The Young Wan

by Brendan O'Carroll

  “I don’t want no fuckin’ presents. I’ll pay me way. How much is it?” Nellie insisted.

  But Agnes wasn’t backing down. She stopped working and let fly at the woman. “It’s a fuckin’ present! You can’t buy it. If you want to wear it, then wear it; if you don’t want to, then throw it in the bin, I don’t care.” But she did. Agnes went back to work.

  Nellie threw the apron back on the stall and went to work herself. Mumbling, but loud enough for Agnes to hear. “You watch your tongue, miss, don’t you cheek me. Little bitch. And the fuckin’ language out of you.” She mumbled on. Agnes ignored her.

  Later that day, Marion and Agnes had gone around to the Pillar Café in O’Connell Street for their break, and a very important subject came up. Boys.

  “It’s all right for you, Agnes. Every boy that walks down Moore Street has his tongue hanging out when he sees you,” Marion was moaning. “I could stand up on the stall in me nude with a carrot sticking out of me arse and they’d walk straight past, or ask how much the carrots are.” Agnes nearly choked on her cream bun, laughing at the thought of Marion naked on top of the stall. Marion wasn’t joking.

  “Really, Aggie, you have to come with me to the dance. You get the boys over to us and I’ll finish them off; please come, just one night,” Marion begged. Marion had taken to going to the dance halls on Friday nights. It was the in thing. She would ask Agnes to go with her every week, but week after week Agnes declined, saying that she had no interest, and could not afford it anyway. With Dolly in her last year at school, Agnes was saving her money to have enough to buy her some clothes to wear for when she went looking for a job.

  “Marion, I don’t like dances, I’m not going,” Agnes insisted.

  “How do you know you don’t like them? You’ve never been!” Marion wasn’t giving up.

  “I’m not going. That’s that.” Agnes held her hand up to signify the end to the matter. They finished their tea without further mention of the dances. When they returned to work, there was lots to do, and Agnes got stuck into it. As she worked that afternoon, her smile was even broader than usual, for on her return she saw that Nellie Nugent was selling away with great gusto, wearing her new apron.

  The following Friday evening, as Agnes was putting away the last of the stall with Marion, Nellie came down to the sheds to pay her. She handed Agnes three pound notes folded, and as Agnes took them she could feel coins in the middle of the fold. Agnes opened the bills to find two half-crowns. Five shillings extra!

  “What’s this?” Agnes asked. Then she frowned. “Wait a second, if this is for the apron you can stick it!” Agnes was insulted.

  Nellie held her hands up. “Will you stop jumping on everything I do, young wan? It’s not for that piece of shite that you call an apron. You might have forgot, but you are a year working with me this week. It’s a raise, that’s all. You’re due it. See you on Monday, and don’t be late.” Nellie left. Agnes was never late, but Nellie said this every Friday. Agnes stood looking after her with the money in her hand.

  “A raise?” Marion said as she emerged from the shed. “Now you have no excuse. You’re coming dancing, Agnes Reddin!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  There are many ways for girls to meet boys in Dublin: in school, at the local fish-and-chip shop, around some of the Sunday spots like the Botanic Gardens if you live on the Northside or St. Stephen’s Green if you lived on the Southside. But nowhere were you more certain of a “cuirt” than at a dance.

  The dance scene in Dublin was divided into two. There were the “hops,” impromptu dance nights held by various local clubs or the parish-hall committees. These were in general innocent affairs, well supervised by adults or even priests, and the boys and girls were kept well apart from each other. Hops were generally attended by the younger teenagers, though from time to time the odd hairy teenager popped up. These were usually farm boys from the country areas that skirted Dublin, and rather than a quick squeeze these men were actually looking for a wife.

  In the City Centre was the other half of the dance scene. The ballrooms. Now, although the word “ballroom” conjures up thoughts of women in swirling taffeta dresses, elegant men in dinner suits, Dublin’s ballrooms were nowhere near these thoughts, and dancing was not their primary function. These were ballrooms of romance. Somewhere to “score.” Somewhere to “shift,” or get a “wearo,” or, even better, a “feel.” The rooms themselves were dirty, stuffy places with a pall of blue cigarette smoke hanging permanently in the air, and although only tea and lemonade were usually served, the rooms reeked of the alcohol odor spewing from every male breath. For rarely will a Dublin boy or man venture into the dance before midnight and after a feed of gargle. The dress code was strict, skirts or dresses for women, shirt and tie and jacket or suits for men. No matter that the carpet was sticky and the walls damp with condensation: for Agnes, as she was pulled into the Macushla Ballroom for the first time, it was magic. The place heaved with bodies, the music blared from the stage, the huge crystal ball in the center of the ceiling sent tiny sparkles of light around the room and across the faces of the young men and girls who stood in groups smiling and chatting. Agnes stood there wide-eyed and speechless, expecting at any moment to see Humphrey Bogart or even James Dean cross the gigantic empty dance floor. Empty dance floor?

  “Nobody’s dancing,” Agnes shouted to Marion.

  “Whah?”

