“Yeh, I know,” Bosco said to the evening sky. There was silence for a few more moments. The big man stood. He dropped the envelope on the table and put his coat on. As he placed his hat on his head and adjusted it with the tips of his fingers, he gave a nervous cough.
“Your father was a good man, son,” the man said and made for the door.
“My father’s dead,” Bosco answered.
“Aye, he is that,” the man said with his back to Bosco. The man opened the door as if to exit but turned to Bosco. “Son,” he called. Bosco turned and looked at the man.
“We all die sometime, son. When doesn’t matter, how doesn’t matter, all that matters is why.” The big man winked and closed the door. Again Bosco could hear the heavy bang of the footsteps descending the stairs. The man arrived at the downstairs so quickly that Bosco thought he must have taken the steps two at a time. As he took the bicycle, no conversation passed between him and Pascal. The man simply took the bicycle, put his foot on the left-hand pedal, scooted along, cocked his leg over the saddle, and vanished around the corner. Bosco never saw Michael Collins again.
That night, Pascal left Bosco to the mail boat. There were no fond farewells, just a simple shake of hands.
“Thank you, Pascal,” Bosco said.
“Good luck,” said Pascal. He turned and was gone. At eight o’clock sharp, the boat pulled away from the North Wall Docks. There was a chill in the evening, but still Bosco stood on deck at the stern of the boat until the last of the lights of his native country disappeared below the horizon. It was a sad sight. The journey went exactly as Mr. Collins had dictated. At the train station in London, Bosco was met by a young man just a couple of years older than himself. He had walked up to Bosco.
“Reddin?” He simply said.
Bosco nodded. “Yes.”
“Follow me.” They walked the ten blocks to Bosco’s digs without any further conversation.
Within days Bosco had found work on a building site as a laborer and, like many Irishmen before him, began building the country of his oppressors. Over the next eleven years, Bosco moved from building site to building site, traveling the length and breadth of the United Kingdom. He kept himself to himself and rarely indulged in the main weekend activities of those homesick Irishmen, which centered upon going to a local Irish pub and drinking until it didn’t matter where you were. Instead Bosco drank in moderation. That is, except for one occasion.
That occasion was the day of August 23, 1922. Bosco had been working on a building site in Glasgow, just off Argyle Street. A tough job it was too, a bank, he was told. The building was to be constructed mainly of native blond stone. These were heavy blocks, and by the end of each day Bosco was more than usually exhausted. That evening, on his way back to his flat in the west end of Glasgow, Bosco stopped at O’Neill’s Pub for a quick pint. O’Neill’s was a very Irish pub, and it didn’t matter what night of the week you went in, there was always a singsong going on or someone in the corner playing the fiddle or a rowdy game of darts. When Bosco was feeling down, he often made his way to O’Neill’s just to cheer himself up a bit. This night, when he entered the pub it was crowded but totally silent. He walked slowly to the bar and ordered a pint of Guinness from what was, this night, a very lethargic barkeeper. There was no conversation in the pub, people just sat and sipped their drink. When the barman delivered the pint, Bosco took the first creamy sip from it and placed it back on the bar.
“What’s up?” he asked the barman, nodding toward the silent crowd. The barman shook his head slowly.
“Th . . . th . . . they got the boss,” the man replied with difficulty.
“What?” Bosco’s brow furrowed.
The barman was now finding it very difficult to speak. “They shot him.” He sobbed. “Michael Collins, they shot him, in Cork,” the barman spluttered out, and then walked away shaking his head.
Bosco was drunk for three days solid. He was not alone. The length and breadth of England, Scotland, and Wales, Irishmen mourned in a drunken stupor.
During the following ten years the shock at the loss of Collins’ life abated some in Bosco. He began to read more, and in the working-class city of Liverpool he found a new people’s hero, union activist James Larkin. Bosco read everything and anything he could get his hands on, either written by or about Larkin. His anger was replaced by compassion and his sense of loss by a sense of purpose. Bosco Reddin grew up.
So it was that in 1932, when Bosco and Ireland were united again, the boy who left Dublin ten years previously returned a man.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dublin, 1932
When Bosco Reddin returned to Dublin, it was a very different place. The population were just getting used to independence, although partition had left its scar. He returned to his father’s home to find it now occupied by his father’s sister Julia. Aunt Julia welcomed him home with open arms, and he was soon settled in what was his old new home. Work in Dublin in general was hard to be found, although for a big, strapping young man like Bosco there were a few opportunities. There was some work in the Guinness Brewery. There were jobs going down on the docks. Bosco took neither, for Aunt Julia’s husband, Dessie Regan, was working in the casting shed at the Parker-Willis Foundry and suggested to Cormac that he might try and find him a job there. Within three weeks of returning home, Bosco was working in a full-time job in the foundry.
