Tell Them I'll Be There (5 page)

‘I reckon my husband was born with a telephone in his hand,' Barbara said as he went off with the waiter.

Dan was glad of the opportunity to ask questions. ‘This is all very nice,' he said first of all, ‘but what am I doing here?'

She shrugged. ‘Joe works all the time, morning, noon and night. He knew I was bored and he didn't mind when I went down to see you and your family in steerage. I told him what a fine fella you are and he said he'd like to meet you.'

‘So will he offer me a job?'

‘I think he's impressed, especially with all that stuff about your brother the priest and the rescue act with the little girl.'

‘Maybe he's not as cynical as you,' he said.

Her chin rose slightly. ‘I wouldn't count on it.'

‘Got you,' he said with a laugh. ‘I got her ruffled.'

Later, when Dan left to go back to the lower deck, he had plenty to tell the others. When we dock in New York, he told them, first class passengers and non-immigration passengers will be allowed off. Then the rest of us will be transferred to a smaller boat and taken to Immigration Control. We have to go through some kind of clearance. When we get settled, he said, I'm to ring Barbara and make an appointment to see Mr Baker. Maybe he'll have jobs for us.

‘So it's
Barbara
, is it?' Michael said with a grin. ‘I don't think our Caitlin approves of all this. She reckons this Barbara's got her hooks into you.'

Dan smiled at Caitlin. ‘Barbara is Mr Baker's wife, Caitlin.'

T
HE NEWCOMERS FLOODED
the main deck in third class to gaze in awe at the hugely symbolic Statue of Liberty as the
Olympic
sailed majestically into New York harbour. The torch held high seemed like a greeting, a gesture of welcome to those filled with the wonder and excitement of their hopes for the future.

Dan's information was correct. First to disembark were the privileged few from the upper decks, the elegantly dressed met by chauffeurs or pre-booked cab drivers. Third-class passengers with unstamped tickets followed and the immigrants waited. And waited. It was almost two hours before what looked like a tugboat arrived alongside and those left aboard were corralled towards lines of rope that led to a gangplank from the liner to the tug.

An officious-looking, uniformed immigration officer checked tickets and asked the same questions as the passengers shuffled along. ‘Are you carrying any liquor?'

Michael looked at him blankly.

‘Are you carrying any alcohol?'

Michael exaggerated his accent. ‘Oh no, sir. I'm Irish.'

The immigration man eyed him as if mentally noting his face before moving on.

‘Behave, you idiot,' Dan said. ‘We have to get through this.'

The entrance examination at Ellis Island was long drawn out but simple enough for Dan and the boys. They were all young and healthy as were the man from Courtown and his family and they all spoke English as their mother tongue. Tim explained 
Caitlin's circumstances and produced the letter of introduction to the monsignor at St Patrick's. It helped that the officer was Irish and that Caitlin had her aunt's address to go to. When the group divided into channels, male and female, Caitlin was
chaperoned
by the wife of the man from Courtown.

Many people sharing a voyage and passing through Ellis Island made friends
en route
, friendships that lasted sometimes for the rest of their lives. Dan and his brothers and the young man from Courtown and his family vowed to keep in touch.

It was a long trolley ride to Brooklyn but the boys and Caitlin were enthralled, enjoying every minute as they took in their first impression of Manhattan Island. From the Dublin boat the skyline along the Liverpool waterfront had seemed somehow majestic and intimidating but here the sheer height of the skyscrapers took their breath away as they leaned forward, crouching low to see the tops of the vertical buildings.

It was fortunate. Dan realized when the trolley came to their stop, that before crossing the East River they had seen some of the better sights the city had to offer.

‘Scholes Street!' the driver called. Then: ‘Didn't somebody want this dump?'

‘Oh yes, sir,' Dan said suddenly. And all four scrambled for the exit, thanking the driver profusely as Dan asked, ‘Is this it?'

‘Guess so, son,' the driver said. ‘The Navy Yard down there. OK?'

‘Thank you,' Dan said. ‘Thank you very much.'

They watched from the grey sidewalk as the trolley car rattled on its way. Three boys in flat caps and clothing that marked them out to the casual observer as ‘new arrivals', Caitlin's cotton dress barely adequate even in that oppressive and humid July.

At Immigration when asked if they had an address to go to, Dan had given the address of Caitlin's Aunt Maureen who lived in some place called Albany. Do you know how to get there? he was asked. Oh yes, sir, he said with Tim in the background shaking his head at the lie. But Dan didn't want any
complications
. He just wanted to get through. 

