The Chisellers (18 page)

Fuck you, Ben Daly, Manny thought as his anger built up. The distance between the two of them closed. Manny nearly wished that Ben would turn around, he wanted to see his face as he pushed the blade into his heart. When Manny was within fifteen feet of his target the young man suddenly spun around and called, ‘There you are!’ to a much older, also well-dressed man.

The young man and the older man hugged each other and Manny could now see the young man’s face very clearly. It was not Ben Daly. He had very nearly stabbed the wrong man.

‘Fuck! I’m gettin’ paranoid,’ he mumbled to himself, and beads of perspiration popped out on his brow.

The young man caught his gaze and looked at Manny, puzzled. Manny quickly spun on his heel and headed for the newsagent’s.

I wonder
what he
wanted? Mark Browne thought, gazing after the peculiar-looking man who had stared at him as he embraced Greg Smyth at the Arrivals gate. But the thought soon left his mind as Greg broke into an apology.

‘I’m terribly sorry, Mark, the traffic was horrendous.’

‘It must have been, Greg, it’s not like you to be late.’

‘Well, the car’s outside - let’s go,’ Greg began to usher Mark from the Arrivals building. But instead of moving towards the door, Mark began to look around the building.

‘Tell me, Greg, do yeh know if there’s a postbox here?’

‘Why yes, Mark, I think it’s over there by the foreign exchange.’

‘Just give me a minute, will yeh? I have a letter to post.’

Mark had used the time while waiting for Greg Smyth in deep thought about his mother. Although she never discussed him, and his name was never even mistakenly dropped in conversation, Mark knew how much Agnes longed to believe that some day Frankie would return, successful, and with a good explanation as to why he had partaken in the beating of his younger brother and stolen his mother’s money. No amount of explaining would ever erase the disgust Mark felt every time he thought of Frankie. Yet he knew that if the scenario were to occur, as remote a possibility as it was, that he would earnestly welcome Frankie back, but only because he knew how happy it would make his mother. For a few moments the thought fleetingly - very fleetingly - crossed his mind as to whether it would be possible for him to track Frankie down in London and convince him to contact home. Suddenly Mark had an idea. He went to the WH Smith newsagent’s in the Arrivals building and bought a card. Using his left hand, he scribbled a little note on the inside, inserted forty pounds in English money, then addressed the card to Mrs Agnes Browne, 43 Wolfe Tone Grove, Finglas West, Dublin 11. This was the letter he needed to post before departing for business with Greg Smith.

The three-day business trip went well for Mark, but still he was happy to get back. Greg Smyth had upped his order, and Mark had finally convinced the Army and Navy Stores to begin taking supplies of the newly designed Elizabeth suite. The store presumed that the suite was named after their good queen, and Mark allowed them to think this, knowing it was better than their knowing that it was actually named for a young Betty Collins back in Dublin. Mark had his briefcase on his lap and was reviewing the order dockets as the taxi sped him towards Dublin’s city centre. He made a point on returning from his business trips always to go straight to the store of Wise & Co. Bespoke Furniture, and inform Mr Wise and Sean McHugh of how he had done. The two men now stood well back from the business end and allowed Mark, who was now Managing Director of the company, to plough ahead.

Still, when Mark arrived back from his trips, Sean and Mr Wise would go over the order dockets as if (a) they understood and (b) they felt that what they thought would actually make a difference to this dynamic young man. It was a little game all three played and was enjoyed equally by all parties.

This time Mark arrived at the store in Capel Street only to find that Mr Wise had been taken ill that morning and was now tucked up in a bed in the Bon Secours hospital, a private hospital on the north side of Dublin.

‘He took one of his turns,’ Sean explained, sounding a little more worried then usual.

With a player missing, they didn’t bother with the usual game and at 5.30pm Mark helped Sean lock up the shop and he got the bus home to his mother’s.

When Mark sat down to his tea he was joined by his mother, Trevor, Rory, Dermot and Cathy. Agnes, who was always bright and cheery in the company of her children, seemed to have an extra bounce in her step tonight. Mark barely noticed this as his mind was on Mr Wise. The opening of the shop in Capel Street was just a temporary respite, and although Mr Wise had certainly perked up a lot in the initial months of his working in the shop, this had been as short and sweet as an ass’s gallop. He then went through a period of highs and lows. One day he looked as if he would run a hundred-yard sprint, the next you wondered if he could walk across a room. Eventually, the lows outnumbered the highs, and Mr Wise shortened his working week to one or two days. His ‘turns’ were more frequent than ever and it seemed as if he constantly had a small pill beneath his tongue. Mark tried to shake the thought of a sick Mr Wise from his head and focus his attention on young Trevor.

