Rose of Tralee (34 page)

Eileen did not believe for one moment that a Christmas spent in a foreign land could possibly equal one spent by your own fireside, but Sean was
just trying to cheer her up very likely. Already she had planned to send some special Irish dainties across to England for her boy – a harsh mother she would think herself if she did not do her best to make his Christmas a good one – and Sean had said Colm would be sure to go to Mass, along with the Ryders, on the day itself.

Presently, their work finished, Caitlin and Cracky clattered away from the sink and came and sat on the rag hearthrug before the blazing fire. They were the best of friends once more, all their former animosity forgotten. Caitlin said, with assurance, that since Colm would not be coming home after all there would surely be room for Cracky, even on Christmas Day, and Eileen agreed that if Mrs Fry could spare him . . .

‘It’ll be one less to feed,’ Cracky said briefly and Eileen, sighing, wished that other families were as happy – and lucky – as her own. Poor Mrs Fry had a dozen kids to feed, a husband out of work more often than he was in it, and a tiny, filthy room in which to cope with them all. Two of the older boys and one of the girls were working, but they had moved out as soon as they got jobs, no doubt anxious to keep some of their own money, and though Mrs Fry had told Eileen that Roisin, Pat and Declan were good kids and the apple of her eye, paying up as they did at the end of each week, Eileen did not blame them for moving out.

‘Mammy? Are ye goin’ to read us Daddy’s letter?’ Caitlin coaxed presently, eyeing the envelope on the mantel above her head. ‘We’ve done a good job; the crocks are all put away, an’ the washin’ bowl rinsed out an’ dried up. An’ you
did
say . . .’

‘Right, then,’ Eileen agreed, reaching down the
letter. ‘And when it’s done I’ll play for you and you can sing a carol, then we’ll walk Cracky some o’ the way home, because a breath of air before you go to sleep is good for you. Ready?’

Once the letter had been read aloud, Eileen handed the small enclosure to her daughter. ‘And this is a line from Colm to yourself, alanna,’ she said. ‘You read it this time, to Cracky an’ meself.’

Caitlin sat up importantly and read the short note aloud.

Dear Caitlin,

Mammy will have told you I’ll not be home this Christmas, but me job’s a good one and I don’t want to lose it. However, I’m buying you a nice gift for to make up for me absence, and Daddy will pop it into his case, so you’ll not go short, alanna.

I wish I could have come just for a few days, but I’ll be back for the summer and we’ll have a grand time then, so we will. Take care of Mammy and be a good girl and who knows, I might send you an Easter gift, too!

With love from your brother

Colm.

‘Well now, a present from your brother,’ Eileen said. ‘Sure an’ aren’t you the lucky one, Caitlin O’Neill? And now let’s sing that carol – which will you choose, Cracky, for ‘tis your turn.’

Cracky chose ‘The Holly and the Ivy’ and Eileen went to the small piano which stood against the wall and played, whilst all three of them sang lustily. On Christmas morning they would all go to Mass, but on Christmas afternoon Eileen would invite some neighbours in and they would have a good old singsong, because the O’Neill piano was the only one in the
neighbourhood and was much appreciated. Indeed, in the summer it was not unusual for neighbours to come to the door and ask if they might carry it downstairs to the courtyard, where a celebration of some kind – a wedding, a christening, or a birthday party – was being held. Some of the other women could pick out a tune on it but no one else played it properly, as Eileen could, and she gave Caitlin piano lessons two or three times a week, though she thought privately that her daughter would never master the art. Caitlin had a sweet singing voice, but no patience with the chore of learning to read music, let alone to practise.

Mrs Monahan, who lived in the flat above their own, told Eileen that she should give up her various jobs and play the piano for profit, but Eileen just laughed. She knew she was a very ordinary performer – and was aware, too, that she worked for a definite purpose, though no one knew how close that purpose was drawing except Eileen herself.

For both Sean and Eileen O’Neill were saving up so that, when the opportunity occurred, Sean could come back from across the water and the family could move out to Finglas, to a cottage near the River Tolka. Long ago, when she and Sean had been courting, he had taken her out to Finglas and showed her the cottage in which his father had been born. At present it was inhabited by a very old man and his ancient, almost blind wife, but the day would come when the owner would be looking round for new tenants, Sean had told the pretty young girl he was planning to marry. ‘It’s me dream to move back here one o’ these days,’ he had said wistfully. ‘See what a big garden there is wit’ the cottage? A man handy wit’ a spade could grow enough vegetables for his family an’
more, an’ he could keep a goat for its milk an’ a donkey wit’ a cart behind to drag seaweed from the shore to make the soil rich, an’ the wife could pick the fruit from the trees . . . see there, plums, apples, cherries . . . an’ make jam an’ sell it in the Dublin markets . . . Oh, Eileen, I’d dearly love to live out here.’

