Leaving Ardglass E-Book

William King

• Herausgeber: The Lilliput Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

'One of the best novels to have come out of Ireland in a long time it chronicles not just a personal and spiritual journey but the state of a nation over 40 years. Outstanding.' John Boland, Irish Independent. 'Leaving Ardglass gives us a stunning insight into Church politics, the highs and lows of serving God, and the confusions and contradictions that modern Ireland has foisted on all of us.' Joe Duffy, Mail on Sunday. 'A finely written and brave book that throws up uncomfortable truths and interesting parallels between hidden worlds driven by ambitious men determined to survive.' Dermot Bolger, Sunday Business Post. In 1961, MJ Galvin, an Irish building contractor in London, brings over his kid brother, Tom, to join the family business. Educated, sensitive and naive, and destined for the seminary, Tom witnesses a killing, learns about dead men and the start in Camden Town, experiences drunken brawls and the excitement of dancehall nights in the Galtymore. He faces a decision that will shape his future: will he join his successful brother and make a fortune, or follow an inner voice towards the priesthood? The inner voice prevails, Tom enrolls as a seminarian, goes to Rome, becomes a monsignor and is tipped for a bishopric, only to renounce power and prestige, and be relegated to a quiet country parish disillusioned by the betrayal of principles within his Church as a new century dawns. This powerful family saga evokes the tensions and transformations within a new Ireland as traditional values give way to consumerism and one man's odyssey becomes everyman's.

Leseprobe

Leaving Ardglass

William King

THE LILLIPUT PRESS DUBLIN

Contents

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1

‘TIME TO RING THE BELL,’ I remind the sacristan as I settle the green chasuble over my shoulders.

In the mirror beside the vesting bench, I can see him grip his walking stick and shuffle to the back door of the church; his shadow stretches out over the ancient flagstones. ‘For whom the bell tolls, Monsignor.’

For whom the bell tolls: the same routine every morning. He brushes along the gravel path, and a gloomy succession of strokes invades the vestry. Roused from his sleep, a neighbour’s collie barks in anger.

The sacristan’s arthritic hip is a legacy of his days digging trenches in London. ‘You wouldn’t treat an animal like that. Out in all weather,’ he said to me once when I visited his house soon after I arrived here in Kildoon under a cloud. He was rummaging for biscuits, even though I had assured him that a cup of tea would be fine.

While he spoke, I was in a time warp: every street corner and café in Kilburn and Camden Town I had come to know so well forty years before came alive. He was shining a torch too on a summer in London which had changed me, on a chapter of my story which I had wrapped up and hidden away in some dark cupboard.

‘Any chance you’d help me around the church. Nothing heavy, just to put out the chalice, the cruets and so on,’ I had asked him.

‘Glad to, Monsignor.’

To be honest, I could have managed these chores myself, but I needed company. Around here, apart from meeting a few old people who come to the morning Mass, I might not see another soul for the rest of the day. And yet, after all I’ve been through in the past couple of years, I have found peace. Peace or refuge – I’m not sure which.

Just off the motorway for the North, where the traffic begins to pick up after leaving Drogheda, Kildoon has two pubs, a Londis and a service station: here lorry drivers stop for breakfast rolls, or burgers and greasy chips on their way to Belfast. Against the advice of the planners, the service station owner gained access to the main road. The locals claim that brown envelopes had been slipped to councillors. Since the new housing estate has been completed, a bottle bank has appeared where the old creamery used to be. The two pubs are jam-packed on a Saturday night and are at full pitch when the sacristan and I are locking the church. Later, the thunder of Range Rovers, Cherokees and Pathfinders wakes me and the neighbour’s dog when customers are on their noisy way home long after closing time.

Now, through the open door leading to the church, I hear the stragglers arrive: the two old ladies who run a haberdashery and who will whisper to each other until I appear in the sanctuary. Close by one of the radiators, Kevin the bell-ringer, a one-time seminarian, will be working through his faded novena leaflets. The day before his ordination, he took off accross the football pitch at the back of the seminary, spent twenty years in England and then returned to the village where his mother runs the post office. ‘Mammies are great, aren’t they, Monsignor?’ he informs me one day when I am buying stamps.

‘They are. Great.’

When the sacristan returns, we bow to the crucifix, and enter the sanctuary where the usual half a dozen or so are scattered thinly about the church, one or two continuing to say their rosary during Mass.

Although they must know that I was once Bishop Boylan’s right-hand man and a candidate to succeed him or be given another diocese, they never raise the subject when I visit their homes, nor how Boylan’s successor, Bishop Nugent and I had been at loggerheads. They would have picked up the diocesan rumours also – I am still sore at being turned down for a mitre. My argument with Nugent was nothing more than sour grapes, some of the priests had said, and the best decision I took was to bow out gracefully, and not cause a division in the diocese.

