I was about to turn away, but then noticed a narrow alley that skirted the side of the church. At points it wasn’t wide enough to walk two abreast. It emerged into Plunket Street, which had a peculiar meandering route, dimly lit by the odd street lamp in the early evening light. The cold air rang with the shouts of children. Broken cobblestones littered the roadway and bed sheets hung suspended between upper-storey windows. In the cold weather they’d take days to dry, though Helen and I had discovered that leaving wet sheets indoors just made a room humid, and every surface clammy – not what young families desired when consumption was rife.
A group of boys played some distance up the street, kicking a football made from the head of a ragdoll. But my attention was drawn to the house opposite, where a pregnant woman stood in a doorway with her son. He was slightly younger than the others, but he tugged on his mother’s skirt and asked for permission to join them. She looked so tired; one forearm leaned against the doorjamb, the other rested on her swollen stomach. Strands of dark hair fell beneath a cap and clung to her forehead.
Her son continued to plead until she finally relented. Before letting him away she removed a green scarf and placed it around the boy’s neck, tucking it beneath his collar. He scampered off immediately, and his mother watched after him. Something about her reminded me of Mrs Blackwood, the woman we saw hanged. Probably her black hair, drawn face and grey clothes. She distractedly rubbed her belly with both hands, as if satisfied after a large meal, then turned into the house and closed the door.
A coalman in a horse and cart rattled slowly through the street, and one of the boys shouted that they should jump on to the empty bed. They scrambled and jockeyed as the cart passed. The bigger ones moved to the front and with agile leaps made it safely aboard. The remainder were not so graceful, making frantic grabs at wooden slats and using their friends for leverage. Those aboard were helping their favourites and in short order most had clambered up.
Only the smallest boy remained. He grimly chased the vehicle and caught tight hold of the bed. When he jumped on, his legs were left dangling from the back. Then one of the older boys moved towards him, placed a muddied foot on his shoulder and pushed him back off.
The boy landed face first in the road and lay motionless as the catcalls from his friends receded. Once the cart turned the corner with Patrick Street, all was quiet.
‘Lad,’ I said from the pavement.
He was surprised at the noise, as if unaware that I had been standing so close.
‘Come here and let me see if you’re hurt.’
Obediently, he got up and came over. He was dressed in nankeen trousers and a chequered coat, beneath which his mother’s green scarf was visible. A round blue cap covered dark curls, though his eyebrows were a few shades lighter.
‘You seem unharmed,’ I said, and he nodded.
‘Any cuts on your hand?’
He looked into his palms, then held them up to me with his fingers outstretched, as if I’d asked how many were the commandments.
‘I’d say you’ve suffered worse before.’
He brought his arms to his side and lowered his head.
‘Is your father at home?’
‘No.’
‘When do you expect him back?’
‘He’s been gone over a year.’
I glanced again at his small house. ‘But your mother is with child.’
He didn’t answer, just put both hands in his pockets. ‘I have to be getting back.’
‘Wait.’ His coat had been ripped and sewn back together at the shoulder – its check pattern misaligned along a five-inch seam. I pictured his mother darning it by candlelight, the coat draped over her knees. ‘How would you like to make sixpence helping me with an errand?’
Another horse and cart clattered through the street and I took the boy’s arm. ‘Mind,’ I said. ‘Step up off the road.’ The cartwheels bumped over the cobbles and we waited for the din to fade.
He said, ‘I should ask Mam.’
‘No,’ I said, slightly louder than intended. ‘No, I don’t have time for that.’ I rummaged in my coat and withdrew a thruppenny bit. ‘You can have this if we leave now, and the rest when we’re done.’
The coin looked big in his small hand. He regarded it for a moment, and then closed his fist. ‘All right.’
I checked the street. A few old women spoke together in a doorway, and a labourer passed on the pavement opposite.
‘Follow me,’ I said.
Vendors on Francis Street went about their business, arranging stalls outside shopfronts, sweeping doorsteps and speaking with customers. The boy had to quicken his pace to fall into step beside me. His feet were bare, covered in grime, and I wondered how they must feel against the cold pavement. He altered his gait instinctively to avoid broken paving stones, sharp pieces of refuse and the more offensive spillages.
‘What’s your name, boy?’
‘Maguire.’
‘I meant your Christian name.’
He skipped around the paths of two men wearing top hats and greatcoats. When he returned to my side he said, ‘Thomas.’
A butcher’s shop stood at the end of Francis Street. Four pig carcasses hung from metal hooks outside its window, preserved in the cold air. The trotters and heads had been cut off and their underbellies slit length-wise. Inside the shop, a butcher was at work beside his gory block. He cleaved a piece of meat with a downward hack, left the blade embedded in the wood, and wiped his hand on a smeared apron.
At the crossroads I paused to decide which direction to take. Thomas waited beside me with his arms folded. I knew there were large areas of half-built streets on the outskirts of the city – bare fields with high-walled orchards, and even fenced-off pasture with animals grazing. There’d be no people; no witnesses. To our left, Thomas Street ran past St Catherine’s Church towards Kilmainham village. But I was unfamiliar with the roads in that direction.
