The Young Wan

by Brendan O'Carroll

  Constance stood behind a breathless Bosco as he wrestled with the key in the lock of flat 4C. She heard the lock click loudly. Bosco turned the blackened brass knob and swung the brown wooden door open. He turned to her.

  “It’s not a palace,” he said apologetically as he waved his arm wide for her to enter before him. Constance smiled nervously and entered what was to be her new home. She took in the center of the main room. It was gloomy. The room had one window to the world, and it was a multicolor of dirt and grime, from the green of algae on the outside to the brown staining of the coal and turf smoke on the inside.

  “Switch on the light,” she told Bosco over her shoulder without turning. He laughed.

  “It is on,” he said. She looked up to see a dull stained bulb doing its best to invade the gloom.

  “Jesus,” she mumbled under her breath. Through the dull light Constance surveyed her new home. The living room had a fireplace and four walls. In the corner off to Constance’s right stood a four-ring gas cooker and oven. Beside this was a large Belfast sink precariously hanging on two brackets sticking from the wall. Over the sink was one brass pipe, which when Constance turned the faucet began to groan, bang, and then spurt ice-cold water. She looked at Bosco with a raised eyebrow.

  “Needs a bit of work,” he said.

  Constance turned one of the brass fittings on the cooker. The putt putt and smell told her it was working. She moved to the window, undid the sash lock, and tried to raise the window open. It didn’t move. From behind her Bosco mumbled. “Needs a bit of work too.”

  Constance wet her finger and ran it across the windowpane, leaving a clear streak on the glass.

  “Who lived here before?” Constance asked.

  “The Widow Clancy,” Bosco answered.

  “She could have at least cleaned the window,” Constance moaned.

  “She lived here on her own with five children, she hadn’t time to look out the window, never mind clean it,” Bosco answered with a disapproving edge to his voice.

  “Sorry,” Constance said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  Bosco waved his hand before Constance could finish. “No, Connie, I’m sorry. I’ve been just waiting for you to complain. You’re right, it wouldn’t have taken much to clean the fuckin’ window. Look, as I said, it’s not a palace.” He held his arms out by his sides and tilted his head.

  “No, it’s not, and it probably never will be, but we can do our best to make it into a home,” Constance said. They smiled at each other.

  “The Penthouse.” Bosco laughed. Constance joined in, gently at first, then loudly, then hysterically, until tears ran down her face. She put her arms around Bosco and they rocked back and forth, laughing with tears streaming down their faces.

  Over the following six weeks, Constance would leave the iron foundry and go straight to 4C to work on the flat. Bosco would join her there when he was finished work, and they would work shoulder to shoulder to prepare their nest. Constance scrubbed and scraped, painted and polished. Bosco hammered and sawed and heaved and planed. Until, on October 11, 1933, just two weeks before they were to be married, Bosco and some of his friends carried the iron bedstead and mattress up the forty-one steps. They assembled the frame and placed it into the largest of the two bedrooms. With this done, the two surveyed their home. In the living room the wooden floors had been sanded and polished; over them was laid a square remnant of carpet that served as a rug. The ceiling, now with three coats of white paint, gleamed back the light from the 150-watt bulb Constance had acquired from the stores of the iron foundry. The walls were painted buttercup yellow and the dado rail white. The sink now had a cupboard built around it and a scullery cabinet beside it. The copper pipe and faucet were polished within an inch of their lives and gleamed gold over the sink.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The wedding bells clanged loudly across the parish for Bosco and Constance’s wedding day. The bell-ringer, a young man named Michael O’Malley, was swinging from the bell rope with great enthusiasm. Like many of the young boys in the Jarro, Michael came from a republican family, and to him Bosco was a hero, a living legend. When he had rung out the call to sacrament, Michael hightailed it down to the vestry to dress for serving the Mass. Michael had become an altar boy at just four years of age. Now, at eight, Michael, although younger than most of the boys, was in charge of the altar boys in St. Jarlath’s. This was one wedding he wanted to serve at the altar for himself. This was the importance attached to the wedding by the locals who knew and adored Bosco Reddin.

  It was the most one-sided wedding ever held in St. Jarlath’s Church. On the groom’s side there was not a seat to be had. On the bride’s side sat just four people. Three of them were waiting for confession, and the other was a wino the locals named “Pope” Charlie. He spent his time in churches drunk and shouting abuse at whatever priest was celebrating Mass. Bosco stood waiting at the altar in a suit borrowed from his uncle, a shirt borrowed from a friend, and new shoes he had bought himself.

  Constance Parker-Willis knew that on the day she married Bosco, she would be thrown out of her father’s home. She was to receive no dowry, no allowance, and was to be released from her father’s will. She left her home with just the clothes on her back, with the exception of one gift. Just before she had departed, Constance’s mother came to her room. She handed Constance a large box.

  “Take this,” she said to her daughter. “It is all I own, and I want you to have it.” Constance took the box. She hugged her mother and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Thank you, Mother. I’m sorry,” Constance managed to get out through her sobs.

