“I’m getting married.” The words echoed about the glass room. Constance lifted her head from her book and glanced quickly around the room in search of the speaker of those words. Her mother looked up, needle poised mid-air. Her father was standing in one of the windows, looking over one of the gardens, at the gardener Murty, who was trimming some rosebushes. It was a couple of seconds before Constance realized that the words had come from her own lips. Her father didn’t even turn from the window.
“Indeed, dear. Someday, someday. For every old sock . . .” he began, but Constance cut him short.
“The autumn. I’m getting married in the autumn.” Again her brain was screaming out the words without her permission. Geoffrey turned from the window; his face was steely. Constance smiled at him demurely, and when her father spoke there was more than a hint of sarcasm.
“Hear that, Mother. Poppy here is getting married.” He took a sip of his drink. “In the autumn.”
“Yes, dear.” Mother did not even blink. Geoffrey paced the room.
“And who, may one ask, is the lucky chap? Or will you wait and introduce us all at the wedding ceremony?” he asked, again sarcastically.
“Bosco Reddin; you don’t know him.” Constance said, again following an argument between her brain and her lips. But Constance was wrong: her father did know him—well, at least he knew of him.
“The union activist?” he asked quietly. Then repeated the question at screaming pitch: “The furking union activist?” Even with the blood beginning to rise in Geoffrey’s face, his pronunciation of “fucking” was old-school. The rage was becoming visible.
“Did you hear that, Mother? Your daughter thinks she is going to marry the union activist.”
“Yes, dear,” Mother answered, and did not take her eyes from her daughter’s face. Now Geoffrey addressed himself directly to his daughter.
“Well, she can think again, Mother. Think again, I say!” Geoffrey downed the rest of his drink and began pouring another, his hands shaking with rage.
“I don’t have to think again. I’ve made up my mind.” Constance spoke with a firm voice. She was terrified but didn’t show it. Now her father went into an absolute fury.
“Made up your mind? You don’t have a mind in this house, missy! I make up your mind.” He now struggled even to speak. He began to take deep breaths, an effort to calm himself. It didn’t work.
“Why set your sights so high, dear? Why not the office boy, or that . . . shit shoveler out there?” He pointed out the window at Murty, the old gardener. Constance did not speak. She held her father’s gaze. Her fear suddenly left her. She took in the sight of her father bent over, the veins throbbing across his forehead, his arm outstretched, pointing at the gardener.
“I think they may both be already married,” she answered seriously. Her father spun and roared. He flung his drink across the room, the contents emptying over his wife. Both the window and the gin glass smashed when they met, the thick stump of the drinking glass being all that made it through the garden window. Bizarrely, Murty looked up, smiled, and waved.
With his entire body shaking spasmodically, Geoffrey now made to leave, and his parting words were calm, although his rage was very visible. He pointed and wagged his finger at Constance. “You. You do this, you do this, and you will leave this house with nothing. Do you hear me?” He screamed, “Nothing,” and he was gone. There was silence again except for the singing of the birds in the garden, which could now be heard through the broken window.
“Think about what you’re doing,” Constance’s mother said softly. Constance looked at her mother sitting there. Her once-beautiful face, dripping in the gin that had spilled from her husband’s glass. Constance stood and wiped her mother’s face.
“I have, Mother. I have,” she said softly. Constance’s inner voice was speaking to her again: You may have thought about it, but someone should tell Bosco Reddin about it.
CHAPTER SIX
Bosco slid his clock-in card from the slot that next Monday morning. His eyebrows rose. His card had a note pinned to it. The note was folded and marked “private.” Bosco looked about him, clocked in his card as normal, and, without reading the note, put it into his pocket. He replaced his card and made his way across the yard toward the casting shed. Halfway across the yard, he removed the note and unfolded it. It read, “Please call to see Miss Parker-Willis in Accounts at your earliest convenience, today.” It was unsigned. He looked up to the windows of the accounts office.
“What’s this about?” he said aloud. He decided to make his way to the casting shed first and let his supervisor know that he was here, before finding out the answer to his question. From two different upstairs windows his every action was being watched. Constance was watching. She was half hiding and peeking out her window, being most nervous as she had seen him unfold her note. As if she had written the whole story on that piece of paper. At another window Geoffrey Parker-Willis was watching. No hiding and peeking for him. He stood filling the window frame, his hands dug deeply in his pockets, his eyes fixed on Bosco.
When Bosco arrived at the casting shed, he waved to his supervisor. The supervisor came over. Bosco began to tell the man of his errand.
“I’ll be back in a minute. I have to go to the office,” Bosco roared over the noise of the machine and pointed at the office building.
“I know,” the supervisor roared back. He pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped his perspiring brow with it. “What’s that about?” he asked.
Bosco shrugged his shoulders and waved the note. “I don’t know, but if it’s Accounts it must be about wages?”
“Accounts?” The supervisor frowned.
“Yeh, Accounts,” Bosco roared. He again opened the note and read it. “Yeh, that’s right, Accounts,” he confirmed.