When we cut logs with the chainsaw at the back of the house, the sacristan confines himself to describing his daughter’s children in Margate, and how he and his wife can’t wait for their next visit. Learning that my brother is M.J. Galvin, and that I, as a student, had worked in north London, he resurrects a patchwork of memories: dances in Holloway Road and Cricklewood; fights in the Crown; the drenching they got in the back of open lorries at six in the morning, heading out to Guildford or Reading in the driving wind and rain. ‘No one will ever know except us what it was like when we slaved behind the mixer,’ he says while he holds back a branch, and I sink the screaming chainsaw into a log and send up a shower of amber chippings. ‘’Twas savage,’ he adds as the log drops on a bed of sawdust and I shut down the throttle; the neighbour’s dog goes silent. ‘Our own were the worst,’ and then he rushes in with a sweetener, ‘although your brother, by all accounts, was fair.’

He grimaces as he stretches his back, and looks away towards the main road where articulated trucks and jeeps are rumbling past a hoarding that shows a laughing couple tripping along by a blue sea’s edge. The caption says that the Costa del Sol is the place to buy your own villa at a knockdown price.

‘We were neither fish nor flesh. Branded as letting down this ould country by going across to John Bull. Sure we’d have starved to death if we’d stayed.’ He flings another log on the pile. ‘And not wanted there because we were the drunken Irish.’

In the evening, when my housekeeper has left and I settle down to the newspaper and Lyric FM, a hoard of memories begins to stir. I put aside the paper and take a sip from my doctor’s advice: ‘A glass of milk at night, Monsignor. Good for an ulcer. Try not to be worrying; what happened is beyond your control. Look, take one of these tablets, if you feel anxious; they’re not strong but they’ll calm you, and try to stay off the hard stuff.’ She smiles when she hands me the prescription for tranquillisers.

The field in front of the presbytery reaches down to a disused railway line; beyond the line, boys, with ‘Keane’ and ‘Ronaldo’ on their backs, chase a ball around the soccer pitch, filling the air with their cries. But the sacristan’s words keep tugging at my elbow, drawing me back to London – pointing out men in turned-down wellingtons and hobnailed boots. The paddy wagon is screeching to a halt on the glistening cobbled streets outside M.J.’ s pub, The Highway. A queue is forming in front of Willesden Post Office; I see them, as clearly as ‘Keane’ and ‘Ronaldo’, clutching five-pound notes for money orders to send home.

I switch off the radio. Write it. ‘No one would believe what we went through in those days, especially with all this wealth. Not even if you swore on the Bible!’ The sacristan’s words circle my brain, looking for a landing. Maybe they would believe, if I tell the full story as I remember it.

Although I no longer take the occasional Valium, I still have scars from my fight with Nugent about the way he pilloried innocent priests. I need some project to lift my gloom. Earlier one of my golfing foursome had rung to tell me the latest gossip – they thrive on gossip. We were ordained together, and, apart from my three years in Rome doing a doctorate, we have been meeting almost weekly for the past forty years: golf on a Thursday and then the week after Easter we spend in one of M.J.’s villas outside Málaga. Since I came to Kildoon, I have more time on my hands, so I join them for cards on a Friday night. And to be honest, I too relish the clerical gossip.

My golfing confrère tells me that another priest who had been accused of molesting a child has been cleared by the Director of Public Prosecutions. ‘But the harm is done, Tommy. Nugent visited the parish and announced at all the Masses that he was withdrawing him from the ministry. You can’t clear your name after that. But sure what did the Church ever care about us?’

I go to the Jameson bottle at the weekend, yet I know full well where that leads. Working for two bishops over thirty years, I have seen priests – and indeed bishops – who had gone too far out and would stare at me with defeated eyes or turn away when I tried to talk to them about their drinking. Easy for my doctor, however, to issue prescriptions. She doesn’t have to live in an old Georgian house surrounded by stone walls, a field away from the nearest neighbour.

2

IBEGIN CLOSE TO THE END. In my room in All Saints Seminary, one Sunday morning last September, I am mulling over a way to defend a priest whom Nugent wants expelled from the diocese. While on a parish holiday to Italy, the priest had been caught in bed with a married woman; her husband is claiming that the priest has ruined his marriage, and is talking about suing the diocese. ‘Do your best for me,’ the priest pleads. ‘I’m no saint, I know, but I was hitting the bottle then. Big time, Tom.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ I say.

The phone interrupts my trawl through his file.

‘Monsignor Galvin,’ the operator says, ‘a call for you from London.’

‘Thanks, Eamon.’ I can hear M.J. clearing his throat. ‘Are you busy, Tommy? I want a word.’

‘Fire away.’

Through the window I can see Nugent below me pacing around by the fountain at the centre of the cloister. With him are the two other priests who, with me, form his kitchen cabinet: Father Henry Plunkett and the lanky cut of Father Vinny Lynch, known since his student days as Dr Hackenbush from the way he boasted about the three generations of doctors in his family. ‘Here cometh Dr Hackenbush,’ said a college wag one day while students were idling by the tennis courts.