‘How’s school goin’, Trev?‘ he asked.

Trevor had his elbow beside his plate and his head resting on his hand, and he didn’t look up. ‘Okay.’

Trevor was the only one of the Browne family that was not a talker. Conversations with him were usually one-way traffic and his answers were as short as possible, if not entirely monosyllabic.

But now Trevor did look up. ‘I have a letter for yeh, Mammy.’

‘A letter for me? From who?’ Agnes frowned.

‘From Miss Conway,’ Trevor said flatly.

Miss Conway was the principal of St Mary’s school where Trevor went. In her mid-fifties, it was unlikely now that she would ever marry. Monday to Friday she devoted herself to the school, tirelessly working on the young children in an effort to open their minds to the possibilities and opportunities that could lie before them. Miss Conway believed that there was no such thing as a bad child. She was a strict disciplinarian, but even the worst of the children regarded her as fair, and the rest positively adored her. She was a branch secretary of the newly formed Greenpeace, an organisation working for a better environment throughout the world. She also spent part of her weekends teaching Traveller children, visiting halting sites all over Dublin city and the surrounding areas. She was a prominent member of Victor Bewley’s Travellers’ Trust.

Agnes regarded her as a weirdo and always referred to her as the ‘Do-gooder’. Trevor left the table and returned with a manila envelope, which he handed to his mother. Agnes tore open the envelope and read the short letter.

‘Christ — now what’s wrong?’

‘What is it, Mammy?’ Mark asked.

‘She’d like me to drop up tomorrow, to have a little chat about Trevor.’

Agnes put the letter down on the table and scolded Trevor. ‘What have yeh done now?’

‘I dunno.’ Trevor looked back down at his plate.

Everybody went back to eating their dinner. After a couple of moments Agnes reached into her apron pocket and took out an envelope. ‘Speakin’ of letters — I got this this morning.’ She held up the white envelope.

Mark recognised it immediately. ‘What’s that, Mammy?’ he asked.

‘A card. From Francis,’ she announced proudly.

All heads lifted from their plates simultaneously and in unison the family said, ‘Frankie!’

‘That’s right - Francis.’

‘Where is he? What’s he doin’?‘ Cathy asked.

‘Doin’ very well for himself. Workin’ as a travellin’ salesman, he says. Will I read it to yis?’

Mark poured himself another cup of tea, and tried to sound as indifferent as possible. ‘Sure, Ma,’ he said, ‘if you want to.’

Agnes took the card from the envelope. On the front it said ‘Thinking of you, Mother’ above a bouquet of flowers. Agnes read this aloud as if it were poetry. And then she began. ’“Dear Mammy, I’m so sorry I have not written in such a long time. What happened to Rory was a mistake, but even so I should never have been a part of it, and I will never find enough words to tell Rory how sorry I am.”‘ Agnes looked at Rory and smiled. ’He’s sorry luv,‘ she told him, in case he hadn’t heard what she’d read. Then she went on. ’“Can you ever forgive me for takin’ your bingo money? The only explanation I can offer is that I was frightened and knew I had to leave the country. I had no money, so I took what was there. If it takes me forever I will pay you back. I enclose forty pounds as a first payment.”‘

Agnes now delved into her apron pocket and held aloft two English twenty-pound notes, moving them in a circular motion around the table so that each one of the children would have a chance to see them. Again she smiled and put the forty pounds back in her pocket.

‘“I am workin’ as a travelling salesman, so there is no point in me givin’ you a return address, I move so often. But I will be in touch again, soon. Love, your son, Francis.”’

Agnes closed the card and Mark once again saw that twinkle in her eye that had been missing for so long.

‘Here, let’s see it, Ma,’ Dermot asked and took the card from his mother’s hand. He studied it for a few moments and over the top of it he peered at Mark. Mark caught his gaze and dropped his eyes. Dermot knew about things. He closed the card and handed it back to his mother.