On the dockside at Battery Park men of various nationalities and religions offered accommodation. A man wearing a cloth shamrock at his lapel gave them a piece of paper with the name O'Malley's Guest House, Scholes Street off Manhattan Avenue, near the Navy Yard, Brooklyn, scrawled in pencil. It sounded all right but by now Dan was not impressed. Already a blueprint of the city was taking shape in his head. He only had to experience a place once and he could find his way around. Tim was the same but Michael could get lost in their own village – or so they teased him.

Sitting quietly, watching the streets go by, Dan had noticed how the hotels and buildings looked shabbier at this ragged edge of town. He guessed that where they were heading would not be up to much and he was right. On Scholes Street they ran into trouble.

It was just going dark as they ambled along examining the brownstone houses for the name ‘O'Malley'. Most of the shops now were at the Avenue end except for a grocery store and a tobacco shop. Further down was a small police station. Sailors in twos and threes on what they called shore leave were heading across the river.

As the Dolan boys and Caitlin drew near a group in their whites, exhilarated at the prospect of a night out, decided it was time for some fun at the expense of these ‘micks' as they called all Irish immigrants. At once they began to hurl abuse and taunt the already disorientated four. The boys ignored them until one of them made a gesture and uttered an obscenity that was clearly heard by Caitlin.

Michael, who was closest to the sailor, reacted with a startling ferocity. He grabbed the sailor by the flapping collar of his uniform, swung him round and rammed his head against a brick wall. Two of the other sailors came to their friend's aid but, just as incensed, Dan barred their way, his fists raised, ready to take them on. Aware of the navy police patrol van where Scholes Street met the Avenue and not wanting their night out curtailed prematurely, the sailors hesitated. Then one led them away, glaring at Michael with the words, ‘You wait, spud head. We'll remember you.' 

Pleased to escape unscathed the boys went on down the street and Michael's shoulders took on an exaggerated swagger. It was a dubious victory but one that was to grow to inflated
proportions
in the telling. Caitlin was to remember the time the boys took on the navy –
six
hefty sailors! – and her story was neither modified nor denied by the others. If they were honest, all three knew there were not six, there were four, and the ‘hefty' sailors were no bigger than themselves, boys in men's clothing.

O'Malley's was a large brownstone house divided into rooms to let. Dan knocked lightly on the open door, then knocked again and after a while Peg O'Malley, a small, slim,
stern-looking
woman came from the depths of the lobby, drying her hands on her apron. She eyed them warily and asked them who they were and what they wanted though she was, in fact, expecting them. The man with the cloth shamrock had phoned from the dock.

Peg O'Malley was slightly built and no more than five feet two. She had thick black hair, the grey roots showing through, black eyebrows, dark-blue eyes and a face that was striking rather than pretty.

She only had the one room, she told them sternly. That would be fine, Dan said. It would only be for a few nights then there would just be two of them. He looked at Tim and Tim explained that he was to take Caitlin to her aunt and then he was to join the priesthood. Peg O'Malley looked at them doubtfully and Dan asked if he might speak to her in private.

‘Go into the parlour,' she told the others, ‘and make sure you behave yourselves.' With a jerk of her head she indicated that Dan was to follow her.

In the kitchen he told her what happened on the dockside in Liverpool, how Caitlin now had no one but her aunt's family in some place called Albany and how they had decided to take good care of her and see that she got there.

Peg O'Malley was impressed. ‘Well,' she said, ‘she can't share a room with you three. I'll make her a little bed in my room.'

The next day the boys took Caitlin across to Fifth Avenue. It was hot and humid yet everyone seemed to be in a great hurry, dashing in and out of shops and offices. They soon found St Patrick's. It was an imposing presence in the heart of the city. Smaller than the surrounding skyscrapers it seemed somehow more grand and its wide steps and impressive portals had an elegance that was missing from the glass and concrete jungle.

‘Look,' Michael said, ‘I'll see you back at Mrs O'Malley's. I promised, soon as I was in town, I would go and see Nathan.'

They didn't have an appointment but a young priest took them to a small waiting room. A man in a suit came, read Tim's letter of introduction, smiled at Caitlin and asked them to wait. It was another half-hour before Monsignor Dunne arrived but when he did he seemed to know all about them.

‘Your Aunt Maureen is longing to see you, my dear,' he told Caitlin. He looked at Tim. ‘The lady was terribly worried when she heard what happened but we assured her that her niece was safe and in good hands.' And by way of explanation he added, ‘We asked her parish priest to call and explain the situation.'