‘Did you see the papers?’ M.J.’ s voice sounds more gravelly with the passing years.

‘Not yet.’

‘I’m called to appear at the Heaslip Tribunal.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘The Revenue are claiming I had an offshore account. Sure I left all that to Seery. I didn’t know half the time where my money was going. That’s what I was paying that bastard for. They’ve nothing on me.’

‘No, absolutely not.’ Soothing words come easily after years of listening to cries for understanding.

‘I’ll be over in Dublin for a few days. We might meet for a bite.’

‘Sure.’

‘Brownes on Thursday, one-ish.’

My day for golf, but I say, ‘Right. See you there.’

I watch Nugent ambling back towards the college. He was once regarded as the most handsome-looking man in the diocese, with prospects of a diplomatic career at the Vatican. When he was a student at Maynooth College, girls from the village used to attend the public Mass just to gape at him. Now he wears a hangdog look – the visible effect of his fights with what he considers to be a world out of kilter. Plunkett’s head is tilted in a listening pose, and Lynch is throwing a tennis ball for Caesar, the bishop’s Alsatian.

True to form, M.J. gets off the phone as soon as he’s got what he wanted. He makes a passing reference to the Church’s difficulties. ‘You’ve a lot on your plate. I see another unfortunate on TV last night.’

‘Hard times, M.J., but we’ll pull through.’

‘I hope so. Thursday then.’

I put down the phone and glance at the empty cloister. Once, when the seminary was full, this time on a Sunday was special. A few of us who taught theology sorted out our lecture notes for the following week and then met before lunch for a gin and tonic.

Since the last student was ordained two years ago, my work consists of attending the bishops’ meetings in Maynooth, advising Nugent on moral issues and hearing priests’ grievances in the front parlour of the bishop’s house. And unless they ask specifically to see Nugent, I listen to their confusion about a world that is banging the front door in their faces.

Ever since the seminary closed eight years ago, we have Sunday lunch in the bishop’s house. Standing defiantly on top of a hill, and across the main driveway to All Saints, this granite miniature of a Roman palazzo had been built towards the end of the nineteenth century. Sometimes visiting bishops or cardinals from Italy or Germany, or theologians on the lookout for a mitre, join us for the meal; this Sunday we are on our own.

After Nugent has blessed the food in Latin, his valet, standing at the sideboard, lifts the lid off the soup tureen, releasing a cloud of steam.

‘Tom,’ Nugent says as he removes his napkin from its silver ring, ‘you didn’t manage a walk. Lovely out today, thank God. Indian Summer.’

‘I’ll take a stroll by the river later.’

The media becomes the object of his rage once again. ‘That wretch on the television distorted my words,’ Nugent is saying in reference to an interview he has given. Behind him on the wall is the broad figure of the smiling Pope and himself in a double handshake.

‘She doorstepped you that day you were flying to Rome.’ Vinny Lynch fusses around the table filling wine glasses. ‘I can’t for the life of me understand what has got into these people who are bent on destroying our Church.’

‘Power,’ says Plunkett, ‘that’s what they want. And they’re ashamed of being Catholic.’

I too make agreeable sounds. Like supporting actors in a long-running play, each of us knows when to speak our lines. Lynch fidgets with his knife and fork; Plunkett parrots the bishop’s dissatisfaction about young people not going to Mass and drinking to excess – too much money and no discipline.

When his anger has spent itself, Nugent revisits the good old days when he had been a professor at the national seminary and six hundred students filled the chapel every Sunday for morning Mass.

After a couple of glasses of Chardonnay, I am able to flow with the tide, and nod like Plunkett as if hearing all this for the first time. The bishop’s valet serves our coffee and we relax in the delicious aftertaste of good food and wine. Then small talk until I excuse myself: I have to work on files and take that walk by the river. They understand.

And each of us follows the time-worn habit for Sunday. The bishop will go for his siesta, a Roman custom since his student days at the Collegio Irlandese. Vinny Lynch will walk Caesar, and then visit his maiden aunt for tea and scones. Plunkett will disappear to the house he got at a cut-price from an old woman he used to visit with Communion every Friday.

In my room I search through the Sunday newspapers until I come across the piece on the Heaslip Tribunal, and, right at the centre, photos of my brother M.J.: one taken nearly twenty years ago at Fairyhouse Racecourse; beside him, Donaghy, the government minister, who has also been called to give evidence. In a panel at one side, a journalist had resurrected a piece about a farm near Naas when M.J. was accused of bribing Donaghy, through his bagman, Seery, to have the land rezoned. That case fell through for want of evidence. The headline spells it out: ‘Multi-millionaire has questions to answer.’

