One
ALTHOUGH THE CONVERSATION WAS less than a half an hour old he felt he knew more about her than any other woman he had ever met, his mother apart. She was freckled with an overglow to her cheeks but this might have been the wind which blew directly into their faces. Her auburn hair was straight and skimpy but it was well cared for. She was short, but not stubby with large blue eyes. She had a certain vivacity and there was invitation of a kind in her glances. This was new to him. At home in Kerry a girl would never dream of opening a conversation with a stranger.
‘What are you looking at?’ she quizzed.
He brushed the question aside with a shrug.
‘You’re a deep one,’ she said. ‘Still I’d better tell you my name. Do you want to know?’
He nodded.
‘It’s Patricia Dee. My friends call me Tricia. To what part are you going?’
‘Bertham,’ he answered.
He explained that he was going to work on the buildings. A neighbour of his to whom he had written had promised to fix him up with a job and digs.
The boat drew closer to the harbour. Soon they were looking down at the customs sheds through which they must presently pass. She looked at him wistfully.
‘We’d better see to our bags,’ he said.
‘It was nice meeting you,’ she told him. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll see each other again.’
‘You never know,’ he answered solemnly.
‘Look here,’ she put it to him suddenly, ‘I’ll give you the number of the nurses’ quarters at the hospital. It takes time to get used to things over here. You might feel you want to talk if you get lonely.’
He waited while she searched her handbag for something to write on.
‘There,’ she said handing him a slip of paper on which she had hastily scrawled the number. He took it and put it in his trousers pocket without looking at it.
‘Don’t forget,’ she reminded him.
Before he could reply she had gone. He withdrew the slip, looked at it and folded it neatly. Then he took out his wallet and carefully secreted it in a stamp pocket. He felt lonely. Even though he was twenty it was the first time he had spent more than one night away from home.
He located his one large suitcase and went towards the customs. A deep feeling of self-pity welled up inside him. In a moment he would be crying. He shrugged off the feeling and gritted his teeth. For the first time he fully understood the meaning of the word homesickness.
It was March of 1952. Of the classmates with whom Dan had gone to school in the two-roomed schoolhouse of mountainy Ballynahaun none now remained behind. Most were in England. The rest were in America, Australia or Canada. To emigrate was the traditional thing, the most natural thing in the world, and there was no alternative for most. It solved many of the country’s economic problems and created none. At the time of Dan Murray’s disembarkation at Fishguard there were already one million of his fellow-countrymen in Britain. The majority lived in ghettos, drank in pubs where the barmen or landlords were Irish, frequented dance-halls and clubs which were Irish-owned and rarely if ever mixed with the English. The others were made up of two main classes the first of whom were the exploiters, contractors, sub-contractors, dance-hall owners, flat-letters and so forth. The second consisted of those who had professions, principally doctors and dentists. There were thousands of these, attracted by the huge earnings in an England still chronically short of medical personnel so soon after the war.
He knew something about London from listening to other young men who had come back home to Kerry on holiday. If a fellow worked his head he could get on in England, be promoted to charge-hand or foreman or even become a sub-contractor. This was where the real money was.
Dan’s mother had given him a few inadequate shillings to tide him over till his first pay day. She had also given him new Rosary beads and made him promise that he would never miss Mass. His father had told him to look out for himself, no more. His one younger brother had told Dan how lucky he was. He would be forced to stay on in the small farm until he was old enough to emigrate himself or until the parents died and he could inherit the place.
Before leaving home Dan Murray had been warned about England and the likely evils that would confront him in that pagan place. His parish priest often referred to it from his pulpit. Sometimes he called it a gigantic whorehouse, unconsciously whetting the healthy sexual appetites of the lustier young men in his congregation, making them all the more eager to go there. Missionaries who came to give the annual retreat were more expansive. English-run dance-halls were iniquitous sin palaces where couples danced belly to belly and abandoned themselves to thoughts most foul. Belly to belly dancing or close dancing as it was sometimes called was, according to the missionaries, the most degrading public practice to which young boys or girls could possibly submit themselves. England, they said, was also noted for its homosexuality, rape, incest, sodomy and all forms of lechery but bad as these were worst of all was to turn Protestant. No words of these practised performers could adequately describe the enormity of such a sin.
***
DAN WAS FORTUNATE TO find a seat on the train and still more fortunate to get one near the window. One of his companions was a moustached man of forty or so who slept soundly. There was an unmistakable odour of stale liquor on his breath. From their accents Dan could tell that most of the occupants of the carriage were Irish. Before long, however, his interest was completely taken up by the passing scene. They followed the coast for a time and then proceeded through hilly country. The sea kept reappearing. In contrast to the craggy shores of his immediate homeland, there seemed to be no end to the beaches. The train sped past countless caravan parks and after a while the face of the Welsh industrial belt began to show itself most clearly.
From Llanelly to Cardiff to Newport the countryside was defaced by ugly industrial complexes. These appeared almost non-stop until Bristol. After Bristol the countryside was a delight and, it seemed to Dan, the English had pulled a monstrous confidence trick on the Welsh.