Something occurred to me and I looked down at the boy. ‘We’re on Thomas Street,’ I said. ‘Like your name.’
He nodded. ‘I know. Mam says that every time we come down here.’
I didn’t want to turn back into Francis Street to go south towards the canal. And the road to our right only led to the city centre, past Christ Church, the Castle and on towards Trinity College. No, it was best to keep going forward, north over the river to more familiar ground.
I said, ‘All right, let’s go.’ But Thomas had wandered a few yards to the entrance of a stable-lane, where he stood with his head bowed.
‘What is it?’
He pointed. ‘There’s a rainbow in the puddle.’
I stood behind him. It was just a dribble of oil on the surface, and I told him so. ‘Come along, we have to cross the river.’
He leaned down to look closer. ‘I didn’t know oil had so many colours.’
It was rare enough that I could demonstrate my trifling knowledge of optics. I told him the colours of the rainbow were already inside the light. We could see them in the puddle because some of the rays had reflected from the surface of the oil, and some from the surface of the water beneath. Since we were looking at light from two different points simultaneously, the wavelengths of their various colours merged to produce a spectrum.
He remained quiet, and I realized he couldn’t have understood a word of my explanation.
‘It’s very pretty though,’ he said.
I looked at the puddle again. A scrap of paper floated across its surface; tiny eddies of yellow, green and indigo swirled in its wake.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose it is.’
We resumed our journey towards Cornmarket Square, before turning left down Bridge Street. The road there descends steeply to the river and has an odd curve that traces the outline of Dublin’s medieval wall. We walked in silence for a while. Then he asked, ‘How did you know all that stuff? About the colours.’
‘I studied it in college.’
He nodded with pursed lips, as if
the answer was what he expected.
‘Have you ever gone to school?’
‘No. Mam taught me some letters and numbers. I’ll learn more when I’m an apprentice.’
‘Your mother can read and write?’
‘Yes,’ he said proudly. ‘She used to run her own shop.’
I checked to see if he was in earnest. ‘But she doesn’t any more?’
He said his father used to steal the takings and spend it all on drink. They had to move from the shop, a cake shop, into the Liberties several years ago, and the father had abandoned them to go to England. ‘I can’t remember much about it, only that I was never allowed to eat the cakes.’
His face appeared glum at the memory and I smiled. ‘You look much like your mother,’ I said. ‘You must take after her.’
We emerged on to Merchant’s Quay, and had to wait while a man drove six head of cattle along the dockside, grunting and whistling and touching their flanks with a long stick to keep them in line. When the way was clear, Thomas and I went on to Whitworth Bridge. The Four Courts loomed across the river, with its Palladian façade and high copper dome. Out here, beyond the shelter of the narrow streets, a cold wind blew down the Liffey towards the sea, conveying a faint odour of carrion from the slaughterhouse on Usher Island. The boy went quickly to the middle of the bridge, and the crest of its hump, untroubled by the cold. His head just about reached the coping, so he stooped down and looked between the balustrades.
I felt inside my pocket, to make sure the knife was unconstrained. I rubbed my thumb over the mother-of-pearl handle.
A barge approached with the current, laden with goods lashed down by a cargo net. The bargeman stood at the stern, his feet planted a yard apart for balance, holding a long oar steady in the water. Thomas put his head further through the granite pillars to see the bow slip under the arch. As the bargeman got close, the boy called out, ‘Hey, mister!’
‘Thomas,’ I said with a hiss, grabbing his collar to pull him back. His head scraped against the stone, and his cap fell on the path. He put his hand against his ear and shrank from my grip.
‘You’re not to draw attention.’
I scooped up his cap before it could blow away, brushed off some grit and fixed it over his dark curls. The fear in his eyes unsettled me. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rough.’
A passing dockworker turned sideways to get by on the narrow path. Thomas remained still with his eyes downcast.
‘Let’s get off the bridge,’ I said, turning him about, ‘or you’ll catch cold.’
I nudged his shoulder to propel him forward and, together, we completed the crossing to the north side.
12
The clouds had grown darker and the breeze picked up. Yellow lamplight emerged from the opened door of the Four Courts, where three barristers stood in huddled conversation. One removed his wig to scratch his head, leaving grey wispy hair standing on end. He looked over his shoulder at Thomas and me as we passed. When we reached Essex Bridge, I pointed north up Capel Street and said, ‘This way.’
It began to rain, just a drizzle at first, but then more heavily. Conscious of Thomas’s bare feet, I took him into Drake’s pub, where we stood beside the fire. The old barman said we’d have to order something or get out. I asked for two mugs of coffee and some soda bread, and we took a seat by the hearth.
I tried to move a thick candle to one side, but the wax had melted over the holder, making it stick to the wood. I wondered if I’d draw more attention by blowing it out.
Thomas said, ‘What happened to your face?’
