The Young Wan (10 page)

Most of the “on-street banter” which was shouted from stall to stall across the street concerned sex. The lack of, or the size of, or the length of, or the shape of. Many visitors to Moore Street Market would just stand in one spot simply listening to the exchange of words, insults, and slagging matches, sometimes shocking in content but always funny.

Agnes Reddin had always thought of Moore Street as a place of mystery. Marion referred to it always as “the Markets,” and her descriptions of it to Agnes always made it sound so beautiful, like it were somewhere on another planet. When Agnes arrived in Moore Street for that first time, she was not disappointed. Agnes walked behind Marion from stall to stall as Marion described each one and gave Agnes little tips. At the flowers, there were buckets of gardenias, gladioli, lilies, asters, and daffodils.

“You always put a couple of aspirins into the flower water. That keeps them fresh for longer.” Marion spoke with the authority of an expert. Agnes just nodded, taking it all in. As they walked along the market street, Agnes was filled with excitement, while Marion was greeting every dealer by name. Most were related to her somewhere along the line anyway.

“How’ya, Lily,” Marion said to the stall holder.

“How’ya, Marion love,” the woman replied.

When they had moved on a little, Marion turned to Agnes. “That’s
really
her name, Lily. It’s not made up nor nothing. That was a good idea by her mother, wasn’t it? Like if you have a flower stall call your baby Lily.” They laughed.

“I have an uncle called Bismarck,” Agnes said.

“Bismarck? Is that a flower?” Marion asked.

“I dunno.” They moved along. Agnes also enjoyed the continuous banter, but understood little of it.

“Hey, Funny-Fanny,” a dealer called across the street, holding up a huge, freshly dug carrot.

“What?” answered Funny-Fanny.

“This carrot reminds me of my old man’s tool,” she exclaimed.

“What do yeh mean, the size of it?” Funny-Fanny asked.

“No, the dirt of it,” the dealer called back, eliciting laughter from stallholders and customers alike.

Marion gave Agnes the guided tour as they tripped along down Moore Street toward the Henry Street end. The place was awash with color, scent, and stench. There were golden and scarlet apples, juicy pears, hairy peaches, bananas, oranges, white and red grapes, cherries, plums, strawberries, raspberries, gooseberries, and rhubarb. On the vegetable stalls there was cabbage, white cabbage, green cabbage, flat Dutch cabbage, red cabbage, Savoy cabbage, there were carrots, onions, mushrooms, turnips, parsnips, Pentland Dell potatoes, Queens, Pinks, Whites, leeks, asparagus, broccoli, spinach, sprouts, peas, and French beans. Over in their own little area, well away from the other stalls, stood the fish stalls. Mountains of ice across which lay fresh mackerel, sole, plaice, rainbow trout, eels, cod, salmon, cod roe, ray, whiting, halibut, whitebait, crab, lobster, and Dublin Bay prawns. Then you had the “mixed and dairy” stalls. These were the vendors of duck eggs, goose eggs, hen’s eggs, and herbs and spices like nutmeg, ginger, parsley, cinnamon, mint, and thyme, or dried fruit, dates, and garlic. The street, so packed with chatter, scent, and melodious insults, became Agnes’ second home. Yes indeed, it was a wonderful time for the two young wans.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Agnes had tried to keep her breasts a secret for as long as she could. She didn’t like them, and they hurt. Puberty is a difficult time for any young girl, but when it comes early and you are the only girl in your class in school sporting a swollen chest and a whiff of pubescent hair it can be truly embarrassing. It was also confusing for Agnes, who did not fully understand the changes that were taking place in her body and, by extension, her life. Not that she and the other girls in Agnes’ class in school had not had a modicum of sex education. They had. Well, all except Marion, who had been put out of the class after just ten minutes and three questions. The questions Marion had asked were just for clarification. When the sister had said “breasts,” Marion asked if this was the same as “diddies,” and then did “vulva” mean her “wiggie.” These two were followed by her ejection question, which was, “Is ‘penis’ the same as ‘cock’?” All the other girls were thinking these questions, but, as usual, only Marion would ask them. The sex-education class lasted one half-hour. This half-hour talk on that day in a language that, as Marion displayed, is alien to the girls was to be their total formal sex education. The warnings were there, of course, and the sister made the girls write them down:

1. Never wear black patent shoes with a skirt, as boys could see the reflection of your knickers in them.

2. Makeup is only used by harlots and prostitutes.

3. Dancing closely so that your body touches against a boy’s body would bring trouble. For, the sister explained, once boys were aroused they had no control of their actions, and anything that followed would be the girls’ own fault.

