft; the same farmer who stole to the servant girl’s room every night, and got what he wanted while his wife was in a nursing home having a baby. ‘He has a son now goin’ on for the Church.’ He grins, ‘Holy Ireland. Holy, my arse.’
In the same casual way in which he’d joined us, he ambles off again to the counter where men are coming up to him and asking for the start.
My interest lapses and I turn to look through the window at the passing traffic. Men wearing hats and starchy looks are making their journey home to ham and tomatoes and Yorkshire Relish. My attention wanders until, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a twitching, jerking movement in the brown sacks thrown on the back of Horse’s pick-up. It puts me in mind of an evening on my way from school when I met a neighbour heading for the river with a bag of kittens.
‘Look, Paddy,’ I nudge Deano. ‘The sacks.’ He cocks his head and looks out, then sits back with a grin. ‘Horse’s way of putting the hunt on lodgers. You know those ramshackle houses M.J. owns in Finsbury.’
‘Yeah. What about them?’
‘We picked up the Connemara lads back there a few mornings.’
‘I remember.’
‘They’re for the wrecking ball. London wants flats, but our friends from Paki land don’t want to move.’
‘So?’
‘So. Two or three bags of hungry rats let loose in the attic will put the hunt on them.’
I stare at the twitching sacks. ‘Jesus, how could anyone do a thing like that?’
‘No. Well then, welcome to London.’ He raises his glass in mock celebration. ‘They did the same in Hendon last year and before that out in Leighton Buzzard.’
&n
bsp; While he speaks, I see in my mind’s eye the yellowish-brown woman with the pink spot on her forehead, folds of cotton and silk in orange, gold and brown. In her soft voice, she tries to dissuade her children from climbing on the running board while I wait for the Connemaras.
‘Please, Mr Irishman, Mr Tommy, a ride on your lorry.’ Sets of brown shiny buttons looking up at me.
‘Not today; I’m in a hurry. This evening. Not now.’
‘Only down the road, Mr Tommy.’
‘All right. But hold on tightly.’
Their mother smiles her apologies.
The calm voice of old Shanai sitting in a rickety chair outside his door. ‘Some evening I make Indian meal. You eat with me, Tommy.’
Then the customary handshake before I set off for the site with the Connies shouting in the back.
10
ON THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY, M.J. arrives at the Hitchin site with a quantity surveyor, and while the surveyor is chatting to a foreman, he comes over to where I’m affecting a close scrutiny of the mixer.
‘Anything wrong?’ he asks.
‘A bit of a rattle from the drum – just a loose stone.’
‘You didn’t turn up for the weekend.’
‘I had a match in Luton.’ I resume my shovelling into the mixer, and very quickly he senses my offhand manner. I speak my mind.
His anger flares up. ‘You don’t know them blasted Pakis; they’re like fucken leeches. They’d never leave.’
‘But the children! If the rats bit them. Hungry friggin’ rats.’
‘Well they didn’t and Horse put down poison after the Pakis left.’ His colour has risen, but he is keeping an eye on the quantity surveyor who is waiting at the open door of the jeep. ‘I gave them three months’ notice. Plenty of time to get another place.’ Suppressing his rage, he speaks in a low voice. ‘I’m not the fucken Salvation Army, you know.’