‘Well, that’s great, Mammy. At least we know he’s well, it’ll stop you worrying so much.’ Dermot went back to his tea.

‘Yes,’ Agnes said to no-one in particular, and she held the card to her breast.

That night Mark Browne and Cathy Browne both headed out on dates, Dermot called in for Buster Brady and the two of them headed off for a game of snooker to the Cross Guns Snooker Club in Phibsboro. Rory took Trevor to a movie. So it was that Agnes was alone when Pierre called for one of his early visits, knowing he had to be back at the Pizza Parlour before eleven o‘clock. Agnes had told Pierre that day about Frankie’s letter. Pierre knew how important this letter was to Agnes and he was pleased with the mixture of excitement and relief in Agnes’s tone. He arrived at the house with a bottle of champagne and he was prepared for a celebration. He was not prepared, however, for what he got! Agnes was on such a high that the champagne vanished within a half-hour of Pierre’s arrival. They sat side-by-side on the Loretta suite, and Agnes snuggled up to Pierre.

Suddenly, and without any announcement, Agnes began to unbutton Pierre’s shirt. She ran her fingers through his soft downy chest hair, and Pierre’s nipples popped up like two little tin-hatted soldiers peeking out of fox holes. They kissed passionately. Pierre had his arms wrapped around Agnes. Just above his thumb he felt the zipper of her dress. Slowly he pulled the zip midway down Agnes’s back. He gently slid his hand in a circular motion over her baby-soft skin and she shuddered to his touch. She wore no bra.

Pierre now decided to go for gold, and finding the zip again he pulled it down to its finishing position at Agnes’s buttocks. Agnes had been hugging Pierre with both her arms wrapped around his neck and she now removed her arms. Pierre had expected this, he couldn’t even believe he had got this far. He expected Agnes to put her hands behind her back and without breaking the kiss re-do the zip midway up her back, if not all the way. Instead, while still kissing him, Agnes took a half step back, dropped her arms to her sides, and the dress slid to the ground.

So it was that night that Agnes Browne, a widow with one child engaged, one nearly engaged, and at forty-one years of age, had, in a Corporation house in Finglas, her very first ‘organism’, and the man she was with had two.

Chapter 14

AGNES HATED THESE VISITS to the principal’s office. She’d had one or two courtesy of Dermot and, God knows, Frankie’d had her up to the school so often that some of the teachers thought she was staff. Miss Conway’s office was neat and tidy as Agnes had expected, but instead of the smell of dusty books and stale cigarette smoke that Agnes usually associated with a principal’s office, Miss Conway’s had a beautiful aroma of Estée Lauder. Miss Conway entered the office very busily. She looked every inch the school principal.

‘I’m terrible sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs Browne.’

‘That’s all right, luv, what’s up?’

‘I want to talk to you about Trevor.’

‘I guessed that. He’s the only one I still have at school,’ Agnes smiled.

Miss Conway didn’t see the joke. ‘Quite so. Mrs Browne, your son is showing an amazing propensity for artistic endeavour.’ She dropped it like a bombshell. But it might as well have been a water balloon, for Agnes hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.

‘What d’yeh mean? Eh ... Miss?‘ Agnes asked.

Miss Conway placed her elbows on the desk, put her hands together as if she were praying, and put her fingers against her lips. She was considering the best way of illustrating her point to an obviously puzzled Agnes Browne.

‘Take a look at that window, Mrs Browne,’ Miss Conway began, pointing to the window behind Agnes.

Agnes turned in her chair and looked. What had once been a plain school window about eight feet wide by four feet high had now been painted in stained-glass style with the scene of the Last Supper. The colours used were stark and exciting, and the meal which was to be the basis of the Christian rite looked like a celebration rather than the wake it was usually depicted as. The artist obviously had a different spiritual point of view to the one most commonly held. The window was beautiful; on a sunny day one could imagine this office filled with colours. The work of art also served to distract one’s attention from the fact that there was a large crack, half-moon shaped, in the top right-hand comer of the window. Agnes turned back to Miss Conway.

‘What about it?’ She asked.

‘Your son did that!’ Miss Conway announced proudly.

‘The little bastard! I’ll fuckin’ kill him! How much will it cost to replace?’

Agnes hadn’t seen the painting, all she had seen was the crack. This is a common thing with parents of gifted children.