I read the opening paragraph:

One of Ireland’s most successful builders will appear at the Heaslip Tribunal during the coming week. Mr M.J. Galvin, who left his native Kerry in 1952 for London, is a self-made man, and has been carrying out major building contracts both here and in Britain: one such contract was an extension to Heathrow Airport. Mr Galvin has been summoned to give evidence about one of his companies, Ardglass Trust, and its connection with a Cayman Islands bank account.

At the bottom of the page are more pictures of M.J.’s house in Terenure and of housing estates he had built around Dublin and County Meath.

I put down the newspaper and stare through the window. Instead of the empty cloister, another theatre spreads out before me. Laughing crowds are romping outside Quex Road Church in north London during Sunday Mass; hands are clutching shillings and half-crowns, and reaching out above the milling crowd towards the stalls that sell the Donegal Democrat, the Connacht Tribune and other provincial papers. I see M.J.’s roguish smile and shock of wavy hair, girls in flared summer frocks and mother-of-pearl necklaces. The music of Brendan Bowyer and the Royal Showband is streaming through the open doors of the Galtymore Ballroom.

3

M.J. SENDS A CHEQUE the year I do my Leaving Certificate – Barclays Bank in copperplate print – with a note attached: ‘Travel like the swanks – get a flight from Shannon.’ In the boarding school, also paid for by copperplate Barclay, I keep the cheque in my locker, beneath a 45 record: Ray Peterson’s ‘Tell Laura I Love Her’. My future is secure: I would go on to study engineering at the university and then join M.J. in the firm. He had been in London for nine years and already was employing over a hundred men, and had bought a pub on Kilburn High Road.

When the neighbours in Ardglass see our new house going up, they satisfy their jealousy by spreading the rumour that when M.J. is clearing away bombed-out buildings, he helps himself to safes and jewellery. ‘Far away from boarding schools and two-storey houses the Galvins were reared. Only the crows nesting in the thatch.’ My father is still trying to get the feel of the new house and never uses the toilet, preferring instead to chuck his coat over his back and hunker near a hedge behind the cowhouse. ‘Go by boat, Tomásheen,’ he tells me, ‘you’ll see what’s happening to this oul country of ours with all this emigration.’

The morning I leave, we have to squeeze our way to the ticket office at the railway station.

‘Make sure you don’t lose Hanna’s address, Peg,’ a woman says to a girl of about sixteen or seventeen who is crying openly.

‘No, Ma, I won’t.’

‘And talk to a priest if you need anything.’

They kiss on the lips, the girl rushes for an open door of the train and disappears inside, dragging her case behind her. Without looking back, the woman gathers about her three other children who are sobbing loudly, and shepherds them out of the station. With belts or twine around their suitcases, a gang of men makes a noisy entrance: they laugh loudly and jostle their way through the crowd, one or two are carrying hurley-sticks. Dressed in the faded jacket of the Local Defence Force, a boy with a forlorn look stands near the Eason’s kiosk. His shovel blade is wrapped in old newspaper; beside him stands an elderly woman in a black shawl. They are silent, except when, now and again, the woman looks up at him and speaks; he nods and throws a hooded glance around the station, a sheepish grin on his face.

My mother talks to the girl at the hatch and returns with a ticket. ‘Put that in a safe place,’ she says, and buries her hands deep in the pockets of her coat – a relic of her days in America. As an only child, she had to return from Chicago and look after the four cows when her father died in the County Home. ‘Wasn’t I the fool to bring that drunkard into this house, instead of going back to America for myself?’ became her lament whenever my father returned maudlin from a fair and had to be put to bed.

Now he is greeting people he has never seen before. ‘Soon there won’t be anyone left to bury us,’ he jokes with a porter.

‘Old stock,’ says the porter, taking a pocket watch from his waistcoat, ‘same every week. We’re losing the flower of the crop. Nothing here for the poor devils.’

‘Look out for yourself over there.’ My mother turns to me. ‘My poor son Mossie would be alive only for that place.’ At every opportunity she blames M.J. for persuading another brother to join him in England: Mossie disappeared one rainy night in Kentish Town, and was found floating in the Thames a week later. ‘Death consistent with a severe beating to the head’ was the coroner’s report. Our neighbours in Ardglass got a different version: Mossie had slipped and fallen off a ladder. There was no mention of the row he had started earlier that night in a pub.

‘I’d better be getting a seat,’ I say.

My father begins to sob: ‘Goodbye, my son. Write to us.’

‘I will.’

‘Phone Eily,’ my mother is already tightening the scarf around her head, ‘and tell her to keep an eye on that sister of hers.’ Even now, she won’t relax the bitter tone when she talks of my sister Pauline, who ran from the convent and joined Eily to train as a nurse in Leeds.

‘I’ll be back in no time. Sure I’m only going for three months.’

‘Don’t let him work you too hard.’ Her handshake is hard and dry.

‘No. Goodbye so.’