Ever since that day, Eileen had saved in private for the means to make this dream come true. The rent for the cottage would be higher than that for their flat, but it wasn’t the worst of it. It was losing Sean’s steady wage – and her own – which worried her and made her put away every penny she could towards that happy day.

Neighbours often wondered aloud why she continued to work so hard when her man brought in good money and now her son, too, was earning. Eileen smiled, but never told them. It was a secret, private dream, between herself and Sean, and she would tell no one, for suppose they never managed it? Suppose they lived out the rest of their lives in Dublin, in the crowded tenements? She would rather folk did not know that they had tried, and failed, to escape.

‘Can we have another carol, Mammy?’ Caitlin pleaded. ‘Just a wee short one, before we walk Cracky home.’

‘No, for it’s late, thanks to you not comin’ in for your tea on time,’ Eileen said, but her smile robbed the words of their sting. ‘Put your warm coat on, alanna, and we’ll set off . . . an’ if there’s a chestnut seller by the market we’ll buy a bag for to keep our hands warm an’ for the lovely country smell of ’em.’

‘And for the taste,’ Cracky said longingly. ‘We should ha’ gone nutting ourselves last mont’, Caity
me gorl, then we could ha’ lavished a grosh o’ nuts on your mammy wit’out her payin’ out her farthin’s.’ He went and fetched Eileen’s coat from the hook on the back of the door and courteously helped her into it, then he wound his own long woollen scarf several times round his neck and tucked the end into his trousers. The scarf was his only concession to winter, though later, Eileen reminded herself, she must pick up some more boots for him at one of the markets. They liked the kids to wear boots to school and indeed, Caitlin never went barefoot. With three of them working there was no need; they could afford them. And Mrs Fry never put her nose up when Cracky came home with boots, or a warm jacket, or a scarf. Eileen did not imagine that Cracky told her where the clothing came from, he was too careful for that, because when the two girls had been at school, Cracky’s mammy had been further up the school than Eileen, who was still in the babies class. Now that she had a bit of money to spare, Eileen was happy to spend some of it on a young lad as useful as Cracky, but she was too tactful to allow the Frys to believe they were accepting charity and always ‘paid’ Cracky for various services in warm clothing or food.

And soon the three of them, with Caitlin in the middle, were making their way down the street, with a farthing bag of chestnuts apiece, blowing on the hot nuts, eating and laughing as they went, with Christmas beckoning ahead of them, a bright glow in the darkest night.

1931 Liverpool

Rose bounced through the back door, so excited and pleased with herself that she felt like proclaiming her news from the housetops, but instead she looked round the kitchen, made sure that her mother and Mrs Kibble had both turned towards her, then played a blast on an imaginary trumpet. ‘Tan tara! Guess what’s outside, in the backyard. No, don’t look, see if you can guess.’

‘Some holly an’ mistletoe? We’re goin’ to decorate the front room an’ the paper chains is up already,’ her mother said placidly. ‘Oh, norra bigger cage for Gully, chuck? His old ‘un’s fine, he teks up quite enough room as it is.’

Rose heaved a sigh. ‘No, not a bigger cage, mam. Nor holly an’ mistletoe, though I wouldn’t mind gettin’ a bus out into the country an’ pickin’ some, if Tommy an’ Mona would like to come along. What about you, Mrs Kibble? Have a guess, go on!’

‘Santa Claus, in his red coat and beard,’ Mrs Kibble suggested, smiling. ‘And the reindeer, too, of course.’

‘Well, you aren’t far off at that.’ Rose withdrew for a moment, pushing the door wide, then came in through it once more, this time grasping the handlebars of a bicycle. ‘Tan tara!’

‘Rosie, where in the Lord’s name did you get that?’ Mrs Ryder said in a gasp. ‘You’ve not saved up
enough yet, you said so only yesterday.’

‘No, I know. Look, I’ll put it in the shed, then come in and explain,’ Rose said, having smoothed her hand along the saddle as though the bicycle would appreciate a bit of petting. ‘It’s not new, but it’s just what I wanted.’

‘It’s a decent-looking machine,’ Mrs Kibble remarked, as Rose disappeared once more, and walked over to push the door to, for it was a windy evening. ‘Looks as though your gal’s fallen on her feet again, Lily.’