The supervisor was shaking his head. “No. I was told to send you up to his office the moment you arrived. His office, not Accounts,” the supervisor roared and pointed to the sky, as if the boss was indeed some kind of deity. Bosco was puzzled. He left the shed.
Constance watched Bosco re-enter the yard. She called out to her assistant. “Mary.”
The girl stuck her head in the doorway. “Yes, Miss Constance?”
“Bring me some tea. Two cups, please.” Constance smiled.
“Yes, miss.” And the girl was gone.
Constance returned to the window to follow Bosco’s progress, but he was no longer there. She scanned the yard quickly, and when she finally spotted him she paled. Instead of coming to see her, Bosco was now making his way up the steel stairs that led to her father’s office.
“No,” she cried, “no,” and she banged on the window. But Bosco closed the door to the office, and she could see him no more.
Bosco didn’t know what he had really expected. A secretary maybe, to ask him whom he wished to see? Or some suited people, scurrying from room to room, carrying piles of papers. Bosco had never been in any offices before, so his expectations were based on what he imagined they would be like. Whatever. He certainly didn’t expect this. Nothing. He was standing in a kind of reception area alone. There was no sound of typing machines. Nor voices from behind doors. Nothing. He did notice that he couldn’t hear any noise from the foundry itself. It was quiet. He wondered how they did that. Bosco was looking around the room and taking in the luxury of it all when he heard the rattle of a brass doorknob. It was the knob on one of the big mahogany doors. The big mahogany door opened and a man stepped into Bosco’s area. The man was tall, high cheekbones. He wore his greased hair slicked back and sported a perfectly shaped and waxed mustache. He wore a tweed jacket into which he had just half his hand stuck with the thumb outside. Bosco didn’t know who this man was, but he felt an instant dislike of the man and he could see it was mutual.
“Mr. Reddin?” the mustached man asked. His voice was crisp.
“That’s me,” Bosco advised.
“Do you know who I am?” The man wore a wry grin.
&n
bsp; “No. But I’ll bet you’re not the janitor.” Bosco winked.
“Ah, Dublin humor, where would you get it, eh?”
“Dublin?” Bosco offered as an answer.
“That was a rhetorical question, Mr. Reddin.”
“And that was more Dublin humor, Mr. . . . ?” Bosco now knew the man’s name, but he wanted the man to introduce himself.
“Parker-Willis. I am Mr. Parker-Willis,” Geoffrey announced. Bosco took a casual look about the luxurious walnut-paneled offices.
“Of course you are.” He smiled.
“Come into my office, Mr. Reddin,” Geoffrey ordered as he turned his back and walked in ahead of Bosco. Bosco entered the lavish office and walked to and sat in the leather chair. Geoffrey turned, a little surprised to see the man seated without invitation. Geoffrey spotted the door to the office still ajar. He pointed to the door.
“The door, Mr. Reddin.” Bosco looked over at the door and feigned a puzzled look. Then Bosco pointed to a painting on the wall.
“The painting, Mr. Parker-Willis. You’ll have to forgive me; I don’t know how to play this game,” Bosco apologized.
“I meant, shut the door, Mr. Reddin.” Geoffrey spoke through his teeth.
“Oh, sorry, Mr. Parker-Willis. I work in the casting shed, I don’t do doors. What you need is a doorman.” Bosco smiled. Geoffrey returned the smile and crossed the room. He closed the door himself.
“I think we both know why you’re here, Mr. Reddin,” Geoffrey said as he made his way to the chair. He sat.
“I know why you’re here, Mr. Parker-Willis. I have no idea why I’m here,” Bosco answered, quite honestly.
“Oh, come, now, Mr. Reddin! You’re hardly expecting me to just accept something like this? What did you think? That I would give you a big hug and start calling you ‘son’?” Parker-Willis chuckled.
“Not without a fuckin’ fight, Mr. Parker-Willis. You won’t hug me without a fight.” Bosco had no idea where this was going.
“My daughter is very important to me,” Geoffrey started, and waited. Bosco thought there would be more to this sentence. He didn’t realize he was expected to reply.
“Eh . . . that’s nice,” he managed.
“The thought of her marrying you may be very romantic to Constance, but you and I know the reality of it all would be . . . a disaster!”
Bosco’s mouth hung open for some moments. He stared across the desk at Geoffrey as his mind took in the details of the last statement. Geoffrey, mistaking this for the shock of discovery and not for the shock of disbelief that it actually was, carried on.
“Yes. She told me. I know all about it.” Geoffrey produced a cigar and lit it. Bosco quickly rooted in his pocket and pulled out a wrinkled half-smoked Afton cigarette. When they were both lit, Bosco spoke.
“She told you?” Bosco asked. Parker-Willis nodded knowingly.
“Now, look, Mr. Reddin, I have been around the course before. I know what you are up to, and I am a man who doesn’t beat about the bush with these things.” Geoffrey sat up and took a slow drag from his Havana.
“You know what I’m up to?” Bosco asked. Geoffrey nodded. “I see. So tell me, what am I up to, Mr. Parker-Willis?” Bosco was coming back from his shock now.
“Money.” Geoffrey answered. Bosco’s eyebrows lifted.
