Rose of Tralee (5 page)

If only Sean didn’t make it so plain that he thought Colm a bit of a molly – and for why? Because the young feller helped around the place and took his sister out with him, sooner than stay at home all day. And whilst she continued to work she hoped that Colm would go on taking Caitlin around with him, otherwise she would have to spend money on a child minder, and they could do without that, so they could. If she’d had more children, if Colm had been a girl instead of a boy . . . but she loved her bright, intelligent son and most certainly did not envy her sisters their large families. She and Sean were well off by most standards, and that was because they only had the two childer and they both worked.

Sean, over in England, was well paid in comparison with wages in Ireland. He sent what he could home and when you remembered that he had to pay his lodgings and buy all his own food, clothing and the baccy for his pipe ... well, he was on good money, that you had to admit. Many of the men in the surrounding tenements brought back less than a pound a week to raise their families on, so the wives worked, and the older children, and even so, life for them was a constant struggle.

Eileen, who worked in the big houses, had never quite understood the economics of the rich, nor why they had so much and gave so little. As she scrubbed huge tiled floors, whited steps, washed paintwork, she saw out of the corner of her eye the waste, the greed, the selfishness of their lives. The children of the rich had for pocket-money what she was paid to work as hard as she could for eight hours, but a poor crippled beggar would get more from herself than from her employers’ children. The lady of the house would quibble over what she paid her servants, then throw out the dress she’d worn only twice, because ‘Everyone’s seen it and you won’t want folk saying your wife has only the one decent dress’.

Another bob or two on me money wouldn’t hurt any of ’em, but they’d never dream of payin’ over the odds, Eileen told herself, more in wonder than in pain. And Sean had said that in England she’d be paid better, too . . . not that she had any intention of going over the water. Not she! Ireland was ruled by the Irish now, since they had kicked out the British back in ’twenty-two, and the civil war was over, so there was no need to flee from the fighting. No, Ireland was Sean’s home as well as hers and her children would be brought up here, so they would, as
she and Sean had been.

The soft air coming through the window smelled of dust, and chimney smoke, and the salty odour of the river, but even so, on its breath Eileen could smell the Irish countryside. Wouldn’t it be grand, now, to live in the country? There was a little village not far from Dublin, Finglas, where there would be space to grow, fresh air, grass and great trees ...

But that was just a dream and well she knew it. She and Sean would work hard, and her good son would do the same, but their chances of moving out of the Dublin slums to live in a village were remote indeed. Besides, she had no idea whether she would like it, because she had been born and bred in Dublin and knew only the life here, understood nothing of village life. True, she had gone out with the other women of the neighbourhood when the spuds were ready and picked them for the rich farmers, and her kids had sat in the grass at the edge of the field and played games with the village kids. But that wasn’t like living there.

Still. Everyone needed some sort of dream-future and Finglas was hers. And one day Sean would give up the navvying, because he’d not have the strength to go on with it, and they would settle down together to live happily somewhere – why not in Finglas? It would be wonderful to have a rose-covered cottage with tall trees around it and a bit of a garden where they could grow spuds and cabbages, and she would sit on a chair in the sunshine and make lace, or embroider collars and cuffs, and sell the results of her industry to the rich Dublin ladies who had money to burn, and they would live happily ever after.

But that time would not come for many a long year, and right now she had better get herself out of this chair and into her bed. Tomorrow she was going to
take her kids to Killiney, where the stony beach ran down into a shallow sea, whilst the tall mountains at the back brooded over all. She would need to get her sleep, for they were a lively couple, Colm and Caitlin, and would not expect her to sit on the shingle and doze, they would want her to enjoy herself, too.

Eileen got up off her chair, pulled the window almost closed and carried her empty cup over to the washstand. Then she checked the buckets beneath it. The slop bucket was empty, the water-carriers full. The fire was out long since, but it wouldn’t take a moment in the morning to stir some life into it with fresh kindling, then she could mash the tea and send Colm out for bread and milk. Earlier in the day she had made two tea bracks and a dozen potato cakes, and with a bag of the little rosy-cheeked apples that were being sold in the markets at present, a bottle of cold tea to drink and a few of her home-made toffees, they would have a feast fit for a king, so they would.