As the carriages begin to shunt, plumes of smoke fill the station, and a guard’s whistle pierces the sad air; my father waves and hobbles along the platform. A mournful cry rises from the girls I had seen earlier. Caring little for those around her, the woman with the shawl screams through the open window. ‘Come back, Mike, if ’tis too much for you. You’ll never be short of a bite at home, boy.’ Her voice breaks and she lets out a pitiful cry: ‘You’ll always have a roof over your head as long as I’m alive, d’you hear me, Mike boy.’

Her son casts aside his wary look and calls out: ‘I hear you, Mam. Goodbye so, and I’ll be back at Christmas. Mind yourself.’ He is calling so loud to his mother, a vein stands out at the side of his neck.

Sunlight floods the carriage as the train gains the open countryside. The clatter of a horse-drawn mowing machine catches the attention of the men with the hurley-sticks. Now they stand in the corridor, swaying to the train’s regular motion; they have bottles of Guinness they had brought with them. ‘No more slavin’ for oul John Farmer anyway,’ says one, indicating the half-cut meadow. Fragments of their conversation reach me. ‘An uncle in Wallesey – a subbie.’ And for the first time, I hear the password: ‘He’ll give you the start. Ask for the start – you’ll find him at The Lion’s Head in the Whitecliff Road. He has the shout.’

We are packed so tightly together that when the train jolts, we lurch as one; across from me a middle-aged man wearing a tweed cap and a black tie is in conversation with a young woman: their knees are touching. ‘Lemass and his crowd up there in the Dáil are doing nothing for the likes of us who have to take the boat.’ He had been over for a friend’s funeral in Abbeyfeale: ‘No shuttering – the trench caved in.’ He takes out a packet of Sweet Afton and offers one to the woman, who holds the cigarette in a clumsy way and coughs when she inhales.

‘That’s Irish subbies for you – saving money. Man, mind thyself.’ He draws on the cigarette.

‘And woman likewise.’

Each station repeats what we have already seen: girls in high heels, and scarves patterned with the Rock of Cashel and the Lakes of Killarney, lean against older women before they join us; men with peaked caps stand on the platform staring at us, and turn away when the train begins to move off with their children.

I stay out on deck as the boat pulls away from the North Wall. Others I had seen on the train are fixed on the receding harbour. A cluster of girls are crying, their arms loosely around each other. The youth with the shovel scans the shoreline with brooding eyes.

In the lounge, the air is heavy with smoke and the faint smell of cattle rising from the hold. Around the tables, covered with glasses and empty bottles, groups are singing raucously.

You’ll get no promotion this side of the ocean,

So cheer up me lads bless them all.

‘Up Dev.’

‘Fuck Dev.’

‘Fuck ’em all, the long and the short and the tall.

An accordion player starts up, and a small man sings ‘The Green Glens of Antrim’. They shout for more. By now some of the young women have dried their eyes; one or two are sitting on men’s laps. As one might with a child, a man is rocking a girl on his knees and singing:

Speed, bonny boat, like a bird on the wing;

Onward, the sailors cry:

Carry the lad that’s born to be king

Over the sea to Skye.

Loud the waves howl, loud the waves …

He is nestling his face in her hair; they are both laughing. Sitting on his own, the youth still guards his shovel, and out of a canvas bag he takes a bottle of milk and a sandwich – two thick slices of bread with wedges of bacon between them. Slowly and deliberately, as though lost in thought, he removes the soggy paper cork and puts the bottle to his lips. He takes stock of his surroundings and bites into the sandwich.

A man with a Guinness bottle lying idle in his strong hand makes room for me; his foot taps to the rhythm of the music and he speaks without taking his eyes off the singer.

‘Your first time, boy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘A well-fed lad like you will get work, no bother, but you’ll be hardened by John Lang before many moons.’ He stands and puts a hand on my shoulder: ‘Stay away from the Irish subbie, unless you’re badly stuck. They’d drag the heart and soul out of you, boy.’ He indicates a suitcase at his feet: ‘Mind that for me, boybawn. I’ll be back soon.’

I pick up a newspaper that lies on the slatted bench. Yvonne de Carlo is smiling out at me, her curves stretching a low-cut dress. Nine out of ten film stars like me use Lux Toilet Soap. Five Sligo men have been fined at Bury St Edmund’s Crown Court for starting a row over a barmaid outside The Jolly Roger. A youth from Cavan is recovering in St Andrew’s Hospital. The judge fined each of the men £10 or three months in prison. ‘Let this be a lesson for your countrymen,’ he said. ‘This is a civilized country. You come over here and behave like hooligans. Whatever you do over there, you’ll most certainly not do in my jurisdiction.’