  “I said nobody is dancing,” Agnes repeated.

  “Of course not, its too early. Come on, let’s get a spot at the radiator.” Marion began to tug at Agnes.

  They moved further into the room and Agnes spotted a small empty table beside a radiator. She halted.

  “There’s a spot,” she screamed, but Marion shook her head.

  “No, that’s their side,” she said, and moved on.

  Puzzled, Agnes went after Marion. Marion was now moving through the crowd like a ferret, but Agnes caught up with her.

  “Whose side?” Agnes asked.

  “Theirs—the fellas—that’s their side. Our side’s over there.” Marion pointed to the wall on the other side of the ballroom. On that other wall there were over three hundred girls standing all alone. No men. Agnes looked back at the opposite wall and was now aware that the crowd that was there, again about another three hundred, were all men. The room was rectangular, so it had two long walls and two short walls. The two end short walls belonged to the couples, boys and girls with steady girlfriends and boyfriends. The goal of every person on the long walls was to eventually move to one of the short walls. At a screaming level, Marion explained all of this to Agnes. Agnes realized that she had much to learn about going to a dance.

  “How do we meet the boys, if they’re over there and we’re over here?” she asked Marion.

  “I’ll tell you in a minute,” Marion answered. “Let’s get a spot first.”

  Agnes was puzzled and was about to be stunned, for whereas Agnes was trying to help by looking out for a place on the wall that was unoccupied, Marion was just looking for a “good” spot. When she found the spot she was looking for, Marion pointed it out to Agnes. “There, over there,” she called, and went for it. There were already four girls around this radiator, but no matter, Marion barged over, and Agnes watched the exchange open-mouthed.

  “Who are you?” Marion asked the biggest of the four girls.

  “Joan McCarthy,” the girl answered.

  “From where?” Marion was like a detective.

  The girl glanced to her friends and got no support. “Mountjoy Square,” the girl answered.

  Marion pointed at the wall behind the girls. They all turned to see, just above the radiator, the words etched in the plaster, “The Jarro.” The girls turned back to Marion, the big girl now taking up the cause. “So what?” the big girl asked.

  Marion leaned closer to the big girl. “So move,” Marion said threateningly.

  “Look, we just came here to dance,” the big girl stated a bit dismiss
ively.

  Marion did not blink. “You won’t get many dances with a fuckin’ broken leg, love,” she answered, and the four girls promptly moved.

  The evening was great fun. Agnes hadn’t a clue how to dance, so refused the forty or so requests she had from boys and men of all shapes and sizes. She was content just to soak up the magic and the atmosphere. Marion, on the other hand, was a super little dancer, and received no requests. So Marion danced with other girls. This was not unusual; in fact, the first hour of dancing was done by the girls only.

  “Come on and dance with me, Agnes,” Marion roared over the music to Agnes.

  “No. I can’t dance, Marion!” Agnes shook her head, which was beginning to get a little fuzzy, as Marion had introduced Agnes to Mr. Smirnoff and Mr. Coca-Cola.

  “I’ll teach you, come on,” Marion insisted.

  Agnes scanned the dance floor. The music that was playing was “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?” And the floor was moving in a clockwise parade of waltzers, most of them girls with girls. Agnes thought they looked silly. She shook her head. “No, Marion. Not yet, maybe in a couple of weeks, but not yet.” She really did not want to try it.

  At the end of the waltz, the master of ceremonies made an announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, here’s the latest from America. By Bill Haley and the Comets.” And it started. Even before the music began, the girls ran screaming onto the dance floor. They paired off with each other and waited, the energy filling the room.

  “One, two, three o’clock, four o’clock, rock” boomed out from the Tannoy, and the rest of the song was sung in unison by the crowd. The dance floor looked as if it had been invaded by a herd of whirling dervishes as the heaving mass began to “jive.”

  Agnes was enthralled. She didn’t know what the feeling was, but her foot began to tap, her head to shake, and she wanted to dive onto the floor and go crazy. Agnes was witnessing the birth of “rock and roll.”

  “Oh Jesus, Marion, I have to learn that!” she screamed at her tiny friend.

  “Come on, then,” roared Marion, and extended her hand.

  “Not now. Not here. But you have to teach me,” Agnes pleaded.

  Over the next week, Agnes jived around her flat, herself and Marion providing the song, breathlessly singing as they danced. Agnes took to it well, too well for Marion’s liking. Marion would finish each session with her nylons twisted around her ankles and thankful that she still had her knickers on. Connie sat bemused, watching tiny Marion trying to throw Agnes over her shoulder; Connie hadn’t a clue what was going on, but she smiled and even clapped along at times. By the following week, Agnes could jive, and even Dolly knew the words of the song by heart. Rock and roll had invaded the Jarro. The following Friday night, Agnes took a dance from the first boy that asked her, and from then on there was no shortage of boys looking to dance, so Agnes jived the night away. She loved rock and roll, she loved dancing. She was hooked. The thrill of her first night on the tiles was, however, about to be overshadowed.