Yawning hugely, Eileen went through to the room she shared with Caitlin. The child was slumbering soundly in the truckle bed and Eileen undressed down to vest and bloomers as quietly as any mouse, untied her rain-straight, light-brown hair from its bun and brushed it until it crackled. Then she climbed stealthily into the big bed and let her head relax onto the pillow.

In less than a minute, she slept.

1925 Liverpool

It was a mild night for September, so the window in Rosie Ryder’s small bedroom was half open, letting in both the soft night air and the glow from the gas-lamp outside in the street.

Rosie had been in bed a good hour or more, but she couldn’t sleep. It was too hot and besides, she had a piece of poetry to learn for school and it refused to stay learned unless she kept going over and over it in her head. Past experience had taught her that a poem repeated just before sleep somehow stuck, she did not know why, so she hadn’t bothered to learn it earlier but had gone out and played in the road with her friend Peggy, first quietly enough with their skipping ropes, then far more rowdily with the rest of the kids in a game of relievio, with the yard at the back of the public house on the corner – Ricky Elliott was the landlord’s son – as the gaol.

It was a noisy game, popular with kids but not with grown-ups because of the noise. For not only were there screams of ‘Comin’, ready or not!’ from the hunting team, but the hiders would shriek when they were caught, warn others at the top of their voice that the enemy were in the vicinity, and when packed into the gaol they would shout ‘Relievio!’ until a member of their own team, uncaught, came to rescue them.

There weren’t a lot of hiding places unknown to
both sides, of course, because it was an unwritten rule that you didn’t hide on private property. That was why it was best played at dusk, so that hiding was easier and seeking harder, for the most exciting part of the game was sneaking past the seekers to let your pals out of gaol and this, also, was easiest in the dusk.

The boys usually organised relievio, so you had to be tough to join in. Boys didn’t appreciate girls who cried when they were caught or objected to being barged aside by a male shoulder, they liked the ones who didn’t complain, and took the rough and tumble as fair game. Rosie’s hair was tied back for school in two long plaits and many a time young Alfie Morris, who lived next door to the Ryders, had caught Rosie by grabbing a pigtail, or even by doing a sort of rugby tackle, which brought them down at speed and caused a few startled phrases to erupt from them both. But Rosie, an only child, knew better than to complain. Alice Fitzgibbon, who lived near the end of the street, was an only child and considered a right little ninny by the boys. She never played rough games, and liked to sit on her mother’s front step and knit blanket squares or play cat’s cradle with the younger kids, and of course the boys despised her and told her so. She didn’t mind, though. She would just give them a slant-eyed look, as though to say ‘Just you wait!’, and continue with whatever game she was playing.

‘She’ll be more popular than the lot of ye one of these days,’ Rosie’s mother was wont to say darkly. ‘A feller won’t fall in love wit’ a girl he’s chased up the road and brought with wit’ a crack in the dust. No, when the fellers are searchin’ for sweethearts it’s the little Alices of this world they turn to, you mark my words, Rose Ryder.’

‘I don’t care, I don’t want sweethearts,’ Rosie said airily. ‘I like playin’ wi’ the fellers, Mam.’

And now, of course, she was suffering because if she’d done her homework for Monday earlier she could have let herself go to sleep. Instead, the words of the wretched poem went round and round in her head . . . she even found it hard to concentrate on listening for the sound of her father’s bicycle as he creaked homewards.

Jack Ryder was a tram driver and when the weather was fine he cycled from the tram depot on Smith Street to his home on Cornwall Street. Since his bicycle was an elderly machine, Rosie knew the creak of it by heart and usually heard it first as he turned into the street. If he was on an early shift she would drop everything and run to meet him, casting herself into his arms with a cry of ‘Oh Daddy, it’s good to see you – there’s pig’s liver an’ onions for your tea, an’ Mam’s gorran apple pie an’ all!’

But when he got home late, all she could do was to call down the stairs the instant she heard the back door open, ‘Daddy, I’m in bed, will you come up an hear me pome that I’ve learned for school? When you’ve had your tea, I mean, norright away.’

But he always came up right away, because he knew she’d not settle until he did. So if she missed the bicycle’s creaking progress, she might also miss the opening and shutting of the back door, or worse, she might fall asleep before he got in. But she wouldn’t, of course. She wouldn’t miss saying good-night to her daddy for anything, not even if she had to prop her eyelids open with matches, the way Daddy used to tease her.