The man beside him sat up suddenly, muttered a few unintelligible words and fell asleep again.
Onwards they sped past Bath and Chippenham towards Swindon where there was a delay while some extra carriages were coupled. Dan stood up, opened a window and looked out on to the platform. There was an unfamiliar air of bustle and quiet efficiency – none of the happy-go-lucky atmosphere of Irish railway stations. His neighbour sat up a second time and from partly-opened, bloodshot eyes looked about him in bewilderment.
‘What are we stopped for?’ he called out weakly to no one in particular.
‘Just a few extra carriages,’ Dan explained. ‘We should be on our way any minute now.’
‘You a Paddy?’ the man asked.
Dan nodded. The moustached man was about to frame a second question but changed his mind.
‘My name is Sylvester O’Doherty,’ he said. He thrust out a hand for Dan to shake.
‘Dan Murray,’ Dan said.
Sylvester O’Doherty produced a noggin bottle of whiskey and handed it to Dan.
Dan uncorked the bottle and swallowed. Then he returned it to Sylvester who emptied it in a series of gulps punctured by gasps and grunts.
‘That was badly wanted,’ he disclosed breathlessly. ‘Normally I’m a beer drinker but this holiday has exhausted me beyond belief. I need something more essential to sustain me. Eleven years since I saw home. Eleven years and nothing’s changed. I’m a Maynooth man,’ he went on. ‘I would have been ordained a priest if I hadn’t met this girl. Just as well. I wasn’t cut out for the priesthood. I could never close my eyes to the fact that I have here between my legs, hidden from the eyes of the world, one of nature’s recurring miracles. I’d never be able to suffer the celibacy. How I endured it for so long is still a mystery to me. It broke my poor mother’s heart. The neighbours looked at me as if I were some sort of freak. There was nothing for it but the boat to England.’
Dan suspected he would be less forthcoming when sober.
‘What sort of work do you do?’ asked Dan.
‘Ever heard of the Reicey Brothers?’
Dan nodded.
‘I work for them. I’m a cross between an accountant and an unconvicted forger. I do the contracting books by day and act as cashier in the dance-hall at night. The Reicey Brothers are millionaires but you probably know that. They pay me well. I’ll say that for them. What do you do yourself?’
‘Just a labourer,’ Dan said. ‘It’s my first time here.’
Sylvester O’Doherty appraised him carefully. ‘You won’t be a labourer long my friend,’ he said.
Dan pressed him for further information about the Reicey Brothers. Sylvester produced a second noggin. He swallowed copiously. Then he talked. The three brothers Tom, Joe and Pat had come to England from Mayo in the early war years. They worked around the clock and saved their money. Gradually they drifted into sub-contracting and after the war took on some sizable projects. They had no labour problems. In the beginning most of their workers were Irish speakers from Connemara who had difficulty in speaking English. To men like these the Reiceys were a Godsend. Most of them could not conceive of departing the confines of Kilburn when their day’s work was over.
In a short time they became known as Reiceys’ Volunteers. They were clannish in the extreme and so were feared and avoided but they were steady workers, proud of their strength. It was said of them in Kilburn and Hammersmith that if one was stabbed every man-jack of them bled. Their ignorance of the London scene was a handicap which bound them body and soul to their employers. These labourers had to have some place to go on Saturday and Sunday nights when the pubs closed so the Reicey Brothers built a dance-hall. They called it the Green Shillelagh. The Irish in the district swarmed to it, and were encouraged by their priests. After all the Reiceys were Catholics.
‘If you want to meet the fighting Paddies,’ Sylvester continued, ‘the Green Shillelagh is the place to go but after Mass on Sunday mornings is the time to meet the real Irish. You’ll see them in the clubs or pubs nearest the churches, decent folk. If you’ll take my advice which you won’t, you’ll give the Green Shillelagh a wide berth. If you’re in any way sensitive or different from the pack in any sense whatsoever they’ll sniff you out and tear you apart. Those they don’t understand they hammer down. Men have been done to death near the Green Shillelagh. A drunken Paddy in an RAF uniform strayed there one night last year. For no apparent reason he was kicked to death. I understand this type of Paddy. He’s best left to his own ilk. There are other Irish dance-halls and there are countless Irish clubs. Most are frequented by honest, God-fearing people but if you have any sense you’ll avoid the lot till you know mutton from goat.’
Dan wasn’t sure he fully understood but he did not interrupt.
‘Today,’ Sylvester continued, ‘the Reiceys own racehorses. They drive Jaguars. Their sons will be engineers or doctors or priests, most likely engineers. There’s only one sour note.’
‘What would that be?’ Dan asked.
‘They never learned how to enjoy money. They have mansions. They have racehorses and they have Jags but they haven’t learned how to live.’
Dan found Sylvester to be a most informative and entertaining companion all the way to London. It seemed there was nothing he did not know. He would only reveal so much, however, about his employers.
‘They are the people who pay me,’ he told Dan, ‘and it’s not fitting that I should discuss their business with outsiders.’
Dan accepted this and was quite content to absorb whatever he was told. Sylvester drained the last of the whiskey after Dan had refused his offer to try another swig. They were now in the suburbs of London.