The candlelight caught in his eyes as he regarded me. I touched the bruise on my cheek. ‘I was in a fight.’
‘With who?’
‘A coachman.’
‘Did you win?’
‘No.’
Drake arrived with the coffee and bread. While putting the items down he looked at me and nodded at the boy. ‘Don’t let him make a mess.’
Thomas sniffed at his mug suspiciously, and said he didn’t drink coffee.
‘Fine, I’ll have it.’ But when I reached over he drew the mug away, drank some down and tried to hide a grimace.
‘Do you like it?’
He nodded. I took a sip of my own. Admittedly it was pretty bad.
But he did enjoy the bread, holding each slice with a crust in both hands and taking large bites from its centre. Jam stuck to the corners of his mouth, which he wiped away with a coat sleeve across his face, leaving vivid red streaks running to his jaw.
He said, ‘I never win at fights either.’
‘Do you get into many?’
He placed an uneaten crust on the plate. ‘The big lads pick on me. Especially since my dad left.’ He said one of his friends once punched him in the face over a game of conkers. Thomas’s father had seen it from his window, marched out of the house and kicked the other boy squarely in the stomach, leaving him slumped in the gutter in Plunket Street. ‘After that they didn’t come near me.’ He took up another slice of soda bread. ‘But not any more.’
So was he sorry his father left?
He thought for a moment. ‘No. Mam was very sad when he was here.’
I swirled the dregs in my mug, leaving dark silt against the sides.
‘Did you ever …’ Thomas said. ‘When you were young, I mean. Did the other boys bother you?’
‘Not really.’
‘They never spoke behind your back, or yelled names, or left you out of games?’
‘Well, yes, but it never troubled me.’
‘They say things about Mam because she’s having another baby. I see them pointing and laughing at her when she’s outside the house.’
I told him they did that because they knew it upset him. Let them whisper and smirk as they pleased, because he knew the truth about his mother, and what she was really like. What else mattered?
The door to the pub opened, admitting cold air and a brighter light. Thomas looked out and said, ‘It’s stopped raining.’
‘I know.’
The last warmth had left my mug. I placed it down and used my thumb to clean the coffee stains around its rim. After a moment, Thomas began to pick at the solid folds of candle wax stuck to the table.
‘This is what I’ll be doing soon.’
I looked across at him.
‘As apprentice to Mr Pierce, the chandler on Francis Street. Do you know him?’
I shook my head.
‘It’s all arranged. I’ll have to live above his shop when the new baby comes. If I don’t Mam says we’ll end up in the workhouse.’ A nugget of wax broke away in his hand. He held it over the candle flame until drops fell and hissed against the wick. ‘I don’t want to go though.’
‘Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to, Thomas. It can’t be helped.’
He singed his fingers and pulled them away, placing their tips in his mouth.
I tidied the dishes on the table, placing the two mugs and jam pot on the empty plate. They only just fitted. Thomas watched me for a while, and then said, ‘Wasn’t there something we had to do?’
The jam pot was in danger of toppling, so I rotated the handles of both mugs and used them as a buttress. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You’re right. It’s time we were off.’
We left Drake’s and continued up Capel Street. From the top of the street it was only a short walk to the parkland around King’s Inns – though it could well have been locked so late in the day. We could turn right, past Rutland Square towards Grenville Street. But was there a danger in getting too close to home?
At the next corner, a couple of men stood in conversation outside a house. At first I could only see the broad shoulders of the man nearest, but he shifted his weight, giving me a glimpse of the other man’s lean, leering face. It was Lyster.
I turned on my heel. Thomas was walking directly behind and bumped into me. He looked up in surprise.
‘We can’t go this way.’
‘What?’
&nb
sp; I pushed past him. ‘Come.’
We crossed the road diagonally towards Strand Street. At the corner I risked a glance back from behind a parked hansom cab. The two men still spoke to each other. Lyster was smiling and held his palms spread apart, as if boasting of a caught fish.
If Thomas wondered about retracing our steps he didn’t say. The refreshments seemed to invigorate him and he skipped ahead. A sweet smoky smell of sawdust drifted over the footpath from Fottrell’s mill. He stopped to look through the fence at the great circular band-saw.
I stood beside him but kept my eye on the road behind.
‘What makes it turn?’
A man came around the corner but it wasn’t Lyster. I said there was an underground river that powered a mill.
‘Look, they’re bringing another tree.’
I peered through the fence. The saw was the height of a man, housed beneath a roof that rested on exposed iron pillars, like a bandstand. Four men fed a limbless bole towards the spinning teeth. Two others stood to the side. One held a hose at the ready, the other leaned against the handle of its pump, to spray the blade with water if it overheated. The trunk inched closer and closer till finally it met the saw, which emitted a noise like the cry of a newborn.
Thomas let out an excited whoop as the trunk was carved. After a moment he said, ‘What would happen if a man fell on it?’
The path behind was still clear. ‘What do you think?’
The Convictions of John Delahunt Page 28