In Dublin's Fair City (17 page)

Twenty-one

L
iam!” I shouted and started to move toward him.

He shot me a frightened glance, then turned and fled, run-

ning away as fast as he could. I took off after him, down the alleyway, the clatter of our feet on the cobbles echoing from the sides of the buildings. The nails in Liam's boots struck sparks on the cobbles, so fast was he running. Back at home I had been a fast runner too, able to keep up with the boys in any footrace. But in those days I’d been barefoot, with light cotton skirts I could easily hoist up. Now I was dressed like a lady, hampered by my dainty shoes, my tight skirts and petticoats, and that neat little waistline that made it impossible to breathe.

“Jesus, Liam, slow down. Talk to your sister,” I managed to gasp, but he kept on going, dodging from alleyway to alleyway. I had no idea in which direction we were heading, only that my side felt as if it was on fire and I couldn’t go on much longer. When we had to cross a major road and a horse and carriage came hurtling toward us, he took the chance and sprinted in front of the horse. I had to stop for a moment while it passed by. In the time it took for me to cross the road, Liam had vanished. I was standing at the entrance to a maze of backstreets. From a nearby saloon came the sound of raucous laughter. I recoiled at the smell from an open drain at my feet. I started down a narrow, twisting street, then stopped when it branched again, vanishing into pitch darkness. There was no way I could pursue him into that warren at this timeof night. I stood there, rain and sweat streaming down my face, almost weeping with frustration.

Then I realized how stupid I had been. All I had to do was follow the cart with the trunks on it and see where they were delivered. Even though it hurt to move and breathe, I ran all the way back and retraced my steps successfully to St. Stephen's Green. There was no sign of the cart anywhere. I tried all the streets that led from the green. I stopped passersby and asked if they had seen a cart go past, piled high with trunks, but none of them remembered seeing it. Who does pay attention to passing vehicles unless there is something strange about them?

Reluctantly I made my way upstairs to my room, now spacious and remarkably free of luggage. I ran a bath and lay back in the hot water, trying to calm my racing thoughts. What on earth was my little brother doing here in Dublin? Last time I had seen him he’d been an undersized and skinny fifteen year old, helping my father cut the peat on the croft, or with whatever laboring jobs the Hartley family needed on the estate. So what in heaven's name could have brought him here? He wouldn’t have come all this way by himself to find work, when there were big cities like Galway and Limerick closer by. Surely he couldn’t be mixed up in this republican business, could he? But if he were only working for a carter, doing an honest job, why run away from his sister? It did cross my mind that maybe he had been sent to Dublin by my father, or, worse still, by the Hartleys, looking for me. In which case, why run away when he had found me?

I asked myself if I could have made a mistake. It was almost two years since I’d set eyes on him last and in that time he’d have grown from fifteen to seventeen—from boy into a man. Would I still recognize him that easily? It was just possible that I had chased a complete stranger. But I didn’t think so. I had looked into his eyes and seen recognition there.

Tomorrow I would find him, I told myself. I would keep looking for him until I did.

In the morning I inquired at the hotel about the carters who had come to pick up the luggage. I drew a blank there. They had come with a requisition slip, and I had already let the hotel staff know that I was expecting the trunks to be removed. I then asked for the name of firmsof carters within the area. They gave me one or two. I went to visit them and from them acquired the names and addresses of their competitors. After a long morning of walking, I had not found the company that came to pick up those trunks last night.

I fortified myself with a good lunch of grilled herring with mustard sauce, followed by baked jam roll and custard, and then went out again, this time retracing my steps from the night before. I recognized the main road where I had been held up by the horse and carriage. On the other side was a large church, this one tall and gothic in contrast to the squat square Christchurch. The sign outside showed that it was St. Patrick's Cathedral—just how many cathedrals did one city need? Beyond it was the maze of small back streets. It didn’t take me long to realize that my instincts the night before had been right. This was indeed a terrible slum. I wandered down filthy alleyways and narrow back-streets. Some of the houses must have been elegant once, but now they had become tenements, crammed with people just like in New York City. I walked from street to street, some with open drains, while ragged children observed me from doorways, mothers hung out washing, men stood together talking, and cats slunk between railings. It reminded me of the streets of the Lower East Side in New York, but without the vibrancy of life there. This was the Lower East Side with the life and color drained from it. These were people who seemed to have given up the fight and decided to exist rather than live.

I did stop to ask people I passed whether they knew a redheaded young man who looked a little like me and told them I was tracking down my young brother who had run away from home, but I got little help. For one thing there were redheads and skinny lads aplenty in the area, for another I might well be a wife seeking a runaway husband or even someone in league with the police. I offered some street urchins a reward if they found out where Liam Murphy was living and led me to him. They were certainly interested in the word “reward,” but, as one of them said, “Dublin's an awful big place, miss.”

I learned that the area I was in was called the Liberties. It had once been a self-governing center for weaving and trade and had been prosperous in the days before taxes on Irish goods made exporting impossible. For the last hundred years it had been the city's worst slum. Iwalked past dank tenements and desolate warehouses until I spotted the Guinness Brewery chimneys over the tenements and made my way toward the river Liffy. At least I now had my bearings, but no proof that Liam actually lived in this area. He might have used this confusing network of alleyways as a means of losing me and then come out the other side, free to go to his lodgings, wherever they might be.