The man who hates Irish subbies returns, picks up his suitcase, throws his gabardine over his shoulder and peers through a porthole. ‘It’ll be dark soon,’ he announces. ‘When you see daylight again, boybawn, we’ll be on our way to Euston. Take a fool’s advice: look for factory work, boy, and go to school. Plenty of them in England. The Irish would skin you.’

By now the accordion player is silent; girls are asleep on the benches, their heads resting on each others’ shoulders. A stale smell of porter is lingering in the night air. I had reserved a bunk, so I decide to hit the sack as tiredness sets in, but first I climb up on deck for a last look. In the distance, a knot of people are gathered around a woman who is holding the railing with one hand while she sings; a man with a cap is sitting on a suitcase and playing soft and low on the fiddle. Some have bottles of stout in their hands; all are silhouetted against light from the ferry. I move closer. The woman’s face and tangled brown hair glisten with spray while she sings to the dark sky. Her coat is thrown open by the wind; her breasts rise and fall with the rhythm of her breathing:

Oh, well do I remember the year of ’48.

When Irishmen, with feeling bold, will rally one and all …

A couple have their arms around each other while the boat cuts through the water like a scythe through young grass.

I’ll be the man to lead the van beneath the flag of green,

When loud and high we’ll raise a cry – Revenge for Skibbereen.

Later, dozing in my bunk, I can still hear the plaintive music of the fiddle player above the steady sound of the boat and the occasional bellow from the exiled cattle down in the hold.

At some time in the night, I become aware of cigarette smoke; men are talking in the cabin.

‘A young fella, out of the nest,’ one of them says.

‘Always a first time.’

I hear the sound of shoes hitting the floor and belt buckles brushing against a bunk frame. ‘I wouldn’t mind givin’ a first time to that fine heifer from Wexford.’ Someone strikes a match. More cigarette smoke. ‘She’s goin’ to Manchester – herself and the other two – to be nurses.’

‘Majella from New Ross can nurse me anytime.’

I drift off again and am woken by a nudge on the shoulder.

‘Get up, young lad, we’ve landed in Liverpool.’

Beneath the lamps that line the quay, we hurry for the train; men with tousled hair and shirts carelessly open down the front shout ‘Up the Republic’ until someone says to keep quiet or we’ll all be deported.

Then the drowsy journey to Euston – yawning, stretching and the smell of cigarettes; the rustle of chocolate wrapping paper and sleepy throwaways about the size of fields. The train rattles on from one town to the next: street after street of redbrick, people making tea in their kitchens. Then the open country again.

4

AS THE GREY LIGHT OF MORNING gradually fills the carriage, the train rattles its way into London. With much hissing and releasing of steam and grinding metal, it comes to a halt at Euston. A big round clock with Roman numerals shows the time to be at a couple of minutes after six. Doors are thrown open. I join the flow heading for the exit: faces from yesterday, from a faraway land. The girls have renewed their lipstick; some of the men have put on neckties – a few carry bundles wrapped in brown paper.

The high arched roof amplifies the shunting and clanging of other trains in the vast station. Men with loud Cockney accents are pushing trolleys loaded with the morning newspapers along the platforms, the iron wheels of the trolleys grating on the concrete. Near the exit, a priest is standing on a stool and is talking nineteen to the dozen about work and lodgings to a group who had been on the train from Liverpool. They are handing him scraps of paper and he is giving directions about buses and the Underground; all the while his hands are gesturing rapidly. At the edge of the crowd and straining to hear is the youth with the shovel.

‘You must be Tommy.’

I turn to see a woman in a tight-fitting black dress and high heels.

‘I’m Bonnie Doyle, a friend of your brother.’ Gold bangles jingle when we shake hands.

‘How did you know me?’

‘A chip off the old block. And then the elbow patches – sure sign of a student.’ Her perfume softens the bitter smoke from the trains. ‘M.J.’s caught up in a cable-laying job out in Putney, so you’ll have to do with me.’

A burst of laughter erupts from the group who are listening to the priest.

‘Father John,’ she says with a wave of her hand, ‘never fails to get a job or a place to stay for anyone off the boat. Come over and meet him.’

The group is thinning out; a couple of men are talking into the priest’s ear while he writes in a notebook. His whole body is restless.

When they have gone, Bonnie approaches him. ‘Harty, shouldn’t you be in your bed.’

‘Bonnie, girl,’ he straightens, and puts the notebook in the side pocket of his jacket, a playful look on his round face. ‘No rest for the wicked, you ought to know that.’ He slips an arm around her waist, and winks at me, gestures very different from the priests in my boarding school – gaunt, and walking the grounds with measured steps.

‘This is Tommy, M.J. Galvin’s young brother,’ she says. ‘Over to help the boss.’

‘Wise move, Tommy. You’ll be rolling in it in no time. Welcome to London.’

‘Thanks, Father.’

‘John. My name is John.’ His blue eyes are dancing. ‘You’re lucky to have a tour guide like herself here.’ Again he is drawing her close; this time tickling her so that she laughs loudly, and tries to wriggle out of his hold. ‘I never had anyone to look after me when I came here.’