4. And, of course, all of the above were a one-way ticket to eternal damnation in hell.

The young girls left the class that day half informed and completely terrified.

It was that same day that Agnes was going to tell her best friend her secret. No better time than after sex class to reveal that you had begun to grow. But before she could, Marion began to tell another story that was to give Agnes another cause for hating her early start in the breasts department. The two had been walking home and discussing the lesson that day. Agnes had been shocked by hearing how babies were made. The thought of her parents doing anything like that was just upsetting. And the thought of Marion’s parents doing it
so many times
was positively revolting. The conversation died for a while, and the girls walked side by side toward the tenements.

“I don’t want any diddies,” Marion suddenly said.

“What?” Agnes was aghast. “Every girl gets diddies.”

“I hope I don’t, or if I do, I hope they’re real small ones, just this big.” She held her fingers slightly apart.

“Why?” Agnes had not given any thought at that stage to shape or size.

“I don’t want to end up like me Auntie Tessie.”

“What’s wrong with your Auntie Tessie’s diddies?” Agnes asked.

“Well, I’ve seen photographs of her when she was just getting married, and her diddies were out to here.” Marion held her hands as far away from her chest as she could. “And now”—Marion dropped her hands below her waist—“they are down here.”

“They are not,” Agnes said in disbelief

“They are. I swear they are,” Marion answered.

“They’re not.”

“They are.”

“They are not. Marion Delany, you shut up. You’re making it up.”

“They are, Agnes. I swear. Me mammy says that Tessie has to pull down her knickers to scratch her nipples. I swear.”

“That’s horrible,” Agnes said.

“I know. I asked me mother why they hang down like that. And she said that me Auntie Tessie breast-fed her kids . . . in bunk beds.” Marion laughed.

“Oh, Marion Delany, you’re horrible.” But Agnes howled with laughter too.

Over the next few months, as she monitored her own breasts’ growth in the mirror, Agnes thought a lot about Marion’s Auntie Tessie.

“Happy Birthday, dear Dolly, Happy Birthday to you.” Everybody clapped except Agnes. When Agnes saw Dolly for the first time, bundled in her mother’s arms, she had known straight away this baby would be trouble. In the following eight years, her opinion had changed little. Dolly had upstaged every event in Agnes’ life. Dolly had been born in May, so there were rarely other events surrounding her birthday, the result of that being she got the best of gifts. Agnes, on the other hand, being born in December, tended to get a smaller gift and was pawned off with the annual statement “Sure you’ll get a big gift from Santa at Christmas, won’t you? And that’s only a couple of weeks away.”

Now this. Just eight years old, and Dolly was having a birthday party with lots of little girls and boys from the street invited in and given Orange Squash and sweeties. Agnes, now twelve years of age, had yet to have a party. She was always told, “It’s too close to Christmas, darling.” In honor of Dolly’s birthday, Agnes was allowed to bring one friend to the party. Needless to say, that one friend was Marion Delany. At the end of the “Happy Birthday” song, Agnes looked over at Marion, who bent over pretending to put her fingers down her throat and get sick. Agnes giggled.

“Okay, children, let’s play some games!” Connie announced, and the tiny children squealed. Marion whistled across the room to get Agnes’ attention, and when she had it she nodded toward the door, signaling a quick exit. Agnes nodded back and made her way over to Connie.

“Mammy, I’m going out with Marion, just for a while. Is that okay?”

“Well, I was hoping you’d stay for the party, Agnes, but, okay, go on if you want to. But don’t be long.” Agnes grabbed her coat and made for the door.