When you begin a new job you don’t get paid the first week; it’s called a “back week.” So Bosco didn’t attend the accounts office for payment of his wages for two weeks. By then he was well settled in the place. His reputation had preceded him, and in some ways he was a bit of a hero in the area. Bosco had a quiet, friendly manner about him that had a calming influence on people and, although only two weeks working in the foundry, had already intervened in a couple of potentially dangerous fights. On the Friday of the second week, he lined up at the pay hatches in the accounts office with the others to collect his wages. There were five pay hatches, and he took the first one on the right. While he was queuing, the girl at the pay hatch in the center caught his eye. Unlike the other four pay mistresses, she was not in a uniform but wore day clothes. Also, Bosco noted, as she paid the wages to each man on her line she had a little friendly word for him. She addressed them all by their first names, and although she looked obviously a person of authority, the men seemed very comfortable with her. Bosco watched her until, eventually, he got to the top of his line. The young girl behind his hatch slid an envelope across and asked him to sign his name. Bosco smiled but ignored her request and opened the envelope, tossing the money out into his hand. He counted the cash and then pushed it back at the girl.
“This is short. Five shillings short,” he said. Not antagonistic in any way. He just smiled. The girl was aghast; she was not used to being questioned.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, but she didn’t really.
“The wage packet here, love, it’s a bit light, exactly five shillings light,” Bosco repeated. Now, although this exchange was taking place very calmly and without any fuss, it still grabbed the notice of the men on the other lines, and the lady at the middle hatch, Constance Parker-Willis. Constance excused herself from the worker who was at the top of her line and went to the first hatch.
“Is there a problem here?” she asked, just as politely as Bosco had complained.
“No, miss, no problem, I’m sure it’s just a mistake. Me wages is five shillings short.” Bosco again was calm and smiled. Constance moved to the index box beside the girl and began flipping through cards until she came upon the name that matched the name on the wage packet—Bosco Reddin. She pulled out the card and began the perusal.
“Ah,” she said, “here it is.” She put the card down on the counter and turned it toward Bosco. “Now, you can see here that on Tuesday you didn’t clock in until eight-fifteen instead of eight o’clock. Now, although that’s only a quarter of an hour, if you are fifteen minutes late we stop one full hour’s money,
” Constance explained.
“I wasn’t late on Tuesday,” Bosco simply stated.
“Yes, you were, look here where I’m pointing.” Constance was getting a bit fussed now.
“I saw what you’re pointing at, and I saw eight-fifteen. But I clocked in at eight o’clock, I always do, I’m never late. Your clock must be wrong; I can fix it if you like. I worked on clocks before,” Bosco offered. Constance now became flabbergasted.
“But that’s ridiculous. How could the clock just be wrong for you? I mean”—she waved at the man standing behind Bosco—“you there, Peter Bennett. What time did you clock in at on Tuesday?”
“A quarter to eight, ma’am. We all did, we always clock in at a quarter to eight on Tuesday,” Peter answered, and dropped his eyes, for he feared embarrassing the lady, although around the room there were mumbles of “yes, we do,” and nods of heads. Constance now began to rummage through the file box again and pulled out Peter Bennett’s card. It did not read seven-forty-five; instead it read eight o’clock. Constance’s mind was racing now. Every eye in the room was looking at her, and yet she could not just take these men’s word for the fact that the clock was slow. She tried to be reasonable in her mind.
“Well, Mr. . . .” She glanced down at his name. “. . . Reddin. I will certainly have the clock checked, and if it is the case that the clock is in fact defective, I will make sure that you get your five shillings next week.” Bosco smiled at her.
“I’ll tell you what, miss, why don’t you give me the five shillings and you get your clock checked and if it’s not defective I’ll give you back the five shillings next week.” Constance stared at the young man. He stood there smiling. Against her will she returned the smile. She put her hand on the shoulder of the young girl standing beside her.
“Catherine, go into my office and bring out five shillings, will you?” she asked the girl. The girl scurried away.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Bosco said, and touched his forelock. Bosco left the factory that day with more than the five shillings. For, if his reputation had preceded him and his actions over the previous two weeks raised him in the workers’ esteem, as he left the factory that day with the five shillings, his reputation now was awesome.
The casting of iron is a dangerous business. For some reason that scientists cannot explain, when you pour molten iron into water it explodes. Thus it is vitally important that all casts are kept dry and free of moisture. Horrific injuries and even death were commonplace in the Parker-Willis Foundry. However, they were no more commonplace there than in any other foundry at this time. Every man working there knew that injury and death came with the job. Each time there was a death in the foundry, it affected Constance deeply. Because she took such an interest in them, she knew most of the workers by first name. She would ask them how their families were, and keep herself abreast of the goings-on of most of the workers. Constance Parker-Willis attended the funeral of every worker who died through accident or otherwise. Just weeks after her five-shilling confrontation with Bosco Reddin, she was to meet him again at one of these funerals. (In the interim period it turned out that there was a tooth missing from the Tuesday cog within the time clock. It was indeed skipping exactly fifteen minutes every Tuesday. The clock was now repaired, and the workers had an extra fifteen minutes’ sleep on Tuesday mornings.)