  “Don’t be sorry, dear, be happy,” her mother said. And added, “I wish it were me.” With her head bowed, she left the room.

  When Constance arrived at the church, she was wearing the contents of the box her mother had given her. The veil that sat beneath the glittering tiara was a white mesh of silk. The bodice of the wedding gown was covered in a thousand pearls, all hand-sewn, and the flowing skirt was made up of white satin covered by a second skirt of handwoven Galway lace. Without doubt it was the most beautiful wedding dress to have graced the aisle of this church. And its crowning glory was the sixteen-foot silk-and-satin train that gently glided behind the bride as she made her way up the aisle. At the altar Bosco stretched out his arm and took her hand. Believe it or not, this was the first time Bosco Reddin had ever touched his bride, and his smile betrayed how beautiful and soft her skin felt.

  The ceremony itself was uneventful—well, up to the taking of the vows anyway. For it was at this point that Pope Charlie woke up in his pew and joined in the proceedings. When the priest asked Bosco, “Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?,” Pope Charlie got in first with, “Of course he does, he fuckin’ turned up, didn’t he.”

  “I do,” said Bosco.

  “And do you take this man . . .”

  “Same question, same fuckin’ answer.” Charlie was bored.

  “I do,” Constance said, looking into her husband’s dark eyes.

  At the end of the ceremony it was time for the bride and groom to make their way into the vestry to sign the Registry Book. The priest would lead the way, followed by the witnesses, then Michael O’Malley, finally the bride and groom. Just inside the door to the vestry, Bosco halted. Constance went on a little before she realized that she was walking alone. She turned.

  “Are you all right, Bosco?” she asked.

  “Yeh, I’m fine. Come here for a moment. Before we go in there.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?” Connie had a worried look.

  “Is everything all right, Bosco?” It was Michael O’Malley. Over Connie’s shoulder Bosco waved him on.

  “Fine, son, fine. Go ahead of us and tell the priest we’ll be with him in a minute.” Michael gave a thumbs-up sign.

  “No bother, Bosco.” And he was gone. Constance made to speak, but Bosco put his finger to her lips.

  “Shush.”
He smiled. “Hush for a minute and listen to me.” Connie nodded her head. His eyes were locked on hers as they stood huddled together in the corner of the hallway. When Bosco spoke, it was just above a whisper. “I know this has all happened very fast. And I know that we have stood out there and made promises and recited our lines. But there is something I want to say to you. Not out there, in front of all of them. Just me to you, but I want to say it here in the house of God. Constance Parker-Willis, I love you.” He waited a moment. “Do you believe that?” Constance’s eyes began to fill. For she realized that no man had ever spoken those words to her before. Not even her father. Now here she was, penniless, just the clothes on her back, disinherited, and up to recently homeless. And for the first time she felt truly loved. As the warm, glistening tears sprang forth, she nodded her head to her new husband and whispered, “Yes. I believe that.”

  Bosco smiled. He cupped his hand beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. Gently he kissed her on the lips. “I will never leave you, Connie, and wherever you go, woman, walk gently, for you carry the heart of this man with you.”

  Constance smiled. “I will walk as if I am on feathers,” she promised.

  Now he smiled. “Good. Now, there’s just one more thing.” He fished in his pocket and produced a headscarf. It was folded, and he placed it in her hand. She looked down at the scarf.

  “What’s this?” she asked

  “It’s yours,” Bosco replied. Constance was still puzzled.

  “Where did it come from?” she asked.

  “It came from around my leg, a long time ago.” A dawning crossed Constance’s face.

  “You were the boy . . .” she stammered out.

  “Aye. And you are the angel. Come, let’s make it official.” The rest was a blur to Constance.

  At one point during the signing of the registry the priest leaned over to Constance and whispered, “I’m so sorry about the shouting during the ceremony.”

  “What shouting?” Constance asked, and she meant it.

  The wedding breakfast that followed was attended by over a hundred guests, including Pope Charlie, and was the usual bawdy affair, with just one note that should be mentioned. In his speech Bosco referred at all times to his new wife as “Connie,” and he would do so from that day onward. She would never hear the name Constance again. A new name, a new beginning, and a whole new world.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Over the first twelve months of their marriage, Bosco encouraged Connie to make an effort to reconcile her differences with her father. He knew well the dreadfully lonely feeling of being an orphan and would have given anything to have just one more day with his father. She did, but to no avail. She went to work every day, and not only did she have no words with her father, she never even clapped eyes on him. Her sisters had disowned her, and her mother was held incommunicado. Then, when Connie became pregnant, she retired from her job at the foundry, so the chances of reconciliation were further reduced.