“Thanks, Mrs. Reddin,” Marion called over her shoulder. Connie didn’t hear her, and at times only barely saw Marion, as some of the younger children who were just six were already as tall as Marion, who was now fourteen. Once outside the building, the two girls raced up the street.

“Come on, Agnes, I promised we’d meet Theresa Foley and Angela Connolly at the back lane of the buildings.” Agnes quickened her pace and the two girls ran side by side up the street. Marion and Agnes found Theresa and Angela sitting on the “small wall” at the back of the buildings.

“Where were youse two?” Angela called.

“Ah her sister’s birthday party. Yuck!” The teenagers laughed.

“What’s that?” Marion asked, pointing to a dark-brown bottle beside Angela’s leg. Angela and Theresa smiled slowly.

“It’s drink.”

“What kind of drink?” Agnes asked.

“I don’t know. I think it’s whiskey.” She held the bottle up to the light. “It’s half full.” It was actually a bottle of tawny sherry that Angela had stolen from her mother’s bedside cabinet. Angela’s father would get the blame. Theresa took the bottle from Angela and, twisting the cork, pulled it out of the neck of the bottle with a
pop.
She held up the open bottle. “So—who’s first, then?”

Agnes spun away from the bottle. “Yuck. Not me. I don’t even like the smell of it!”

Of course Marion Delany’s arm stretched out straight away. “Gimme it,” she said, and she wiped the neck of the bottle with the palm of her hand. Without even smelling it, she put the neck to her lips and downed a gulp.

“Oh, fuck.” She spat. “It tastes like medicine. Ugh!” Then she stood up straight, waited a moment, and said, “It makes your tummy feel warm, though. It’s not bad.”

The three girls went in turn taking mouthfuls as Agnes looked on. By the time the bottle was emptied, it was Agnes who was running from one to another holding the girls’ hair out of their faces as they vomited up the sherry. They would never forget this day, these young girls. And the more distant it became, the better the memory would be, but right now it was pale faces, dry retching, and three brittle little girls.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It was Mrs. Brady from number 26 that had told Bosco. He had been making his way back from a late-running union meeting about the ongoing strike and the lack of progress. She am-bushed him at the corner of his own street and told him the whole story.

“A bottle of sherry, a bottle of Jaysus sherry! At their age, it’s disgraceful! That’s what it is. I’m sure now that any of those men down on that picket line would love a bottle of sherry.” Her voice was a little excited, as is the voice of any busybody who can’t wait to tell a parent about an errant child. Her dig at him over the strike didn’t half hurt either.

“And you’re sure my daughter Agnes was there?” Bosco asked.

“Positive,” said Aul Brady, and she counted the names off on her fingers. “That young O’Sullivan one with the arse out of her knickers, that one Marion Delany, and your young wan, Agnes. It was them, all right.”

“Well, thanks very much for telling me, Mrs. Brady,” Bosco said, tipped his hat, and smiled at the lady. “I’ll look after it, thank you.” He walked on, but he had forced the smile, he was angry. The thought of his little girl at just twelve years of age drinking down a lane, made him furious.

Connie was at the cooker stirring a pot of stew, and the girls were sitting at the table doing homework, when the fury of the man of the house fell upon them. Bosco didn’t so much as enter the room as explode. He slammed the door behind him and walked just four strides to the center of the main room. The family were startled, and all eyes were on him. Immediately Agnes knew. She knew so many things all at once. She knew that somebody had told her father of her little session that day. She knew she would not get an opportunity to tell her father that, although present, she had not taken any drink. She knew that, even if she did get the opportunity to tell him that she had not taken a drink, he wouldn’t believe her. She knew she was done for. The blood drained from her face.

“What’s wrong, Bosco?” Connie asked with a tremor in her voice.

Bosco held up his arm. His palm was flat toward his wife. Then he shouted. “You stay out of this, woman. And
you
”—he pointed directly at Agnes—“step out here in front of me.” Agnes began to rise from the table unsteadily and her eyes filled.