‘Aye; it ‘ud have took her another year to save up enough for a new ‘un,’ agreed Mrs Ryder, going over to the stove and jiggling the pan of potatoes to make sure none had stuck to the bottom. ‘But that’ll be all her Christmas money gone, I reckon.’

As she spoke Rose reappeared in the doorway and, entering the kitchen, slammed the door behind her, shed her heavy coat and hat, and stripped off her woollen gloves and scarf. Then she kicked off her Wellingtons and put on her old slippers, finally walking across the kitchen and running her finger along the bars of the parrot’s cage.

‘How you doin’, Gully?’ she said cheerfully. ‘Did you see me bike? All I need now is someone to teach me to ride it.’

‘Oh, one o’ the young gentlemen’ll teach you,’ her mother said, pulling the potatoes slightly to one side of the hob and bending to remove a roasting tin, complete with a large piece of sizzling pork, from the oven. ‘I seem to remember Mr O’Neill tellin’ us once that his son had been an errand boy, so Colm could probably show you.’

‘I reckon I’ll practise by meself first,’ Rose said at once. ‘Tommy an’ Colm would only laugh when I fell
over. But aren’t you goin’ to ask where I got it? An’ what I paid for it?’

‘You’ll tell us whether we ask or not,’ her mother observed. ‘But whiles you talk, queen, you might lay the table. The men will be in quite soon and Agueda and meself are a bit behind.’

‘Oh. Right,’ Rose said, going to the dresser drawer and getting out a checked tablecloth. ‘You know Mr Garnett?’

‘Aye,’ her mother admitted. ‘Since he’s come round here three times this last week to see his dratted bird you could say we know him, more or less.’

Rose grinned. Ever since the night of the dance, Mr Garnett had been more interested in his parrot than one could have believed possible. He had told her next day at work that he was ashamed of himself for not visiting earlier and in due course he came, laden with various gifts – food for Gulliver, flowers for her mother, chocolates for what he called ‘Your family, Mrs Ryder’.

‘He’s got his eye on Mona,’ Rose’s mother had remarked. ‘Well, she could do worse; he’s a nice young gentleman and clearly he’s gorra good future. Oh aye, she could do a deal worse.’

‘My dear Lily, he may not intend marriage,’ Mrs Kibble had pointed out. ‘He’s going to inherit that firm one of these days, his family is an old, proud one. Mona is a pretty girl, but ...’

‘I’m sure he don’t intend marriage,’ Rose’s mother had said briskly. ‘But he’ll take her about, introduce her to his friends ... there’s no harm in that, I’m sure.’

‘So long as he doesn’t turn your niece’s head,’ Mrs Kibble had said rather gloomily. ‘It would not do to raise her hopes, Lily.’

Rose had said nothing, but she thought that Mona
was safe enough. She was always extremely polite, indeed charming, to Mr Garnett, but she hadn’t actually been out with him, far less back to his home, wherever that might be. Indeed, she was still showing far too much interest in Tommy for Rose’s peace of mind, particularly as Colm continued to eye Mona as keenly as the pigeons in Williamson Square eyed anyone scattering corn.

‘Well, besides his interest in his dratted bird, it seems he’s got a sister. She’s a bit younger than him but she’s still quite old. Twenty-two I think he said. Her name’s Penelope, an’ she’s gettin’ married next spring to some feller who lives down south somewhere.’

‘Oh aye?’ Lily said absently. ‘Wants a parrot, does she, queen?’

‘Oh Mam, you’d be real upset if anyone took Gully off of us,’ Rose said reproachfully. ‘You only say that to mek me feel bad. But if she don’t want a parrot, she don’t want a bicycle, either. She’s goin’ to have her own little sports car – imagine that!’

‘I can’t,’ her mother said, lifting the pan from the stove and carrying it over to the sink, where she began to strain the potatoes through a blue enamel colander. ‘What’s more, I don’t want to. Women didn’t oughter drive cars, that’s for the fellers, Why, they’ll be havin’ women drivin’ trams at this rate.’

‘Oh Mam, you’re so old-fashioned an’ set in your ways,’ Rose said, irritated. ‘Well, to cut a long story short I was tellin’ Mr Garnett as how I were savin’ up for a bike, an’ he said how about his askin’ his sister if she’d like to sell her old rattler, so I said smashin’, sir, but I didn’t think anythin’ would come of it. He said that a week ago an’ I thought he’d forgot all about it, and then, this very mornin’, he come into the
office an’ said Penelope said I were welcome to it, only I’d have to buy a new pump, an’ mebbe get a bit o’ work done on it, so he’d got a servant to walk it in, an’ he took me down to the yard at the back an’ handed it over there an’ then.’