  On her return home to her flat at midnight, she found her mother, who was supposed to be in the care of Dolly, sitting outside the flat, on the landing, chilled to the bone. Agnes took the cold and confused woman into her bed and covered her up. There was no sign of Dolly.

  “Mammy, where’s Dolly?” she asked her mother gently.

  “Gone. She’s gone,” Connie said.

  “Gone where, Mammy? Please, it’s important!” Agnes was furious with Dolly but didn’t show it to her mother.

  “The police took her away, they came and took her,” Connie said as she drifted away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Store Street Police Station was packed. Friday night was a busy one for the Gardai. Black Marias were lining up to spew out the scum of the night into the station. Agnes made her way past groping drunks and screaming derelicts to the reception area. There was a young policeman manning the desk. As Agnes approached, he was writing in a huge book.

  “Excuse me, please,” Agnes called to him over the din.

  He didn’t look up from his work. “What?” he asked the book.

  “I’m trying to find my sister,” she said.

  The young officer looked up. As was usual, Agnes was pretty enough to get his full attention. He smiled. “Well, if she’s anything as pretty as you, we should have no problem finding her.” He opened his book again and prepared to take notes. “Now, when did you see her last?” he asked.

  Agnes cut to the chase. “She’s here. Well, I think she is.”

  “Here?” The Garda looked up slowly. “What is she doing here?” He was not as interested in Agnes now.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s the name?” He lifted the charge roster.

  “Reddin. Dolly Reddin.” Agnes tried to read the list upside down, but couldn’t. The young Garda ran his finger down the list. Then stopped.

  “She’s here all right. She’s a burglar, then?”

  “What? Burglar? Oh Christ, I’ll kill her!” Agnes began to sob. “Can I see her?” she asked.

  Dolly looked so scared, sitting in the interview room alone. Agnes looked in at her through the wired glass window in the door. Dolly’s eyes were red from crying, and she was shaking.

  “Five minutes. You can see her in the morning, then, in court. She’s up at ten-thirty a.m.,” the policeman said. Then he opened the door. When she entered, Dolly ran to her and threw her arms about her.

  “Oh, Agnes, I’m afraid.”

  Dolly was shocked when Agnes pushed her away. “You little bitch! How could you?” Agnes screamed. “Leaving Mammy alone is bad enough, but back to your old tricks with your scumbag friends!” Agnes was furious.

  “I didn’t do anything!” Dolly protested.

  But Agnes slapped her across the face. “Don’t lie to me!” Dolly began to cry softly. She sat back down in the chair and just stared at the floor, rocking back and forth. Agnes knocked on the door to be let out of the room.

  “I knew you wouldn’t believe me,” Dolly said to her older sister’s back. Agnes left. She cried all the way home.

  Nellie Nugent did not ask, but she could tell that there was something wrong with Agnes. When Nellie arrived at the stall with the pram full of produce, Agnes had virtually dumped it onto the stall, rather than her usual placing of each different item like a sculptor. She let her work on. If Agnes had something to say, Nellie was certain she would say it when she needed to.

  Nellie got her result at about 9 a.m. Agnes approached her nervously.

  “Mrs. Nugent, can I take some of the morning off?” she asked.

  “For what?” Nellie asked, sending Agnes into a flood of tears. Nellie got a start at this reaction. She went to Agnes and held her by the shoulders.

  “Christ Almighty, what’s wrong, child?” she asked. Agnes wriggled out of Nellie’s grip, but instead of pulling away, she put her arms around the big woman’s waist and buried her head in Nellie’s huge bosom. Nellie was startled by this and didn’t know what to do. She stood there with Agnes gripping on to her, and she with her arms wide like a Christ on the crucifix.

  “Pull yourself together, young wan!” Nellie admonished her. But Agnes just cried. Slowly Nellie closed her arms and hugged the young girl. Then she began to pat the child on the back, saying, “There, there, there.” Agnes calmed. Nellie’s voice and the patting of her back made her feel protected. Agnes would learn to do this to calm anyone she had crying in her own arms for the rest of her life. When she was calm, Nellie sat Agnes down and made her tell the whole story.

  When she had finished the telling, Nellie asked, “What makes you think that she did do anything?”

  Agnes was aghast at the question. “She’s on probation, she’s done it before, and anyway the police don’t make that kind of mistake.”

  Nellie raised an eyebrow at this last part. “Yes, they do,” she asserted. “And right now what your sister needs more than anything is for you to believe her.�
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  “Do you think they could be wrong, really?” Agnes asked.

  “The chances of somebody being innocent increase in direct proportion to the amount of people trying to prove them guilty,” Nellie recited the longest sentence Agnes had ever heard her utter. Agnes hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. It showed in her face. Nellie thought of explaining, then changed her mind. “What time is the court case?” she asked.

  “Half past ten. Do you mind if I go?” Agnes asked.

  “I’ll get Mrs. Delany to mind our stall. We’ll both go down there.” Nellie stood. She ran her hand over Agnes’ head and went across the street to make the arrangements. The use of the phrase “our stall” was not lost on Agnes.