When Monsignor Dunne spoke he sounded neither Irish nor American. His voice was devoid of accent but Dan guessed right: he was English. He had the same rather cold, formal manner of the English landlord Dan had worked for back home, so unlike Father Kelly, the boxer, in Liverpool.

‘And how prepared are you, young man,' the monsignor asked Tim, ‘for the spiritual journey you wish to undertake?'

‘To be a priest is what I want, Monsignor,' Tim said. ‘It's what I've always wanted.'

Dan and Caitlin sat quietly, as Tim was cross-examined. The monsignor leaned back in his chair. ‘And you think you could perform the Mass here at St Patrick's?'

Tim nodded confidently. ‘I'm sure I could, Monsignor. I've played my part many times as an altar boy. I am familiar with everything that's required. Even the garments the priest must wear. The colours of the chasuble. Violet in Lent, white at Christmas and Feast Days, green at other times.'

The monsignor nodded. ‘You will stay at a small church here 
in New York. Good parish, West Side, mostly Irish families. Then in September, when the academic year begins, you will become a seminarian.'

‘Do you know where that will be?'

‘I'm afraid not,' the monsignor admitted.

Dan stood up. ‘It might be better if Caitlin and I wait outside, Monsignor. You and Tim have things to discuss.'

‘I need to spend some time with your brother,' the monsignor agreed. ‘I'd like him to stay with me for much of the day.'

‘Then Caitlin and I will explore New York,' Dan said with a smile. He shook hands with the monsignor. To Tim he said, ‘We'll see you back at Mrs O'Malley's.'

Dan and Caitlin left hand in hand and spent the rest of the day exploring Manhattan. Up and down Fifth Avenue. The huge billboards in Times Square. The world clocks. Broadway. An ice cream by the fountain at the Grand Army Plaza. The itinerant musicians in Central Park. The ducks by the lakeside. Stopping to stroke the necks of the tall horses with the shiny black carriages lined up at the park gates. And a bench where they collapsed in a heap to sit back and watch as this strange new world began to unfold.

It was all arranged. They would meet Aunt Maureen and Uncle Pat under the big clock at Pennsylvania Station. Twelve noon on Friday. All arranged, and that old scary feeling was back. Caitlin had relaxed. She felt comfortable and safe with the boys and now she would be leaving them. They had kept her busy, made her laugh. She had not had much time to cry, except at night sometimes. But most nights she was too tired to cry and she just fell asleep.

The one or two times when she lay awake she felt safe and not too sad because she knew Dan was near. She loved Dan. She loved Michael and Tim, too. She would always love them now. But she loved Dan the most of all.

‘Time we were going,' Dan said.

‘Can we sit by the fountain again? Just for a few minutes.'

‘Sure,' he said. ‘Why not?' And they dodged through the swirl 
of Lincolns and Fords, smiling apologetically at a police officer who eyed their hazardous progress.

They sat on the low wall surround where tourists and office workers catching the afternoon sun took a break.

‘This fountain,' Dan said, ‘is not just for show, you know. It has a job to do. A very important job.'

‘What?' she asked.

‘Well, I don't know if I should tell you this, but it's a sort of State secret.'

Caitlin looked at him doubtfully.

‘You see, it's not just any fountain,' he told her, ‘it's a
magic
fountain. When no one's looking it shoots up in the air, catches the glints of sunlight, turns them into sparkling diamonds and stows them away in a secret vault.

‘And sometimes,' he went on, ‘one or two diamonds get left behind and if you look closely you can spot them in the water.'

She peered curiously into the water around the fountain. Then she looked at him again and laughed. ‘You're mad,' she said. ‘Absolutely mad.' And she leaned in to him, not wanting to leave, not wanting the day to end.

‘What's that over there?' she asked. ‘With all the flags.'

‘I think it's the Plaza Hotel,' Dan said.

‘It looks very grand.'

‘It is,' he said. ‘Too posh for the likes of us. But I'll tell you what. One day, when we're all rich and famous – well, rich anyway – and you're a grand lady with a fur coat and a little poodle on a long lead, we'll have a reunion. You, me, Tim and Michael. Afternoon tea at the Plaza Hotel.'

‘Not a poodle. A spaniel with big eyes and floppy ears.'

‘Sounds like you,' Dan said with a laugh.

‘I haven't got floppy ears,' she said and she hit him playfully with the little handbag Mrs O'Malley had given her and chased him when he ran away.

Breathless and laughing they clambered aboard the trolley back to Brooklyn and as they settled in their seats Caitlin felt again that desperate pang of impending loss. 

‘When?' she asked, as the trolley gathered speed. ‘When will we do it?'