She said the poem over once more, then pushed it firmly out of her mind and allowed herself to think
about the game of relievio and her close encounter with Moggy Highes, who had seen her crouching behind Mrs Fitzgibbon’s backyard, half hidden, she hoped, by the dustbins, and had reached for her just as she sprang forth and roared off down the jigger, with Moggy so close she could feel his hot breath on her neck. But she’d got away all right, hadn’t she? Girls were often faster runners than boys, and she had sped along the jigger and turned right into Cornwall Street, which meant a long run past her home before making a quick dive into the backyard of the Queen’s Arms to free the prisoners cooped up there with a joyous shriek, then pounding off once more along Netherfield Road this time.

She was in the middle of reliving the glorious moment when she had glanced back and seen Moggy clutching his side and obviously about to give up on such fast prey, when she heard the back door shut. Immediately she shot up in bed and prepared her lungs for a good yell. ‘Daddy! I’m in bed, I’ve been learnin’ me pome, when you’ve et can you come up an’ hear me say it? Daddy, can you come up when you’ve et?’

Rosie paused for breath. She had shouted at the top of her voice, he always heard, but ... ah!

Footsteps crossed the kitchen and trod along the narrow hall. Rosie, who had bounded out of bed to shout, now jumped hastily back in. Her father would not come up if she was out of bed, he had made that quite plain. So now she pulled the sheet up under her chin and bounced up and down on the mattress. ‘We played relievio, this evenin’, Daddy, an’ our team won, mine an’ Alfie’s. Alfie picked me first, Daddy, afore all the fellers, ’cos I can run so fast, an’ Moggy come after me – I was hidin’ behind the Fitzy
dustbins – only I ran so quick he couldn’t even sprinkle salt on me tail!’

Her father’s head appeared round the door; he was smiling. ‘All right, lass, all right ... is it a long poem? Only your mammy wants me down again, pronto. She’s cookin’ me a pork chop, wi’ apples an’ sultanas, an’ there’s mashed potatoes an’ fried onions too, so I don’t want that little lot gettin’ cold, for I’m hungry as a lion an’ me carry-out was et hours an’ hours ago.’

‘Yes, I had pork an’ mash for me tea earlier – it were grand. An’ the pome’s norra long one.’ Rosie fished the exercise book containing it from under the bed and held it out. ‘Page seventeen, Daddy.’

‘Gorrit,’ Jack Ryder said after a moment. He looked up at her expectantly. ‘Fire away, chuck.’

Rosie recited the poem falteringly and her father nodded, then put the book down on her counterpane. ‘Well done, queen. And how’s my Rose of Tralee, then? Did you have a good day in school?’

‘It were awright,’ Rosie admitted. Her daddy always called her his Rose of Tralee because he said she was just like the girl in the song. ‘Did you have a good day on the tram, Daddy?’

‘Grand, thanks, Rosie. Well, if that’s all I’ll give you a kiss an’ gerron me way to me supper, ’cos there’s no time to serenade ye tonight. Now get to sleep, there’s a good gal.’ He leaned over the bed and kissed the tip of her nose, then brushed the wisps of hair off her forehead and bent lower, to tuck her in. ‘You’ll not be wantin’ me coat over you tonight,’ he observed. ‘It’s warm still – too warm, you might say.’

In winter, Rosie liked to have her father’s tram driver’s coat as an extra cover, for not only was it thick and warm, it smelled of him and was like being held in his arms all night, safe from all harm. But
now, with the day’s warmth still lingering, she smiled and shook her head. ‘No, I don’t need your coat, Daddy,’ she said round the thumb which she had just stuck into her mouth. ‘But won’t you sing me one little bit of me song? It’ll send me straight off to dreamland, sure as sure.’

‘Awright, just one verse,’ Jack Ryder said, sitting down on the bed again and filling his lungs with air.

‘She was lovely and fair as the rose of the summer,

Yet ’twas not her beauty alone that won me,

Oh no! ’Twas the truth in her eye ever dawning,

That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee.’

‘Thanks, Daddy, though I still think you ought to ha’ called me Mary,’ Rose said as she always did, as her father’s voice sank artistically low and the song died away. ‘I love your singin’, honest to God I do. Will you always sing to me at bedtime?’