  On the sixth of December, 1934, Connie gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. She weighed in at six pounds and seven ounces. She had a mop of raven-black hair and screeched nonstop through her first ceremony when, four days later, she was brought to St. Jarlath’s and baptized Agnes Loretta Reddin, after the Blessed Agnes. The birth of Agnes prompted the last ever attempt to rejoin Connie with her family. With babe in arms, Connie boarded the tram and made her way to her former home in Kingstown. The house had not changed, but seemed bigger than she had remembered. She pulled the door chain. The door was opened by a maid. A new one. She was a good-looking young girl.

  “Yes? Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Could you tell Mr. Parker-Willis that Constance is here?” Connie smiled at the girl. She didn’t return it.

  “What’s wrong with you, woman! Did you not see the sign on the gate? No beggars!” the maid scolded.

  Constance held her temper. “I am his daughter, Constance Parker-Willis, and this is his granddaughter, Agnes. Now, if you cannot get my father, then send Mr. Pratchett out here.” Naming the butler had the desired effect, although the girl still made Connie wait at the door while she checked things out.

  When the girl returned some minutes later, she was perplexed. “Mr. Parker-Willis says he does not wish to see you today or any other day. And he told me to give you this for your child.” The girl stretched out her hand, in which she held a single pound note. Constance stared at the money for a moment. She did not take it.

  “Thank you,” is all she said as she walked away from her family for the final time. Her babe in arms, she returned home to the Jarro. Connie never told Bosco the sorry tale.

  Little Agnes Reddin had been a beautiful baby from the moment she was born. Her mop of soft, dark hair and beautiful tan-brown skin drew the attention of every Dubliner that passed the child’s pram. She grew up those first couple of years believing that adults only said “Oooh!” and “Aah!” As Agnes was a small-born baby, her mother, Connie, had been maybe a little overly protective in the child’s early years. Maybe.

  In any case, the baby Agnes grew rapidly into a bonny child, and blossomed with even more beauty as she approached her school-going years. She was a quiet child. Too quiet sometimes. Connie worried that if she should remain this quiet she would lack confidence when she got older. She mentioned this to the nun on Agnes’ first school day.

  “A quiet girl, is she? Quiet is good, Mrs. Reddin. What would you prefer? A screaming brat like most of the little tramps in here?” the sister yelped at her. Connie was even more nervous now, leaving her pride and joy with this awful woman.

  Agnes’ first few years in school passed without note. She remained a quiet girl over the first four years and was barely noticed, keeping to herself. However, when she entered Holy Communion class, this was about to change. Connie need never have to worry again about her daughter’s “confidence.” Agnes was about to meet Marion Delany.

  Thanks to that first day’s encounter with Marion, Agnes now looked forward to each day in school. And even Marion was now attending school most days, and sometimes stayed even for the whole day. It was a wonderful time for both of them. But when they would look back on this time years later, the one thing they would remember most of all was the day they both went to the church for their very first confession. Agnes’ befriending Marion Delany was to be a huge milestone in her life, and in that same year, yet another milestone was to arrive. Or should that be millstone?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Agnes was nearly five years old that day when her mother disappeared for the first time. Agnes had arrived home from school at three-fifteen. She had had a wonderful day at school. She had learned nothing at all, but Marion had stayed in school for the whole day, and they whispered to each other and giggled every time the nun’s back was turned. When Agnes walked the short couple of blocks and arrived home to her building, she was so happy that she bounded up the steps to her flat. The front door was closed, as usual, but today when she knocked there was no answer.

  She tried calling through the gap at the bottom of the door. With her face pressed against the floor she called: “Mammy? Mammy, it’s me, open the door.” This is fun, she thought. She changed her voice to a monster’s voice, speaking each word slowly: “Ooo . . . pen . . . daa . . . doooor.” And then she giggled. She did this for about fifteen minutes. Now she was bored, so she lay on her back with her feet up against the door and began banging on the door with her feet. She pretended she was walking up the door—bang, bang, bang.

  A voice shouted from another landing somewhere in the building: “Stop that fuckin’ banging!” The voice screached.

  “My mammy won’t open the door,” Agnes called back.

  “Then get yourself adopted, but stop the fuckin’ banging.” She heard a door slam.

  Agnes sat on the floor, resting her back against the door. She began to cry, very quietly lest the voice from the other place in the building call out again. As she sat there and wept, all kinds of horrible thing
s went through her mind. What if her mammy had gotten lost? Who would come here and open the door? Maybe her mammy and daddy had gone away and forgotten all about her? Sobbing softly, she fell asleep. When she awoke, it was now dark and she was so cold she was shivering. She had never been on this side of the door when it was dark, Mammy wouldn’t allow her. Agnes started to become very frightened. Suddenly there was a bang from the downstairs street door, and she heard footsteps climbing up the stairs. She started to panic now. There were no more stairs up, so she could only go down! This was no good, the footsteps were coming up and getting closer. In the corner she spied a crumpled sack, so she went to the corner and covered herself with the sack. She was sobbing with fear, and in an effort to stop the sobbing she held her breath. It didn’t work: the sobs just came out louder. The footsteps got louder, until she could tell they had reached her landing. Then they stopped. Just for a moment; now she could hear them again, coming toward her corner.