‘Yours is the next stop.’
The voice came from behind him. He turned to see the girl he had met on the boat, Patricia Dee. ‘It’s in a few minutes,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t forget the number I gave you. Ring if you get a chance.’
‘Sure,’ said Dan. She waved a casual farewell and returned to her own carriage.
‘Looks like you’ve made a conquest,’ Sylvester complimented. ‘She’s nice and plump, the kind that tormented me when I was a student.’
‘Does that mean they torment you no longer?’
‘Oh they torment me all right but now I can do something about it,’ Sylvester grinned.
Dan rose and took his suitcase from the overhead rack. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll see you again,’ he said.
‘You will,’ Sylvester assured him, ‘you’ll be over to the Green Shillelagh the same as the rest. Just look out for Reiceys’ Volunteers.’
Dan promised he would and turned to go towards the carriage door as the train slowed down. As he was on the point of lowering the window to locate the door handle he was tapped on the shoulder. It was Sylvester O’Doherty.
‘You want a sub?’ he asked. The puzzlement on Dan’s face brought a smile to that of the older man. ‘A sub,’ he repeated. ‘What you look for when you’re broke, a subvention till pay day.’
‘You mean a loan?’ Dan was still vague.
‘Do you want a few bob to tide you through?’
Dan nodded and turned the handle to hide his embarrassment. Sylvester thrust something into the pocket of his overcoat. Dan mumbled a thank you and stepped on to the platform. A number of other passengers were alighting. From a window further down, Patricia Dee waved at him. He waved back and looked around trying to locate the man who had been his neighbour. There was no sign of him. The train had pulled out immediately.
In a matter of moments the platform was deserted. Dan became a little apprehensive. Suppose his contact did not show up. He had the address somewhere in his suitcase but he sensed the place would be hard to find unless he met someone with a knowledge of the locality.
The only building open along the entire length of the platform was that which housed the toilets. He entered the one which invited his own gender, not daring to relinquish his suitcase. Taking off his overcoat he withdrew two crumpled pound notes from one of its pockets. He would repay Sylvester in due course. He washed his hands and face thoroughly and then combed his hair. He drew on the coat and returned to the platform. It had grown colder. There was a pricking east wind that sent a shiver through him. He had never experienced anything so bitter.
Again came the loneliness and homesickness, like a foul-tasting potion forced upon him against his will. For the first time in his life he was really alone, really away from home. The station proper had all the haunting loneliness of a poorly lit, unfrequented chapel. Having placed his bag under a light standard where he could keep his eye on it at all times, he proceeded determinedly to the furthest end of the platform. He walked quickly throwing hasty looks over his shoulder now and then to ensure the safety of his bag. As he walked he took stock of his surroundings. He passed a man-sized weighing scales and a ticket office hermetically shuttered. He knocked faintly, hardly expecting a reply. There was none. In vain he looked for some office or store hoping to meet a human who might give him directions. From the entrance to the station he looked out on to a deserted roadway. Beyond it there were lights and a mixture of noises. He decided to wait a while before venturing forth.
The neighbour who had promised to meet him was a long-time exile of forty-odd years of age. Eddie Carey had a wife and seven children. They lived near Dan in Ballynahaun, in a small cottage dependent on whatever he could afford to send home each week.
Dan had always liked Eddie Carey and it was to him he had thought of writing when he finally concluded that he had no future in Ballynahaun. Stating his case in the simplest possible terms he wrote that he wanted a job, anything that would make him some money. Eddie’s reply had been through the medium of his wife when he sent her the weekly portion of his wages. Yes. Come on. There was work galore and the money was good. Come any time but let him know in advance so that he could meet him when he arrived. Well, he had arrived and there was no sign of Eddie. He paced the platform from one end to the other for the best part of an hour. Then, when he had almost given up hope, a small, uniformed man appeared out of the darkness carrying a lantern. Dan hailed him and the man stopped.
‘Wossup mate?’
Dan told him where he wanted to go and the man listened carefully.
‘’Ere’s wot you want to do, lad.’
It was Dan’s first full earful of Bertham English. Patiently the man with the lantern revealed the steps Dan must take if he was to reach his destination safely. The instructions were clear and simple as though it were his job to relate them regularly. Dan was amazed at his cheerfulness in that cold and lonely spot at such an hour. He thanked him.
‘G’night lad,’ the man said. ‘Look sharp now.’ With that he changed the lantern from one hand to the other and proceeded with his inspection.
Dan decided to wait another quarter of an hour before acting upon the instructions he had received. Again he paced the platform, despairing completely now of Eddie Carey’s arrival. Then he saw a man with a cap silhouetted under the faint light of the lamp near the exit. It was Eddie Carey all right. There was no mistaking him. It was the way he wore his cap. It leaned altogether to one side. The exposed side of his head exhibiting a tuft of bristle which, one could see at a glance, was impossible to control.
‘That you Danny?’ he called softly.
‘Here Eddie.’
Dan lifted his case and went forward hastily to take the welcoming hand of his fellow countryman.