The funeral itself had been a sad affair. The deceased was young Liam Casey, just sixteen years of age. Liam’s father, Pat, who had brought the boy to the foundry for work, was beside himself with grief. After the boy was laid to rest and the prayers were said, the gathering retired to the Gravediggers Pub, beside the graveyard. Constance paid her respects to the father and mother of the boy and then stayed to have a sherry, just to be polite. Suddenly there was a banging on the bar counter, and the entire room went quiet. Bosco Reddin stood up on a chair. As he did so, Constance Parker-Willis slowly sat down on one. When Bosco spoke, his voice was like music. And it commanded the ear of every person in the room.
“It was a sad thing we did today,” he began. This was met by nods all around and pats on the shoulder for the boy’s father. Bosco went on:
“It will be an even sadder thing if we allow it to happen so easily tomorrow.”
From the middle of the crowd a voice bellowed, “There’s nothing you can do about it, accidents will happen.”
“Some accidents will, yes,” Bosco bellowed out, “but some are not just accidents. Working a sixteen-year-old boy twelve hours a day is not an accident. Not having the proper clothing to protect yourself is not an accident. Walking the foundry floor in shoes that wouldn’t keep the rain out, never mind molten iron, is not an accident.” Bosco reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a bundle of white papers; he held them in the air.
“See this? This is what Jim Larkin brought back from America. The Charter of Workers’ Rights. Think about that now—workers’ rights.”
Another voice came from the crowd: “Larkin was a madman.” There were a few grumbles among the crowd.
Bosco smiled. “Was he? Was he mad? Was he mad to want a worker to have more than the right to barely feed his family? Was he mad to want the worker to have paid rest days? Was he mad to want you, the workers, to go about your business, with your head held high, a sense of dignity about what you do, and a sense of pride in knowing that you were making the workplace a better place and a safer place for you, your own children?” He looked to Pat Casey. Casey nodded. Bosco carried on.
“This Charter of Rights was not written by Larkin, it was written by American workers. People just like you. It talks about safety, looking after the health of the worker, protection from unemployment, proper training and education, giving the hardworking man the dignity he deserves.” Bosco pushed the papers back into his pocket. He took a deep breath, and his shoulders sagged. When he continued his tone had calmed.
“The Constitution of the United States of America opens with the words ‘We the people’; the Proclamation of Independent Ireland started with ‘people of Ireland.’ They are just like us, and we are just like them, and if they can do it, we can do it. I urge you now, all of you . . . join the Irish Transport and General Workers’ Union and unite with other workers who are trying to help make the workplace a better place for everybody, including the employers. Thank you for listening.” Bosco stood down from the chair. There was slight applause but not much. Surprisingly, one of those applauding was Constance Parker-Willis. She was totally captivated by the young man. Someday, she thought, I would like to sit and chat with him.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was a huge surprise to all. The announcement was made on a bright Sunday afternoon in the glass-paneled sunroom that overlooked the rear garden of the Parker-Willis home. The gardens themselves were beautiful and rivaled any garden in the area. Constance was sitting in one of the four huge wicker chairs that surrounded the African ebony table in the sunroom. Her legs were tucked beneath her, and an open copy of Charles Dickens’ short stories lay on her lap. Constance’s mother, sitting across from her, was concentrating on some needlework. As it was the game season, lunch had consisted of marinated pheasant, roasted and served in a peeled-grape sauce. Tasty but heavy, and Constance had intended to sit in the glass room and relax while the meal settled. She tried to relax but could not, tried to read but could not. Her concentration seemed to be all over the place, and she found herself reading the same paragraph over and over. Her mind seemed determined to wander in the quiet of the warm afternoon. Her father, Geoffrey, invaded the silence and the room.
“Excellent lunch, eh? I knew the moment I bagged that cock he would be delicious.” He laughed loudly. He was of course referring to the bird he had just devoured. During the game season Geoffrey liked to go hunting quite a lot. The truth, of course, was that these hunts were mostly an excuse for him to get out of the house and meet up with his latest tart. On the rare occasion that Geoffrey did actually join in the hunt drive, he would become so drunk that he couldn’
t hit a bull’s arse with a banjo.
“Yes, dear,” Constance’s mother gave her standard reply to all Geoffrey’s statements.
“Gin and It, dear?” He asked his wife a rhetorical question, for as he asked it he was standing over her with the drink already prepared.
“Yes, dear.” Constance’s mother took the glass from her husband and placed it on a glass incidental table beside her. In studious mood, Constance watched all of this. Gin and It. This was the latest fashionable drink. The drink of the moment. The “It” referring to “IT”—“Indian tonic water.” It seemed that the officers of Her Majesty’s Forces in India found it difficult to take the required quinine on its own. So, instead, some bright spark had added a dash of tonic water and a dash of gin, to make it easier to swallow. Thus gin and quinine tonic was now the “in” drink. Constance thought about the gin now, her mind wandering again. Gin, she recalled, was once the drink only of prostitutes and mendicants, its consumption only seen in the brothels of London and bigger towns. In fact, “gin house” was a common term for a brothel. And yet here it was now, the same drink, regarded as a drink of class, upper class. Things change.
The Young Wan Page 4