‘Oh, go on.’ She nudges with her hip.

Two young men rush up to him. They have just come off the train; one has a tattered piece of paper: ‘Where’s the Seven Sisters Road, Father?’

‘Where’re you from, lads?’

‘Askeaton.’

‘Know it well.’ He talks to them about work and digs and directions to the Seven Sisters Road. We leave with a promise to meet some night at the Irish Centre in Camden Town.

Outside the station the air is warm and grey and rumbles with the sound of London. Bonnie has parked her Mini Austin beneath a hoarding: a giant Yeoman of the Guard in bright red offers me a glass of Beefeater’s Gin. A transit van with Murphy printed on the side is parked by a footpath where men in navy dungarees are digging a trench; taxis, lorries, black Ford and Hillman cars fill the morning with the heavy smell of oil.

On the way to M.J.’s house in Chiswick, Bonnie gives me a potted account of her life: left Athenry at seventeen, worked as a chambermaid in different London hotels – The Imperial, The Royal and The Grosvenor. While there, she attended a catering college, eventually becoming one of the assistants to the manager at The Victoria in Holloway. ‘I’d the misfortune to meet that brother of yours in the Galtymore one night,’ she says while we are stopped at a junction.

M.J.’s house gives no indication of his growing wealth; like all the others in the reserved street, it has the standard bay window at the front; the walls are half redbrick, half pebbledash. ‘An old army officer owned it along with fifty acres at the back,’ Bonnie says as she pulls up into the driveway. ‘He has to get the borough council on his side for permission to build houses, but that man’ – she stretches for her handbag in the back seat – ‘he always gets his way.’

After she has gone to work, I lie on my bed and drift off with London fading in my head. When I awake to the smell of frying and the click of smart footsteps from somewhere below, the room has grown dim. In the slanting sun, I survey the slated rooftops at the back, the fifty-acre field so level and well-trimmed and stretching away into the distance; suddenly, the noise of a heavy engine invades my thoughts.

When I go downstairs, M.J. is holding the newel post for balance while he removes a pair of clay-encrusted boots. He is tanned, and his wavy mop is sun-bleached.

‘Bonnie look after you?’

‘Yeah, she did. Great.’

Settling into the habit of each other, we talk about the good spell of weather in Ireland and how, if it continues, the neighbours will have the turf out of Hogan’s bog by July. Then we take refuge in the crossing to Liverpool.

‘You should’ve taken a flight. Anyone would say I’m a miser. How’re they at home?’

‘Fine.’

‘The girls were down for a couple of days. Pauline is’ – he glances towards the kitchen and lowers his voice – ‘she’s well. Yeah, she’s fine now. Ah, too much life in Pauline for places like convents.’

He talks while he washes in a small toilet beneath the stairs and then brings me to meet his housekeeper. ‘Vera makes the best bacon and cabbage in London. Home away from home. She’ll be a mother to you.’ He winks behind her back.

‘Enough of that, Mr Galvin. In here both of you.’ She sashays ahead of us and indicates the open door of a room where a table has been set.

‘You want to work with the men,’ he says. ‘Sure, why don’t you take a rest after all the studying?’ His shoulder muscles stretch the white shirt and he gives the impression of someone who is always at the starting blocks. ‘Take a holiday, why don’t you? – wander around London. Fine city, although God knows I haven’t had time to see much of it. “Have you been to Covent Garden, Mr Galvin, or up to Stratford?” says one of them smart-alecky bastards of town planners to me one day …. What’s at Stratford, Tommy?’

‘Shakespeare plays.’

‘Oh. Is that all?’

He takes a potato from the willow-patterned dish. ‘Go up to Leeds to see the girls.’

‘I will, but I’d prefer to do a bit of work first.’

‘Long enough you’ll be working on the site …. How’s himself?’

‘The same.’

‘Any sign of the new apples yet?’

We laugh at a shared memory.

‘“Come out till ye see the size of these lads”.’ He mimics our father’s excitement every September, when we were all expected to look in amazement as he picked a handful of crab apples off the tree at the side of the house. ‘“Look at them, did ye ever see the like a’ them”?’

‘“Never. No never”.’

‘“I’ll bet ye the big people,”’ pointing up the hill towards Healys’ mansion, “I’ll bet ye oul Matty with his orchard and his pear trees won’t have as good as them this year.”’

‘“No, he won’t.”’

Then, to fall in with his high spirits, we would bite into the crab apples and suffer the bitter juices while we chewed, and tried to swallow.

Occasionally, our mother, if she were slackening her grim hold on life, stood at the door and looked at us all, shaking her head and grinning.

‘Mammy, come here and see the lovely apples,’ was enough to send her back into the house, muttering that she had more to do than listen to nonsense.