I had to be content with telling myself that Liam knew where to find me if he wanted to make contact. If he didn’t, there wasn’t much more I could do but keep my eyes open as I went around the town. I came back to the hotel just in time for a change of clothes and a quick meal before I had to head out again, this time to my poetry reading, sponsored by the Gaelic League at Davy Byrne's on Duke Street. I asked directions to Duke Street from the hotel porter and was relieved to find it wasn’t far away as the weather had worsened again, the wind was bitter, and my legs were already rebelling after a day's walking. I had changed into the warmest clothing I had brought, and wrapped a shawl around my shoulders before stepping out into the night. I didn’t know at what number Davy Byrne lived, but I hoped that I’d arrive early enough on Duke Street to watch other people going into his house.

Duke Street was just behind Trinity College, and the whole area presented a lively scene on Saturday evening. Droves of young men, some of them already intoxicated, some arm in arm with young women of questionable repute, swept up the middle of the street, singing, laughing, shouting as they went. Some of them tried to persuade me to join them. Instead I asked them if they knew where Davy Byrne lived and was met with howls of laughter.

“That's Davy Byrne's over there,” one of them pointed. “See the sign?”

Davy Byrne's was a public house, so it seemed. I hesitated outside in the darkness. In New York women were not allowed in most saloons and would only go into respectable drinking places accompanied by a man. Our pub at home had a ladies lounge around the side but decent ladies didn’t frequent it. I’d been a few times with local lads, but there was nothing I hated more than watching grown men get drunk so I usually stayed well away. A group of men passed me and went in. Were ladies even allowed at meetings of the Gaelic League, I wondered? Istood there in the shadows until a middle-aged couple entered, then I stepped up hastily and followed them inside.

Inside was warm, with gas lamps casting a friendly glow on dark oak-paneled walls. There were simple oak benches around the walls, already full with an interesting assortment of young men, elderly professors, a couple of priests, shabby-looking individuals, and here and there a distinguished-looking matron. There were a couple of other young women, dressed rather in the bluestocking manner, one of them wearing glasses and both occupied with a book they were studying. I looked to see if there was any room beside them, but they were squashed into a corner, sharing a seat meant for one. So I stood awkwardly near the door until a young man called out, “Come over here to us, my dear. You can always sit on my lap.”

“Nonsense. We can make room for the young lady over here,” one of the matrons said firmly. “You two. Move over, please.” Her look implied there was to be no hanky-panky in the establishment this evening. The men beside her moved to make room for me. I smiled gratefully and sat down. She was a large woman, with a mannish face, dressed head to toe in black, her hair scragged back into a severe-looking bun. But she had a serene, innocent look to her, and her face was remarkably devoid of wrinkles. In fact, she reminded me of the nuns who taught me in school, and I sat down cautiously beside her.

“Thank you. I wasn’t even sure that women were allowed to attend,” I said.

“What better way to resurrect our Irish culture than through the women, who will then teach it to the children,” she said. “Are you a newcomer to town?”

I nodded. “I’m a visitor from New York,” I said. “I heard about this meeting and wanted to see for myself what the Gaelic League had accomplished.”

“Quite a lot,” she said. “There are great stirrings all over Ireland. Our aim is to awaken interest in our past and our culture in the smallest villages of the land. We know that we’re a nation of poets and musicians. Let's be proud of our own poetry and music and language too. You don’t speak Irish, I take it?”

“I’m afraid not. We were never taught, although there were some people near my home who did.” “And where was that?”

“Up in—” I paused, conscious that people were listening, “In Gal-way,” I said, latching onto a big enough city.

“Galway. How lovely,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Boone, by the way. And your name is?”

“Mary Delaney,” I said.

She nodded. “Welcome to the meeting, Mary. I hope it inspires you.”

A barman came around with pints for those who had ordered them. I wondered if I was required to order something, and glanced at my female protector to see what she was doing. Before I could come to any conclusion the man next to me said, “and a half pint for the young lady here,” and a glass was shoved into my hand. I turned to thank him and realized that I had met him before.

“It's Mr. Joyce, is it not?” I asked.

He smiled. “It is indeed. And you are—don’t tell me—Miss De-laney.”

“Quite right.”

“I’m glad you’ve an interest in our native Irish poetry, Miss Delaney,” he said.

“Oh, I have indeed,” I said. “One poet in particular I had hoped to meet here. Terrence Moynihan. He used to write fine poetry, and I heard he’d left for Dublin some time ago.”

Mr. Joyce frowned. “Terrence Moynihan? Now that's not a name I’ve heard. Maybe Kevin here would know better than I—he's been hanging around the city, imbibing equal measures of liquor and culture for as long as he can remember. Isn’t that so, Kevin, my boy?”

“What? What's that you’re saying, Joyce, old man?” One of the shabby fellows looked over in our direction, waving a half empty glass. It was hard to say how old he was—at least thirty but possibly a good bit older. He looked as if he was in need of a good meal, and his clothes were definitely in need of a brush and press.