“Yeh think?” he said.
“Oh yes, Mr. Reddin. Money. It’s always about money. She may think you love her, but it’s money you love!” He chuckled and went on: “Constance is a fine girl, but she must be, what, I’d say ten years your senior? And she’s not exactly a blossoming beauty, eh? So—come on, how much?” Geoffrey was in businesss mode now and felt very comfortable. He sat back and waited for the man’s price. Bosco stood and walked to the window. He looked down at the filthy yard. He took a drag from his Afton and stared at the four huge chimney stacks spewing out the thick black soot-laden smoke that usually made its way into the Jarro. He turned.
“Make me an offer, Mr. Parker-Willis,” he said. Geoffrey smiled and touched the fingers of both his hands together in a little arch.
“One thousand pounds, Mr. Reddin.” Geoffrey spoke the mighty figure slowly, to give it impact. Bosco whistled.
“A thousand pounds would buy and furnish a good house, or buy and stock a shop, if a man had a mind to be a shopkeeper,” Bosco said.
Geoffrey had a grin as wide as Dublin Bay. “Yes, Mr. Reddin, a lot of money. So what do you say?”
Bosco squashed his cigarette in the ashtray and ran his hand through his black mane of hair.
“Let me just talk to someone and I’ll give you your answer then. Would that be all right, Mr. Parker-Willis?” Bosco asked.
Geoffrey stood and ushered Bosco to the door. “Of course, of course. I understand, Mr. Reddin. Let me know tomorrow.” Geoffrey was all smiles now. He knew he had him, the man didn’t even bargain.
“Oh, it won’t take that long, Mr. Parker-Willis, just a moment,” Bosco assured the man.
“Whatever.” Geoffrey raised his hands. “Whatever.” He charmed as Bosco left.
When he was gone, Geoffrey stood at his window over the yard and watched Bosco descend the steps. He saw him walk to the center of the yard and watched Bosco put a hand to each side of his mouth and begin to bellow. Bosco waited a moment and bellowed again. Geoffrey couldn’t make out what the man was saying, so he opened the window and leaned out to hear.
Constance had cried at first, then stopped. Then she ran to the window, looked out, and cried again. Then she ran back to her chair and cried again. It had been fifteen minutes since Bosco disappeared into her father’s office. Suddenly she saw the door to her father’s office open, and Bosco began to descend the steps. She watched as he walked to the center of the yard. He looked up at her window and shouted: “Miss! Miss Parker-Willis.”
She gave an involuntary yelp at hearing her name and ducked down, but she could still hear him.
“Miss Parker-Willis,” he called again. The yelling was attracting attention now, and the workers appeared from out of every place.
“Miss Parker-Willis,” Bosco called again. Bosco turned to the assembling crowd now. “What’s her first name?” he asked them. They all shrugged their shoulders.
“Constance,” came a voice from across the yard. It was one of the girls who worked in the wages office. “Her name is Constance,” the girl repeated. Bosco changed tack.
“Constance,” he called. “Constance Parker-Willis.” Constance slowly rose and peeked over the windowsill. The yard was packed now. All eyes looking to her window. She could see her father too, he was standing at his window, leaning out to hear.
Bosco called again: “Constance, are you there?”
Constance stood, brushed herself down, wiped her eyes, and patted down her skirt. She took a deep breath and threw open the windows. She looked down on Bosco. There was a circle of people around him. Silence descended at her appearance. They looked at each other, she and he.
“Yes, I’m here,” she called. There was a tremor in her voice. Bosco stepped closer to her window. “What do you want, Mr. Reddin?” she called. Bosco spoke loud enough for everybody to hear.
“Do you want to marry me?” he called up. All heads swung to look at Geoffrey Parker-Willis, then swung back to Constance. She was blushing so much her face glowed red. She stared at him. His face betrayed nothing of what he might be thinking. The words “Certainly not, you stupid man,” sprung to her mind. She opened her mouth.
“Yes,” she said. And her eyes began to fill. She felt as though she had ripped open her dress and exposed herself.
“Are you sure?” Bosco called out.
“Yes. I am sure, Mr. Reddin,” she answered. There was no going back now. A tear dropped onto her wrist. There was silence in the yard. Bosco first, and then everybody else, turned toward Geoffrey Parker-Willis.
“Mr. Parker-Willis, stick your money up your arse. I’m getting married.” The cheer in the yard was deafening. Geoffrey s
lammed his window closed. Bosco turned back to his new fiancée, a broad smile on his face. He smiled at her and winked. So much for the sitting with him and having a “chat,” then.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Forty-one steps. Constance had counted each and every one of them as she climbed to the top of the tenement building. The building was an old Georgian structure divided into four “homes” of three rooms each. There was no bath in the building and just one toilet, which was on the second landing. The stairs were wooden from the second floor upward but granite from the hallway to the toilet. Each of the twelve rooms in the building had an open fireplace, which provided the only heating, and beneath the stairs on the ground floor was a shed divided into four storage units, each with its own padlock. This was where you stored your fuel, be it turf, slack, or coal. There was also room to store a few other things, if you had anything else to store.
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