‘“We’ll make money out of them this year, ye’ll see. People in town make lovely apple pies out of them.”’

‘“We will, Da, we’ll make money out of them this year.”’

M.J. is doing another take-off. ‘“That crab tree. D’ye see the shelter it gives to the house. Wouldn’t a fella pay any money for shelter like that?”’

‘“Oh, he would. Great shelter.”’

‘The trouble was,’ says M.J., ‘he believed they were apples.’

5

FOR A FEW DAYS I learn the different Tube lines, take in the cold glances of the teeming masses, laze around Piccadilly and Trafalgar Square, throw scraps to the pigeons, and take stock of red buses, Buckingham Palace, and policemen on horseback. Delighting in the sweet taste of freedom, I scramble to the shops on Charing Cross Road for books that are banned at home: Room at the Top, Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, The Catcher in the Rye. One wet afternoon I sidle off to see Sophia Loren in a long-running film called Two Women showing in a small cinema off Leicester Square. And all the while M.J. is coming and going from the house, leaving messages for Vera that he won’t be in for his dinner. When he does turn up, he devours his steak, or bacon and cabbage, wipes the plate clean with a crust of bread, then out the door again. I become accustomed to the heavy throb of the jeep pulling up in front of the garage in the small hours of the morning. Even when he is on time for the evening meal, he has to answer phone calls from subcontractors about prices for roofing or bricks in Finchley or Milton Keynes. Rolled up maps and drawings lie on the hallstand and on armchairs.

Once or twice I wake to the sound of muffled voices, and after a moment, make out Bonnie’s stifled laugh. In the morning they have gone, and through the half-open door of his bedroom, I notice the black dress she had worn when she collected me at Euston; nylons are draped across the back of a chair.

Towards the end of the week, I am ready to begin. ‘And I’ll move out tomorrow so that I’ll be near the pick-up point,’ I tell him while he gulps down his breakfast.

‘But I can run you there.’

‘Ah, no. Easier if I stay at The Highway.’

‘That place can be a rough house at times. Will you be able to sleep?’

‘No bother.’

‘Come here for the weekends. You’ll have a bit of peace. They can be noisy bastards.’

‘Right so.’

‘I’ll get Sandra the barmaid to make your dinner every evening.’

Despite his protest, I feel he is relieved. He would be saved the bother of driving me to Kilburn in the mornings when he needed to be out at Dunstable or High Wycombe. And Bonnie wouldn’t have to suppress her giggles when they returned late at night.

Soon after five o’clock the following Monday morning we drive in the jeep to Camden Town. At Swiss Cottage, the traffic gets heavy: in black Vauxhalls with gleaming fenders, solemn-faced men in stiff collars and ties hold a firm grip on the world.

Camden Town is a cattle fair. The footpaths swarm with men in baggy trousers, and shirts hanging loose: they are slamming the doors of trucks, rushing across the street, shouting – it’s uncanny to hear Irish accents in these foreign streets.

Red hairs stand out on the back of M.J.’s powerful forearm when he points towards a convoy of lorries parked on one side of Mornington Crescent: ‘Green Murphy,’ he says, ‘and over there towards the Kentish Town Road, Pateen Lowry’s gang from Connemara.’ He steers towards a kerb and parks.

Men are spilling out of cafés, mixing with those who are standing in a ragged line. Some are slouching against the front of the Westminster Bank and Dolphin’s Hardware. Many are over six feet tall; they walk with long loping strides and give the impression of untamed energy. Others leaf through the Daily Mirror and keep a baleful eye on the world. ‘The same every morning,’ M.J. says. ‘Close on three hundred men; you wouldn’t be long saving hay in the Hill Field with a few of them lads.’

One or two, wearing creased shirts and loose ties, shout to get into the fucken trucks, that they have to go out to Leighton Buzzard. The men have a ruffled look: dried clay on their turned-down wellingtons or hobnailed boots. A thickset man is walking up and down inspecting a queue of men; he looks mostly at their shoes; every now and then, he lifts his cap and wipes his bald crown with a piece of navy cloth.

‘I’ve to check these fellas,’ M.J. says and hops out. ‘Stay as you are ’til we’re ready to go.’

Across the street is a line of trucks with Galvin Construction on the driver’s door; some of these M.J. had bought from the army. A man sidles up to him, rubbing his hands: ‘Any chance of the start, M.J.?’

‘Where were you until now?’ He is hurrying away so that the man has to follow.

‘Wimpy. Up near Manchester. A bypass job.’

M.J. studies him. ‘You were with us last year; you let us down.’ He begins to move off again.

‘The oul lad died, M.J. I had to go back home.’

M.J. hesitates. ‘Hop on one of the wagons. Report to Batt Muldoon.’

‘You’re a dacent man, M.J.’

‘Dacent my arse. If you let me down again, you’re finished.’ He turns back, makes a pistol with his hand, and cocks it towards the man.